"partnering" poems - Hello Poetry

As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019 Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate. -Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry collective exhibition space vibe community interactive narrative brown neighborhood defined commodified Indigenous identity tone-deaf decolonial narratives populist intertwined exhibition curatorial vision culture local artists arts district small galleries DIY spaces speaking out against gentrification displacing shelter studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism collective mantra underdog art savior corporate entity partnering insensitive ignorant collective brown people art contemporary work that may not fit into establishment art galleries media advisory venture collaborate creative community authentic local statement of expression excitement creative energy arts district project many levels collaborate local creative important creative community what that collaboration looks like ongoing local artists going to be engaged in planning commissioned project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum directors professors burgeoning landscape cultural framework critique talk individuals entities inclusivity open dialogue opportunities project conversations collaboration discuss your projects share our work with you common ground work together healthy sustainable accountable decolonization

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Mar 16, 2019

Mar 16, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

A Contemporary Vocabulary for Writers and Artists

As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019 Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate. -Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry collective exhibition space vibe community interactive narrative brown neighborhood defined commodified Indigenous identity tone-deaf decolonial narratives populist intertwined exhibition curatorial vision culture local artists arts district small galleries DIY spaces speaking out against gentrification displacing shelter studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism collective mantra underdog art savior corporate entity partnering insensitive ignorant collective brown people art contemporary work that may not fit into establishment art galleries media advisory venture collaborate creative community authentic local statement of expression excitement creative energy arts district project many levels collaborate local creative important creative community what that collaboration looks like ongoing local artists going to be engaged in planning commissioned project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum directors professors burgeoning landscape cultural framework critique talk individuals entities inclusivity open dialogue opportunities project conversations collaboration discuss your projects share our work with you common ground work together healthy sustainable accountable decolonization

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Do you recall when it all began? Where it began? How it began? Why it began? Do you recall anything at all? Do you recall being in all the same classes? Always partnering together on assigned projects? Giving each other funny looks? Trying to make each other laugh? All those inside jokes? Our rehearsals and performances? Going on our "First Date"? Then there's those moments we always regret Not talking to each other Walking away from one another Getting frustrated at one another Pointless arguments that ruined us Forgetting one another Please don't forget me. Don't forget you. Don't forget us.

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Aug 22, 2013

Aug 22, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC

mikailaaa

Do you remember middle school?

Do you recall when it all began? Where it began? How it began? Why it began? Do you recall anything at all? Do you recall being in all the same classes? Always partnering together on assigned projects? Giving each other funny looks? Trying to make each other laugh? All those inside jokes? Our rehearsals and performances? Going on our "First Date"? Then there's those moments we always regret Not talking to each other Walking away from one another Getting frustrated at one another Pointless arguments that ruined us Forgetting one another Please don't forget me. Don't forget you. Don't forget us.

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The look in your eyes Sets a soft, mellow Musical pace that Our hands follow And rhythmically They waltz, My fingers partnering With yours, I shiver when Your eager fingers Turn adventurous, They settle and linger Over my lips that Reflexly part, My heightened breaths Mirror my heart's Frantic desirous Almost climactic state, Our fever grows delirious, It won't now abate, Until and unless We satiate And soothe it, With fire, passionate. I'd rehearsed this moment You probably had too, But as you lean closer, Everything's impromptu, You're nearer than You've ever been, Overwhelmed I stare at Your intoxicating sheen, We grow bolder and The moment draws nigh, But just when we're about to Reach that amorous high, I suddenly withdraw! The silence enquires. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But I don't know why! 'I've ruined it, Like I've always done, Our beautiful instant, Our moment has gone!' I rue to myself, When you take me aback, And with renewed vigor Breathe on my neck, Then, as your gentle kisses, To my lips, slowly progress, I note, when it's Love, The moment never passes.

