"vitruvian" poems
"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.
"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.
"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.
"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.
"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
*I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'? *
"I don't like your message."
*OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.*
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
Though in Prime Moment the Truth we discuss
The Third Great Angel flew to Intercede,
Playing her Harp which enwrangles the Lust
And gently reveal the Beauty-in-Thee
Yes, that Truest Virtue which no Malice accords
On Serving Patience a Letter was read
No more, no more for Condensation's Words
Are just enough to leave these Germs for dead
Not much for Command of Good English proposed
Was starting to tassle the Rumours and Wine
But such as you are yet too Young to dispose
A Lady's demanding Shell you design.
Pray take, this Harper knows how to direct
The Vitruvian Boy, waving for your Affect.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
spread-eagle at the summit
facing endless gusts of sandy billows,
mountain-backed vitruvian man,
i flail frustration at the outer
drips against, again in toes
forget the boots the pack
the bearbag full of snacks
the nylon thunder night-fret
flash of demon forking
shamefaced fear in throat
of shaken chest or weakness
soaking downy thermarest--
underfed it seemed so clear!
with only distant puffs within the blue
so here i lay despite the warnings hitherto--
the stakes have ripped electric
by the sky or sudden wind
as corners rock and threaten
rolling off into the gale--i sweat to add
a static vision sailing back alone,
a teardrop tent against the lightning caverns of the clouds
a skeleton of light suspended in the strike,
a sierra sign designedly godlike,
zapped nocturnal whisk i am
in awe now fearful grateful
mythos-understood of human
imagination's pawn still prone
with whining seams the poles still hold
within the whipping whites so loud
to tug my heels against the flying fabric
portal damp enstormed insomniac
to will the stony sand there once again
to sleep perhaps another dozen in
before the morning knuckles
pound the staff from off this mountaintop
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
[[ ****
blood pooling around her
there she lay sprawled
eyes glazed,motionless with no stir
she is another victim to succumb
to this heinous inhuman act
the mission is accomplished
the criminal thinks
freely he walks
head and shoulder held high
among mortals he laugh
life goes on ,another life gone
my sister,mum and aunt
the daughters of eve are endangered
my brother,dad and i
the all sons of adam
are the perpetrators
fear exists among our female species
they fear to be stripped off their
coverings
they live in a nightmare of being
stripped off their dignity
unwillingly be disrobed and be
robbed
they fear being deflowered and
defiled
out of her will she was forced
naked and spreadeagled
vitruvian man style she lay
her case was a repetition of a biblical
story
dinah and the sons of shechem
blood freely trickled between her
open pelvic
life seeped out of her misused shell
did she really deserve this???
who will end this atrocity?
who will fight for the girl child?
toddlers and grannies
shamelessly chauvinist male defiles
them
its against the word
its against the unwritten codes
it's unafrican
it's evil
my anger is frothing
like a volcano the lava is heating up
my pen is crying for the female child
i will shout this from rooftops
on the skyline i will write it
this battle is ours and we have to
fight
protection we've to offer
[[the chronicles of the dumb speaker]]
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
Probability lurks behind the veil of your
Vintage velvety hair locks.
Why don't you let them grow
Fond of the silk windwhirled fingertips
I'm falling apart like the society's white lies
When I first saw the picture of your oldtime lesser plie
Bohemian rascal poetic spirit
Do you still believe in soulfull foolishnesses?
Where do you play your music??
Let's chill under the Flatland area's arbol
Abbreviations of your blown up ****** desires
Are being revolutionized and mutinized by these
Enchanting darklings
Dear dear darling
deep romantic eyes &
Suddenly I'm lost inbetween days
Do you want it!!!?
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
You tell the tale of your perfect life
But you can't even undress your wife
Or spend a weekend with your kids
And visit your parents that you didn't miss.
You spread your arms to boast your wealth
But you didn't even mind your health
All those luxuries to feed your hungry ego
Can't fill you up and every night you bellow.
You act like a king in your tiny office
But you're just a parrot caged in your petty worries
In a cramped up square of your own limits
A boring building of dancing digits.
You spend the night with your circle of friends
But they don't really appreciate your presence
Wrapped inside your own bubble of vanity
A suffocating sphere nobody wishes to be.
