0363 Poem for the Po-faced
Marcel Duchamp's urinal
is overflowing
with the minds of critics
and needs emptying
upwards
(for AJS)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.
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The individual, man as a man, man as a brain, if you like, interests me more than what he makes, because I've noticed that most artists only repeat themselves.
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I am still a victim of chess. It has all the beauty of art - and much more. It cannot be commercialized. Chess is much purer than art in its social position.
quote by Marcel Duchamp
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The creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.
quote by Marcel Duchamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Critics?
Critics?
They do what they do best...
Undress those who create.
It is easier for them to probe,
Than appreciate.
It is a frustration of sorts,
To be boxed within boundaries.
Not knowing or understanding...
What the force behind creativity means,
Or where it begins...
With perceptions taught and conceived.
They have an awareness of it.
Or so some believe.
Although a conformity upon them visits.
But to comprehend what it is...
And why some have it and they don't,
Really makes them pissed.
Although an 'intelligence'
Once applied can hide this.
Is that why they delight in being critics?
As creators sweat to expand their wits,
Critics enjoy deploying...
A complete misunderstanding of it!
As they assist others like themselves...
Attempting to expand minds of limited demands.
Hoping this attachment,
Delivers to them someone's attention span.
And they get it!
That is why there is so many critics.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scrutinized For Their Blemishes
It is easy for many to sit back and critique,
With a judging done of those tasks...
Others produce with a doing to complete.
And if some people are prolific,
From experiences live that dictate this...
The critics are quick,
To stampede out from nowhere it seems...
With criticsms prepared,
Not to uplift or encourage...
But instead,
Demean.
But when given the opportunity to highlight their gifts,
Critics often spew excuses...
As those under microscope,
Are scrutinized for their blemishes.
Although,
Even those who enjoy themselves as critics...
Have moments they don't admit but wish,
An attention given to be critiqued...
Would validate a reason to rid their insecurities,
With a purpose in their minds that solidified their existence.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Lightweight Ode to Ars
A Lightweight Ode to Ars
or A Not So Fauve Muse
Fernand Leger watching me
Bloats my limbs
But when Salvador Dali comes
He makes my edges flow.
And if Pablo Picasso shows up
My face looks
Like it hit the fan.
Of them all I adore most
Marcel Duchamp’s tongue.
He says I taste like
A cubed sashimi roll from
A fauve Rousseau beast.
A the roaring sound
Magritte pops his head out and
All gaga about her says Dada.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Feb©2009
AD Something
poem by Alex Nodopaka
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All The Critics Love U In New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U don't have 2 keep the beat
They'll still think it's neat in New York
U can wear what U want 2
It doesn't matter in New York
U could cut off all your hair
I don't think they'd care in New York
All the critics love U in New York
Why U can play what U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
They won't say that U're naive
If U play what U believe in New York
Purple love-amour is all U're in it 4
But don't show it
The reason that U're cool
Is cuz U're from the old school and they know it
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
All the critics love U
song performed by by Prince from 1999
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Into White
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
Tables of paper wood, windows of light
And everything emptying into white.
A simple garden, with acres of sky
A brown-haired dogmouse
If one dropped by
Yellow delanie would sleep well at night
With everything emptying into white.
A sad blue eyed drummer rehearses outside
A black spider dancing on top of his eye
Red legged chicken stands ready to strike
And everything emptying into white.
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice...
And everything emptying into white
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words do not change their meanings so drastically in the course of centuries as, in our minds, names do in the course of a year or two.
quote by Marcel Proust
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Face Of Ponder
the classic one
naked, butt on a rock
legs extended
body sits and hands
supporting the jaw
like a pillar
to a cellar
got one today
with my glasses on
i stare to the sea
amidst the storm
with my window
open
i am not naked
nay,
i am fully dressed
without any plan of going
to any place
my hands hold the frame
my feet rooted on the floor
my soul like water inside a glass
overflowing
i am emptying
because i am full.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gulps and emptying
Gulps of water after thirst,
And emptying the bladder after a hold
Give you through their action
Same amount of relief.
Gulps and emptying are the way of life,
And in them we get relief, which is pleasure.
28.03.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Cup Is Overflowing
THE CUP IS OVERFLOWING
The cup is overflowing-
I have been given so so much-
And yet like so many I know
There is always something else
To be more wanted.
When the valley of the shadow death overcomes
Will I still be complaining
Of what I have not yet been given?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Praying For Rain
the farmer poet
walking barefoot
in the dust,
looking upwards
towards heaven,
praying for rain.
the blue collar poet
walks between the rows
of machines gone silent
in the deserted building,
looking upwards,
praying for work.
the nurse poet
stares at the line
of people wanting help,
no insurance, no money
looking upwards,
praying for hope.
the politician poet
surrounded by the din
of deals being made
without conscience
or integrity,
looking upwards,
praying for dignity.
the mother poet,
pushed into a corner,
no food, no money,
cant pay the rent or
buy clothes.
looking down
into her children's eyes,
praying for God!
the human poet,
looking inwards,
praying for all
that lives
praying for rain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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