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Oct 24, 2014

Oct 24, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC

ghazal-tansir

The Moment

The look in your eyes Sets a soft, mellow Musical pace that Our hands follow And rhythmically They waltz, My fingers partnering With yours, I shiver when Your eager fingers Turn adventurous, They settle and linger Over my lips that Reflexly part, My heightened breaths Mirror my heart's Frantic desirous Almost climactic state, Our fever grows delirious, It won't now abate, Until and unless We satiate And soothe it, With fire, passionate. I'd rehearsed this moment You probably had too, But as you lean closer, Everything's impromptu, You're nearer than You've ever been, Overwhelmed I stare at Your intoxicating sheen, We grow bolder and The moment draws nigh, But just when we're about to Reach that amorous high, I suddenly withdraw! The silence enquires. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But I don't know why! 'I've ruined it, Like I've always done, Our beautiful instant, Our moment has gone!' I rue to myself, When you take me aback, And with renewed vigor Breathe on my neck, Then, as your gentle kisses, To my lips, slowly progress, I note, when it's Love, The moment never passes.

52

he shoulders shame carrying the weight of the dead, slung over him partnering with gravity, these memory moguls slow him down though he keeps trudging when one drops, another takes his place -- first his father, then a brother, stillborn not half the weight of a stone, yet his carcass bends his back like any full grown beast for he did not weep with his mother when its blue soul was yanked from her womb nor did he shed a tear when his father's heart gave out a billion beats too soon when he forgets his sins as son he recalls another one--the boy he slew on a brown river's bank; floating still in the Mekong, riddled with the rifle's rabid rounds, he often catches a ride in memory's stream leading a relay team of shame shifters he carries with him every step, though the world sees him walk alone

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Mar 27, 2017

Mar 27, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC

spysgrandson

yet he walks alone

he shoulders shame carrying the weight of the dead, slung over him partnering with gravity, these memory moguls slow him down though he keeps trudging when one drops, another takes his place -- first his father, then a brother, stillborn not half the weight of a stone, yet his carcass bends his back like any full grown beast for he did not weep with his mother when its blue soul was yanked from her womb nor did he shed a tear when his father's heart gave out a billion beats too soon when he forgets his sins as son he recalls another one--the boy he slew on a brown river's bank; floating still in the Mekong, riddled with the rifle's rabid rounds, he often catches a ride in memory's stream leading a relay team of shame shifters he carries with him every step, though the world sees him walk alone

27

The Cold Wind Swirls Around My Ear, The Silver Swish Of It Unplugs Me From Reality, The Scent Of Pine Nurses New Born Thoughts, Foggy Breath Swims In Memories, But It Is Over Shadowed By My Love For You, The Twinkle In My Eyes Is Majesty And Wonder, Clouds Wrap Me In Their Cotton Hands, Smothering Out The Fire Of Dissapointment, Though, The Metallic Scent Of Fear, Bubbles From My Soft And Fair Skin Pain--Physical--Raw, Entangled In My Exahusted Muscles, And The Sound Of That Phone Call Still Rings, Loud And Overbarring In My Ears, Partnering With The Winter Breeze, And As You Stand Beside Me, I Barley Even Recognize You--Because, I Am Spaced Out Into A Different Life, One Which Grasped Me Last Year, Yet--I'm So Glad You Stand Beside Me, Because You Are One Of Few Things, Which Keep Me Sane

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Dec 4, 2012

Dec 4, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC

sydney-victoria

I'm Glad You Stand Beside Me

The Cold Wind Swirls Around My Ear, The Silver Swish Of It Unplugs Me From Reality, The Scent Of Pine Nurses New Born Thoughts, Foggy Breath Swims In Memories, But It Is Over Shadowed By My Love For You, The Twinkle In My Eyes Is Majesty And Wonder, Clouds Wrap Me In Their Cotton Hands, Smothering Out The Fire Of Dissapointment, Though, The Metallic Scent Of Fear, Bubbles From My Soft And Fair Skin Pain--Physical--Raw, Entangled In My Exahusted Muscles, And The Sound Of That Phone Call Still Rings, Loud And Overbarring In My Ears, Partnering With The Winter Breeze, And As You Stand Beside Me, I Barley Even Recognize You--Because, I Am Spaced Out Into A Different Life, One Which Grasped Me Last Year, Yet--I'm So Glad You Stand Beside Me, Because You Are One Of Few Things, Which Keep Me Sane