You claim to be a man of godly proportions
But you're a sad case that needs divine intervention
Your life is certainly a rare work of art
But Leonardo da Vinci would tear you apart.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
Protectress...manna, Luna, vulvic-veil,
my heinous highness, take this kiss upon
your forehead and crown.
Tinctured lips, paired pilgrims of our alchemy...
surmounted mount in tantric trust, the perfect
fit for this Age.
We watched each other's will hatch in the palms
of our hands...forgetting to argue who came first.
The rightful bliss of essential ignorance, world
manifest under our noses--roused by smelling salts
from intermittent faints...Love, Love, Love!
You, dearest of whomsoever came forth from innumerable
bodies, to be half-turn to my half-turn...round our world
on its head.
Bar to bar none axes...one string guitars from pole to pole--
played ****** by our fingers.
Corollas of red droplets...the poppies are everywhere, the
child you bore me was me--forcing me to man abandonment.
Caught at the lip of a curb ramp, I hurl handfuls of folly
skyward...as pieces of absence continually settle time.
I apply you to my proportion...Vitruvian Man versed in
your space, circle squared dear--circle squared...the poppies
are everywhere.
Broken down to simplest things, I lay you down, I lay me
down...try both sides of the bed where neither is met.
Just as I cease to exist, I-ness nets a sense of being, bolting
upright as if hearing the world fall.
We who observed continuous excellency of soul, stood
juxtaposed in extemporaneous awe.
How could I expel you, how could you expel me...from
such a juxtaposition?
The "invisible worm" brings tidings of forever before it
destroys the flower...the poppies are everywhere.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
We play with the past,
us gawkers
laugh out louders
and marry the fun. Or
purchase t-shirts to remember
The Thinker plopped upon a porcelain throne
Rodin in the bowl
a powerful internal struggle
philosophy flushed for comedic blue cleanser
carved beautifully
The Vitruvian Man in full windmill
Townshend style
over strings in sextuplicate with limbs to match.
Perfection at eight heads high and
these amps go to eleven
The Persistence of Memory in any variation
so long as we don't have to consult our own dreams
Or Dali's
We shake the dust from our
feet and smile, forgetting things like The Thinker
was originally named The Poet
because that's not funny
and we're cleverer (more clever?) cleverer than that
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
measured in
correlations
as four
cubits makes him
to me is equated with
the length of outspread arms
of a woman awaiting
him.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
Take me to your room.
Let me through the doors
where your adventures run
barbaric and sinful;
and the opposite of that.
The core of your imagination
where the mountains grow heavy
Where you dream in endless dimensions.
I am the innocent corruptor of your lands.
Take me to the deepest caves of your secrets
Take me to the tallest mountain
enclosed by the heaviest Cimmerian clouds
cascading your loudest tears of sadness,
then lead me across your sturdy bridge
where the tears fall with joy and laughter.
I want to take it all in
Steal your thoughts and paint
a picture using you as my only instrument.
I am the innocent corruptor of your lands.
Let me step inside your little universal island
Where your password is …
And words are used silently
Our language is silence and poetry,
Emotion is felt in its severest
I want to visit every season through your eyes
I want to meditate with your greens and blues
Swim through your a thousand suns
dive off of cliffs and fall into a sea of honey
Stand on trees positioning The Vitruvian Man
and let the bees shower us clean- how natural is this in your world.
Let us walk through the desert of confusion,
where my name is crying out in pain-
in this expanse you suffocate,
for my name alone binds
around your throat and tugs.
and I am the innocent corruptor of your lands.
With this land I shall leave alone.
I want to lay asleep with you hand in hand
and watch our souls exit our bodies together
hand in hand creating a portal of another land.
This shall be a dream alone.
A dream within a dream
perhaps we go back to the end of a cold November
and attend your birth and steal the tears of delight
You are a universe of three worlds, and within them is infinity
You are so young and unaware
of what I planted in you.
I am the author of your being.
Grow into me and I will watch you like a mother
and raise you as a madman.
Take me by my spirit and watch me
illuminate yours with my black lotuses
that bloom within me attached to the veins of my soul.
