If I was a blind old woman
or a sculptress caked in clay
I'd trickle my weathered fingertips
over your cheekbones like rain

Trace that scar from long ago
follow the beaten track
my eyes have wandered a million times
like a favourite paperback

If I was  a travelling artist
paintbrush aching to echo your face
on the empty strip of a canvas
your eyes too blue to leave any space

I'd paint in glorious yellow
those secret acts of kindness
your heart uncontrollably glows
that cool exterior just a pretence

Just the same stumbling tone
that falters as you masquerade
as just my friend, so well I know
that devotion you shine down on my face

If I was the woman I want to be
I'd twist these words in ink round your wrists
but I am just a helpless writer
and you are too precious to risk

Slowly it slides on sub zero waters
trying to find a pathway to the sea
sheet of pure blue and heaven white
lumbers discreetly for aquiline is quite

From the top of the world
frozen fingers reach down
claws frantic on solid ground

No religion no sage
no saviour just age
and the relentless pull of gravity
will take it from mountain to the sea

This sculptress of valleys and dales
and fjords that can be seen for miles
travels without sound
onward bound

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

To anyone*

The warning

Beauty is dangerously fascinating
as well as the person who it dwells.
Therefore, I'm not responsible
for your precocious passions
either your impossibilities.

1st stranger / The worker

A charming smile
able to break down the walls
around my small heart.

So he goes on his own way
as far as he feels more alone.

He's a charm
which, however,
lives in the future.

Oh he's a machine, leastwise
he works at speed of one.

2nd stranger / The sculptress

The dissolved melancholy
in her round face
is extremely rare,
because it's similar to mine.

So many shapes!
So many angles!
So many views!
So many plans!

Oh she suffers of simplicity
inside a world
so complex.

3rd stranger / The dreamer

Eyes of matutinal sky
which once stared at me deeply,
making me daydream on a folly.

A boy who has been abandoned in the desert
(in the desert of awareness).
A boy who has been found at sea
(at sea of unawareness).

I envy his young eyes.
Mindful eyes to everything and everyone.
Eyes with an incredible innocence.

Sometimes I'm like him:
obsessed with folly,
but full of sanity.

4th stranger / The dadaistic

The most beautiful gold wires
sway in front of me
as well as they identify
the person to whom they belong.

However, I don't know why
I've seen her with so much affection.

She's nothing to me.
She doesn't make sense like this.

Perhaps her beauty
is somenthing unique
(and this is worthy of affection
leastwise, of contemplation).

5th stranger / The artist*

When he speaks,
his lips are voluptuous.
and when he shuts up,
they are just lips.

I consider my appreciation
somewhat sentimental
although it is fatal.

I make poetry in pure expression,
requiring to intervene or not.
I'm anxious as well as anguished
and therefore I fall in love
externally and internally
with his impressionist beauty.

Beauty which once I imagined owning
with the same feeling
which I dedicate him this space
from a pretentious poem.

The Art of Criticism

The art of criticism
Should consist
Of accurate, rich language-ism;
Gentleness and witticism,
Care and love implicit
In a simple, clear expression.

Love of th’art it’s writing ‘bout,
Love, respect inside and out
For author, auth’ress, sculptor, sculptress,
Painter, paint-ress, instrumentalist and –ess.
Poet, poetess whose full respect he/she/they merit.

When I read clichés inherent  
Such as, “Awesome” “Great” and “Wonderful”,
Thoughtless, glib and under-worked;
When I read “Like”, “Thumbs up, “Thumbs down
I frown.  

This plea from Ms. Poetic Me,
Sincere, considered, justified
Is plain ol’ objectivity,
Objecting to a lazy critic.

A good critique
Is not a trick
Played out in adjectives and verbs.
A worthy critic is superb,
Does not disturb
Because he values art and artist.

The Art of Criticism 6.30.2016
Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin

I'm telling you about longing
At the day of the eternal adventure
When we were hitchhiking to Paris
Cuddling in the bathtub later on
Sleeping together
The groaning of the sculptress
Her student's strength
In seconds of rainbows
Walls made from mutual trust
Nobody would disturb us
Especially not ourselves

Memories remain
On the day of the rain
In between I nearly perished
At war against myself

Flop house, red light, thugs, mace
The ax, the giant, fiends, knockos
Numbing, oblivion, collapse, overdose
The floor, sweat, medics, prayer
Salvation, hate, silence, renewal

That's not long ago
I wish for a starlight
Bathing me in love
In vast, blue gardens
At the end of the world

Hmmh