22

That day was awful Writing was my passion, it was my escape Because I could write anything about everything in this universe and it felt like freedom and adrenaline were partnering together and cascading through my veins like a sugar rush But then it went away The day that the rose tinted glasses were ripped away from my doll face And the truth was in front of me all along I was face to face with an image so devastating to me it changed my perspective on love Because I didn’t believe in it anymore after that day The image Of my best friend. The one I saw as a sister. The one that I sheltered and cared for since the day I started to call her a friend. Kissing the man I love Do you remember that poem I wrote? The man I love The poem that I stayed up hours for every night for weeks Perfecting it because in my clueless and infatuated little mind, that was what he deserved The look of shock on her face when she turned to see me standing at the doorway Tears running down my face as if they were racing to see which one could get to my jawline the fastest My mascara that I bought at the drugstore since I saved up money for weeks to get her the best one at the Macy’s counter so she could be happy Stained my porcelain skin I stumbled down the hallway, hearing the cries behind me “Forgive me! Please! You’re my best friend! I’m begging you!” I kept walking After that, I stopped writing.

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Sep 16, 2018

Sep 16, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC

Rozebarbie

The day I put the pen down

That day was awful Writing was my passion, it was my escape Because I could write anything about everything in this universe and it felt like freedom and adrenaline were partnering together and cascading through my veins like a sugar rush But then it went away The day that the rose tinted glasses were ripped away from my doll face And the truth was in front of me all along I was face to face with an image so devastating to me it changed my perspective on love Because I didn’t believe in it anymore after that day The image Of my best friend. The one I saw as a sister. The one that I sheltered and cared for since the day I started to call her a friend. Kissing the man I love Do you remember that poem I wrote? The man I love The poem that I stayed up hours for every night for weeks Perfecting it because in my clueless and infatuated little mind, that was what he deserved The look of shock on her face when she turned to see me standing at the doorway Tears running down my face as if they were racing to see which one could get to my jawline the fastest My mascara that I bought at the drugstore since I saved up money for weeks to get her the best one at the Macy’s counter so she could be happy Stained my porcelain skin I stumbled down the hallway, hearing the cries behind me “Forgive me! Please! You’re my best friend! I’m begging you!” I kept walking After that, I stopped writing.

23

That song. I'm trying so hard to get over you; your words, your actions, your problems- *why are they mine?* No, I'm not talking about a lover. He is better than ever. I'm talking about a friend. One of my cohorts in crime, my partnering master of disaster, my worldwide favorite ******* What exactly are you doing? Why won't you tell me what's compelling you to pick up that gold crown and drown whatever is ailing you? Why don't you trust me enough to tell me? They say poetry is a rhyme, something that comes from long bouts of time, that its' beats have to match with nary a patch and it it always sounds sublime. But why are my poems sessions of the beats of my heart translated into pitter patters from the keys of my little old laptop? I don't know. Why don't you tell me Once you've sobered up enough that the words on this page don't go flying off into the depths of a rainbow colored outer space. Iris. Only song that can calm me down. You; Gold Crown. Iris; Me. Vices......

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Nov 6, 2015

Nov 6, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC

xmxrgxncy

Iris

That song. I'm trying so hard to get over you; your words, your actions, your problems- *why are they mine?* No, I'm not talking about a lover. He is better than ever. I'm talking about a friend. One of my cohorts in crime, my partnering master of disaster, my worldwide favorite ******* What exactly are you doing? Why won't you tell me what's compelling you to pick up that gold crown and drown whatever is ailing you? Why don't you trust me enough to tell me? They say poetry is a rhyme, something that comes from long bouts of time, that its' beats have to match with nary a patch and it it always sounds sublime. But why are my poems sessions of the beats of my heart translated into pitter patters from the keys of my little old laptop? I don't know. Why don't you tell me Once you've sobered up enough that the words on this page don't go flying off into the depths of a rainbow colored outer space. Iris. Only song that can calm me down. You; Gold Crown. Iris; Me. Vices......

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