Sleep under the orange blossomed moon.
Lay while I embed this into you, lover child.
I will forever be the corruptor of your lands.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
Today’s lesson on the pad
Showing a new guy how to stake grades
So we paced out a grid and pounded in stakes at semi-even intervals
Always picking up where someone else left off
Using their existing grid, we paced ~16 m in Northing (a metre is approximately equal to a yard)
Again, using the existing grid, we paced ~13 m in Easting
Then I asked him to pace out the hypotenuse, it was ~21 m
The grid was for the most part at right angles to each other
To show the new guy how Pythagoras came to his theorem
I scratched a triangle in the crushed aggregate
On the side of the x-plane I scratched 16 m and on the side of the y-plane I scratched 13 m
The diagonal received a 21 m
Out came the notebook
16 squared plus 13 squared = ~21 squared
Using my iPhone calculator
256 plus 169 = ~21 squared
425 = ~21 squared
square root of 425 = ~20.6155281280883 or ~21
Then I grabbed my stick to scratch out a head, body, appendages, and finally a circle encompassing my proto-Vitruvian dude
Never thought work could be this fun!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
When I was eight years old I told my mom I’d play in the NBA.
And she believed me.
A year later, I was nearly dead.
A quick cough in January caged my lungs with such force
I could almost hear them fighting for breathing room.
I don’t remember much.
All that comes to mind is the panic
Like an animal that lives inside your skin,
That only awakens when he is least needed.
I came to with my mind split in half.
In reality I was on a stretcher, in a hospital.
In my mind, I was chained to a sheet of wood.
Floating in a pool.
Spread out like the vitruvian man.
I watched the water run through my fingers.
On second glance, I was not alone at the pool.
Men in all black stood around the edges
Staring like henchman do at helpless prey.
On third glance, I am in a stadium filled with cheering fans.
I could never really tell who they were cheering for.
One of the men shouts out, and I am drowning.
A godlike force pushes through the chain and I am engulfed.
No breath.
No sound.
Just blue and black
And the muffles of panic.
Only interrupted by a brief resurface
And the roar of an audience
Followed by blue and black.
My mind began to converge,
And two worlds became one again.
As the water around me turned to tile,
My hands still felt wet from the pool.
The nurse asked me why I kept screaming to get out of the water.
I never learned how to swim.
I never played in the NBA.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 12:13 AM UTC
Heart attack man lies, fallen
Splayed out like the Vitruvian da Vinci .
The sidewalk his bed of lilies,
while a woman cries over him.
Another man, in a wife beater, kneels down
and starts compressions.
His face turning blue, the same color blue
as his neck tattoos.
The tattoos disappearing-- causing traffic to stop.
One cop car stops, blocking the intersection.
Lights in eye aching flashes
alert others to the danger.
They flash, "don't look here death is prowling"
in an Aldis lamp language only the subconscious reads.
The man in the wife beater beats compressions on the mans chest
while a Nurse pulls over and another cop shows up with a defibrillator.
His blue face looks like mine, I see the resemblance as I drive past the scene.
He's nearly my age and I figure there is enough help.
Just drive on past like its another day.
I try not to tell myself, as I pass the blue faced ghost with the neck tattoos
just standing in shock,
"Whatever you do, do not make eye contact."
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
things I know nothing of
things I know little of
things I know more of
things I know all of
where should I wander?
where should I linger
seriously?
lighten up. time I know, little
enough,
now is, then was, soon
we see
we note
we mark the place on this horizon
that big star rises
or seems to rise
from, but now we know,
some how that star is moving in
time, same as me
how can any knower know
the sweet influences of pleides?
look closely,
------------------
this time, this generation
here,
we're smart, we can do math in poems
12800 years ago, 1280 decades,
128 centruien measures in each
of which, lay remnants of four generations
of **** sapiens,
of **** sapiens sapiens, and
of **** sapiens sapiens augmenticious,
all mixed up and tangle tongued.
Now, 512 generations of beings of our genus
since the
speciation of we, the people of earth;
this time, this generation
now,
we're smarter, more able to know and use
the knowing, than any
we imagine real
before us
in these past five hundred and twelve steps,
from mitomom,
to you. Individuatible you.
to you, thinker of thought things,
to you, thinker of thought things augmented
by with for through witty
inventions, for instance, example gratis, et al
the Vitruvian man made the Vitruvian wheel,
tapping the flow of rain returning to the sea, pulling, nicely, with thanks, at first,
to the river,
power at a rate of two kilo watts per hour,
The old mill stone groaned as it ground seed
that could'a' been boiled
and chewed, but for the lack of knowing
how a fire could be started,
after all the ashes have grown cold.
Oops, time skip. Now, then back
Gen one, post all hell breaking loose
who knew how to start a fire?
was it a secret kept for the few who knew?
Was prometheus as real as jesus,
had we any evidence of things unseen,
had we any substance of things hoped for?
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
I am partly shiny
but mostly dull,
kinda Bo Peep-ish,
I'm into wool.
I am an errant bent penny
of dubious worth
and a fickle little tickle
on the funny bone o' mirth.
I'm tapioca pudding
after chicken Coq au Vin --
an iamb, and I am,
The Vitruvian Man.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
DA VINCI'S GHOST
( for my little brother Brian )
I listen to
classical guitar in the dark
with only a single
candle for company.
These my teenage years.
Music and flame
travel through my mind
unveiling thought.
Da Vinci's
Vitruvian man
pinned to the wall
with most pins missing.
He comes alive
in the candle's flicker.
Gets into a flap
each time the door opens.
Little brother is spooked
by that Vitruvian stare
but is fascinated by the fact
that he exists
within a circle
within a square.
Like a priest I
dress my self in the garb
of Leonardo's words.
"Write what the soul is.
Illustrate whence comes....madness.
Whence...tears.
Whence...dreams!"
The whences make him wince.
As he sees it: "...it is like a man
travelling through time
in his dream machine
and arriving at his own
dying
becoming his own
ghost."
Our mother's voice
calls him
and he is grateful to escape
his own thought.
***
Now, here I am
at your death
as you step inside
the circle
(inside the square).
You stare back at me
with that Vitruvian stare
and I " try to write
what the soul is."
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
My doctor said
the Sansara is not a circular
he said it is liner
I think that we both know
what it is or
we both know
nothing at all
I was stuck into a circle
I felt the repetition
re-occurrence spin and twirl
this all repressed me
harnessed me and abused me
the flash of the theory of line
brought me back
It has major fall outs
In what my doctor said
But it expelled me from
riding the horse of merry go round
I read a little about relativity
and have been thinking about it
lot more time
where I stand is
where my ego is
I felt that
my doctor cheated the game
with another illusion
But for the day I am no longer
the Vitruvian Man, who
stretching arms and legs to touch
the circumference of the circle
It is okay to be selfish
I felt so because that is what we are
it is okay to believe nothing
because that what it is
I might day dreaming
or mad talking
but the truth
but the truth
I sense
and it slitting my soul
in unexpected times
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC
Words are craved from the mind
Written down on pad do bind
With flow of an ink product of thinking
Oil paint of justice, the write up made of
Sometimes is injustice bound of
Sometimes shared experiences
Sometimes deepest imaginations
Sometimes pains, hate, joy and sadness
Words of mine flow for peace and love
For happiness and liberation from bond
Sculpting like Davinci's vitruvian image
As stars light up path of truth vintage
In my heart so, I write the words on book
As readers read the words they grow
Like wild plants upon a silent brook
Hoping one day everything straightened backing way of the Crook
As the words sound, resonant they as a ****
With much roots like a hard and heavy like rock
Sculpting my words requires deep thinking
For I encrypt them like road of the gods living
Whose gifts are uncontestable
As they burn within do unquenchable
by Martin Ijir
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
Harvey's in the cave with Lucy and they're driving me crazy.
The medicine doesn't work and the doctor can't remember me lately.
The animals get laid, and we have our dances.
The music plays for me and I get naked for you
I have the body of a vitruvian man, I smoke and eat vegetables
The sky creeps atop the mountains and the night leaves the lights on so I can see. I hear the ghost moose spin between the trees. The track of moonlight the sound of burning leaves.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC