"neoclassical" poems
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.
These are moments I would give up.
There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
To my left,
there is the Neoclassical beauty,
profile drawn by David himself,
delicate,
bright eyes, reminiscent of Gainsborough.
The Rubeniste sits in front of me,
full figured, though not as colorful
as the Graces.
Behind me lurks the Rembrandt,
moody, dark,
in the chiaroscuro of a leather jacket
and tousled hair.
Here I am.
With my Schiele hands,
Rosetti lips,
but without the quiet grace
or distortion of either.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
I'm a colossal neoclassical sculpture
I was designed by an Italian-French sculpture
I'm an icon of freedom
Who am i?
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
When scars are met with deeper wounds.
Crimson lava pours off her head.
What hurts the most is the same that mends.
her guilt was the tears she once shed.
The saviour owns the whips,
he adds to her body more scorges,
and with his sweet lips,
platonic innocent love he forges.
Courageously, she challenges the sun.
With her eyes she enslaves nature.
Sometimes it's bright, others it's dun,
especially on her departure.
Her life is a forest that always rains,
not close to a neoclassical garden.
In her absence nothing remains,
for she is one of a kind maiden.
When scars are met with deeper wounds.
Crimson lava pours off her head.
What hurts the most is the same that mends.
Her guilt was the tears she once shed.
The saviour owns the whips,
he adds to her body more scorges,
and with his sweet lips,
platonic innocent love he forges.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
*they say blind-solipsism is in the air, the radio speakers
keep announcing a return of a mozart,
they glorify the death of classical music
as if it were still alive and worthy a prodigy
to keep a lineage, and it is so, but only
in terms of imitation rather than composition,
like the philologist able to read ancient greek
or latin, these imitators merely revive from dead
script the breathable air from the cluster of fading ink,
than providing a revival from scripts not yet written.*
once the masters of woodwinds brass
and horse-mane hairs tightened
and scratched against violin and cello
strings: now masters of solely drums,
and how the beatified contrast resounds:
the former with music soothing
but the soul warring,
now the latter with music rousing
but the soul pacified,
once masters of orchestral arrangement,
now masters of their own destiny of
individuated chaos... once the music
of the element of air... now the music
of the element of earth - the heavy stomping
excess of drums.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
What is poetry
Is that even a question
Poetry!
Marvellous words design in lines
Transform into verses
It gave birth to sonnet
It comes in lyric
Of beautiful rhyme
Serving as rhythm in melody
Poetry, as old as man
Formed from the Mediaeval times
Down Neoclassical
My dear, it's Romance
Coming from Elizabethan era
Formed a modern movement
Something so beautiful
Beautiful to a fault, it's called poetry
Ask my fathers what poetry means.
To Thomas Watts it's a way of love
Butter Yaests paths way for activism
Grace gives strength to recommendation
Ojiade fights corruption
Pope graces Cesar
Osadibe makes appeal
And it a way of life in lines
What is poetry, you ask?
It is a way of redemption
Scribbled down, it's description
A map of direction
Given as recommendation
To a vast way of calculation
Ask a chemist, and he says what on earth is not chemistry
A physician says life is based on assumption
Psychology say man is nature
ichthyologists sees the beautiful aquaculture
A teacher sees the best methodology
Historian gives tells great mythology
Which gives ride to sociology
Yet poetry is nature.
Bellah
Jan 7, 2023
Jan 7, 2023 at 6:02 PM UTC
Yngwie Malmsteen shredded on six strings,
set a new standard that was baroque beyond imagining.
The virtuoso rocker was a guitarist's guitarist,
a neoclassical metalhead strumming a Stratocaster like no other.
He impressed those in the know with his technical expertise.
He never struck a chord with a mainstream audience.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC