"poetica" poems
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
__Body__
Let me love and care for the art piece
of your body- every pulsating touch of your
spasms. Jumping wildly; while washing
me in your spring water on top a mountain
of passions. I’ll spurt within you, from its tip.
And in kind; let the wetness of your lips
sooth my skin. Kissed by your sensual soul, as
it echoes every word of thirst, running down your
throat; chasing after every breath we lose in
a moment.
_Still, let us not love in haste._
__Amazon Queen__
I gaze at you, as my sprouting rose in
bloom. But not something so delicate; she is
tall, shapely, and sturdy— my Amazon Queen
that keeps me in the centre of her rainforest.
As she lets my words water her floret by
their tip- its warmth and gentleness spoke of
a love so deep and fulfilling.
__Foot fetish__
Oh, how she stimulates my eyes,
as I make out with her eye’s persuasion;
my mind often rehearses how I’ll love her
in it’s imaginations- my mind’s perfect
simulation;
For our desires are much sweeter,
by every bite of her smooth chocolate skin
I adore her more than I would have
yesterday- to quietly bless each step
she’ll take tomorrow. And a reason for me
to kiss her feet.
__Moist__
Surely as the night is washed by the gentle rains-
I have these saturated thoughts, pondering how
she’ll drown me over another night’
As she could never
have the most without I in the middle;
her underwear feels so moist.
__Climactic Prelude & Conclusion__
Would you love to experience a climactic
prelude; a middle so sweet in its time;
While my eyes ripen at the sight of your
ripening fruit,
Oh, so sweet in its time, let me capture
and savour that juicy fruit,
For yes indeed we had fallen in love-
but let not that fruit eventually fall;
From its tree, to rot off its vine; let me bite
you as mine- to taste your heaven’s ecstasy;
In this climactic prelude; I promise the middle
is filling, and its conclusion won’t be short lived.
Jul 1, 2024
Jul 1, 2024 at 8:22 AM UTC
it is like the many nights
sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,
just like any other night.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
3.5k
I thirst in my search
for words
that came first
in verse and in song
what's been here all along
since Peking (wo)Man
singing in the womb
at Zhoukoudian
when the first moon climbed
above branches frozen in time -
our rhythm and rhyme -
a memory of a memory
of the history
of how a poem came to be.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.
Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.
My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.
My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.
What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.
Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.
No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in
Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.
Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
it seems, my words
have lost their allure,
this morning.
and i am too fixated,
on vainly scrawling.
to see
the crafts of others,
floating on the river poetry.
i am, hands to the oars, rowing against,
a beautiful tide.
endevouring,
to attain a mooring,
on the inside of a thought. what would happen,
if i.....
let go and read just
one or two poems
from other,
weary skullsmen
and made comment.
it mayhap...
nothing, but then it,
maybe...
instead of poetry,
decrying a dying state.
the poet in the other boat,
rowing silently,
for a moment, or a lifetime
is encouraged to,
greater acts
of creativity.
just maybe.....maybe.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Escupe gente que no tienen ereccion
y lamen constituciones congeladas !
Escupe la falsa historia de las calles !
Escupe la cabeza del poder !
Escupe comerciantes de sustancias ,
las sotanas de la oscuridad
y santos Zares !
Escupe dioses falsificadores
y templos de atontamiento !
Escupe el preparan ballonetas
y intelectuales militaristas !
Escupe los Nobel de la paz
y dictatores Nobelistas !
Escupe primeros de Mayo vendidos
y lamentos espias !
Esupe al anfitrion de los pueblos
para que no levante cabeza !
Escupe relojes despertadores
que te guian a la tristeza !
Escupe a los que duermen
tranquilos en la noche
y suenan viajes a Marte !
Escupe la Camora de alcahuetes abogados
al fiscal que te escupe alos ojos
y te manda al numero 60
de la pandilla !
Al salario de hambre
y al multilado esperma de tu
emleador escupe !
Escupe la invisible cara de la luna !
Escupe la libertad que te proparsionan Salvadores !
Escupe la poetica antologia
que vomitase este poema mio !
Escupe los 47 anos de tu poeta
como lehan escupido
durante 47 anos continuos
los ratas capitalistas !
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 6:26 AM UTC
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
1.9k
Poetry whirls down drains,
cruises down highway lanes..
toll free.
Poetry is a clear potion,
a natural motion.
Poetry is the bird gliding high,
and of course, the sky.
Poetry is thundering elk
through forests and glades,
and the wolves that keep pace.
Poetry is the ****
Poetry is democracy,
and its unfortunate hypocracy.
Poetry is eternity vanished in an instant.
Poetry is a slaughterhouse,
a vegetable garden.
Poetry is cat and mouse.
Poetry ascends to descend,
breaks to repair,
it's uncommonly rare.
Poetry is the longest minute
and the shortest hour.
Poetry lives when it is dead.
Poetry comes from the body,
thought by the head.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
Imitation is the ******* of creativity.
So where for art thou romantic silopsisms?
Meta-physical lotion, rubbing Prufrock's
bald head. Where are the errors, syntactical?
Intimation is the blow job of canon,
The body, electric, ******* on Mt. Abora's
Cliff face. Short syllabic thrusts put the pallet
in trouble. Sharp edged thoughts caught in the throat of the speaker, leaving them mush-mouthed,
Sentimental.
The poor rhyme scheme, literary analysis 101
feet, and meter abandoned for fun,
Or played with weakly piling on what will
Fit neatly enough in the bottom swill.
Unrequited love notes, star-crossed cries,
Knotty tangled sentences to explain the deep ties,
Out of focus snapshots of pixilated lives
Even this bad poem, escaped the editor's knife.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Quiero escribirte un poema malescrito
Lleno de errores ortograficos
Un poema hereje a la metrica poetica
Un poema irreverente a la gramatica
Quiero volverme un rebelde asmatico
Tu amante diabetico
Amor antipatico
Ateo y medio psiquico
Lago en sequia
Freemont street sin puteria
Entre azul y buenos dias
Barrio caliente sin policia
Quiero que resientas todas y cada una de mis ausencias
Como la biblia a la ciencia
Opresor a la conciencia
Ser tu desacato
Tu rebelion
Tu desobediencia
Un beso roto en resistencia
Lo contrario a la decensia
Amor sin contrato
Puta con licensiatura
Medio malo y medio ingrato
Inocente y hasta novato
En eso de pasar el rato
Sin que el corazon se enlode
Igual que cuando pisas el fango
Con tu zapato.
No hay poemas simples
Solo poetas nerviosos
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
.
I travelled the lands out to the West,
of all the cities I am most impressed,
with Melk, by mountains and sea it rests,
ruled by the Queen, Lyenna of Cressed.
Her beauty is famed throughout the land,
with many suitors for her vacant hand,
none of whom will ever understand,
she will marry only her own hearts plan.
I met Lyenna in her Palace of Green,
and my eyes saw beauty they had never seen,
so mysterious and delicate this foreign Queen,
seductive and distant with charms unseen.
Invited to an audience within the walls,
how could I not reply to this royal call,
these affairs tend towards a chaotic squall,
a chance to meet a Queen in her Great Hall.
“Lord Pagan of Poetica, I'm pleased to meet you,
its so nice for me to personally greet you”.
Her soft voice designed just to defeat you,
her ravishing beauty on show to unseat you.
With reddened cheeks I was able to say
“Its my pleasure indeed to meet you this day,
though the ground is cold and the sky is grey,
your presence brings the warm sun my way”.
My charm raised a blush and a smile,
she was happy to tarry with me awhile,
in the gardens we must have walked a mile,
her suitors barely concealing jealousy and bile.
Then Queen Lyenna whispered a secret to me,
she was waiting for a man from across the sea,
until he came she would hold on with assurity,
to her chastity, her love and her purity.
Her confidence in me was by no means assuaged,
but her secret I keep dear like an animal caged,
as deep within a raw and primal fire still raged,
I felt this moment could not have been better staged.
Her shy request to become my lover,
gifting to me what she would give no other,
my desire and lust I could no longer cover,
my heart was hers, no longer for another.
Disillusioned with the men in her land,
refusing them all she had made her stand,
not acquiescing to what her father planned,
the smile in her eyes said “I've got my man”.
From 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica
© Pagan Paul (08/02/18)
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
They say to play with words.
I see each page is a slide and we
*smile
while
we're
going
down*.
We're make-shift,
Doctor Frankenstein,
piecing together
words that
would lay lifeless
without our spark.
We're other people, dress-up,
with our lens-less glasses,
pens in hands
that can't quite reach the tallest shelf.
Through our words we rebel,
show the world we are more than naïve.
Just because we don’t think
in refunds and rebates and 401k plans...
Doesn’t mean our futures won’t be bright if
we only hope to gain
a sense of ourselves, in that
moment when the tire-swing
goes so high, you try
to touch the sun.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 12:30 AM UTC
Crinkled and knotted,
Your mind pushes far beyond the last
Fluid dimension of thought.
Words and images
****** out, crossed out, and beaten.
Their meaning disentangled
From the syllables they’re bound to.
Stretched,
Pulled,
Prodded,
Poked,
Rolled,
And torn open.
Mile by mile, down a endless road,
Making no explicable progress.
Broken and battered,
Words, attempting equilibrium,
Burn off energy enough to care.
The unthinkable dread of empty canvas
Impedes on the black and white tile
That clangs too loudly
For reason to be heard.
Inspiration becomes an
Agonizing, ever-twisting labyrinth.
The climactic moment drawn out too far,
Centuries too far,
Tortures and torments you,
Tears you to pieces
Until, at last, you
Are indistinguishable from
The pain you’ve offered,
The discomfort you’ve endured,
The itch you’ve tolerated.
And the balance finally restores itself.
Rights you just at the point of ultimate collision,
Lets you steal a breath,
Before the next thought starts to pull.
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--
A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald McLeish
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Truly gifted poets
Straddle their crafts early on
Some even in adolescence
They have been cursed or blessed
To be kings and queens of utterance.
I never dreamed of becoming a poet
It was furthest from my mind
Then in a sudden twist of eardrum
It happened in my Mid-thirties.
Out of the recesses of Time
Came the lure and a hook
Shining in enchanted brook
And before i knew it
My heart was snatched
And my movements flustered
When i bit on ambrosiac bait
Drenched in Muse's wine
Drugged and drunk
On sounds and images
I struggled in a pool of words
To assemble what held me infused
To make sense of orphaned views
Swaying between shade and light
Like dancers deprived of audience.
My poetic rapture began
In frenetic rain of ink
preposterous in direction
A poetaster rapt on vapid rhymes
With sounds of poetic crimes
But my craft developed
In piecemeal fashion
And rendered my pen composed.
A minnow of long ago
Has grown into a mackerel
And longs to become a whale
In the ocean Ars Poetica
Though it seems a pipe dream.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
.
Far away across the sea
an island cloaked in mystery.
Where nothing is as it appears
because it exists between the spheres.
Poetica speaks as she spins
flying high within the winds.
Words flow in rivers deep
climbing mountains to fall asleep.
Resting fair on velvet green
in secret valleys so serene.
Shady glades in woodlands snore,
comforted beyond misty shores.
It is there verse and rhyme are born,
upon Poetica's burgeoning dawn,
floating away and out of sight,
into Poetica's beautiful night.
from 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica
© Pagan Paul (10/09/17)
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
i
Earl Jane, oriental poetess, thou art so down, that's why I writeth this, Earl Jane, best friend of Friend's, thine heart's open as thou doth not pretend, as so many other's do; Earl Jane, thy hand's writeth as a muse, thou art not abjected in mine room, welcomed
ii
Earl Jane, lover of all being's, agone wherein thy heartbreak Sting's, I shalt taketh thine wound's mine friend, kind, gentle, thy charity with none end, thou shalt filleth thy dream's unlike other's thinkest, thou shalt glaze the moon in color's, I'll watcheth
iii
Earl Jane, afoot beside me, its thee I shalt helpeth and guide
I seeith the passion and compassion in thine eyes, as thou art free
Earl Jane, poetica dream, taketh the rope off from around thy neck, ourn savior saved thee, as I'm here for thee to protect.
iv
Earl Jane, I knowest whence thou came: from the before life of this, wherein romantic's met the poetic flame, earl jane, Asiatic bird, let thy anguish cometh out in word's, and jot and scribe thine soul down as it glide's, and frolic for new tommorrow.
v
Earl Jane, is this helping thine sorrow? Art thou smiling now as thou shouldst? Just look at mine face if thou needeth a laugh, we both knoweth its stained, like church rose glass, I knoweth right now that thou shalt laugh, art thou smiling now? Dearest friend...
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/ friendship poem
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
I.
You have to taste the words
like salt or earth
And chew them up and let them grind between your teeth
Let them crumble, coagulate.
II.
Know them, then introduce yourself.
Court them and waltz them and spoon under moons
and breathe in their air;
their atmosphere.
III.
Comb your fingers through them
and braid them and pinch them;
Let them drip sticky down to your elbows,
Let them stain and run, away even.
IV.
Leave them when it’s too much.
And kick them, and scream
And scream
Until you’re hoarse and the tears stop,
Until you know they know,
Until you can both take a deep breath and sleep through the night.
Then tomorrow:
Spit them out.
Sit them down.
Whisper a secret,
and watch.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
.
The Land of Poetica is viewed
as far as the eye can see,
reaching out to unknown shores
edging the oceans of infinity.
Each drop is a Lord or a Lady
contributing to the community,
sending out their words of Art
with no judgement nor impunity.
Though storms may hit at times
rocking the boat of security,
waves of the Lords and Ladies
save Poetica from obscurity.
from 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica
© Pagan Paul (22/06/17)
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
i have a rendezvous with rhyme
with only the lyrics of this orchestra
my cadence is only for rhythm
free-verse in its purest ingenuity
I ache for quarterly submissions
of my essential need to write
the autopilot poetica of my
last kaleidoscopic vision strange
a musical hopscotch of surrender
a mystical milking it of thirst
muse & fate here relaxes
for a final teasing and tasting
of the plump record of odes
and the promise of exhaustive cadence
that reaches humming pentameter
stares organic pink into utopia
requesting documentation from the stars
in how to be a poet, as legends burn
martyrs in their alien worlds
a last dynasty of awkward prayer-rituals.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC