Where Dispose Of The Joke Of Bones - Minimalist Cryptics Sometimes Metaphysical, circa 1981
.
For two:
Agnes Martin, American artist,
minimalist painter extraordinaire
Elaine Bellezza, artist, too,
and traveler,
and early Anima-as-Fate,
and 'eye giver'
'Is that dance slowing in the mind of man
that made him think the universe could hum? ' - Theodore Roethke
1
off the square
in the darkest cell
where darkness is at its deepest -
some sense of home
those forms bursting forth
2
seal us in
ascetic fire -
and the cave become a dissonance
the lament on your face of saffron reddening
3
but the grids never are
little girls jumping rope
challenge circle words,
the self of rings
like a brown back
the empty form goes
extends outward
yet these words do not contain you
4
you have an 'element'
the word is ugly too
dearer than a son
cut cut cut out
the heart that lies
walking seems to cover time
the summit is rounded
outline of a foot on a rock
5
you speak in circles
though loving squares
when I cover squares clad in ashes
are all questions then mother of pearl
6
the pilaster speaks
loudly of days
dearer than wealth
the silence on the floor
7
discover the last image
how skim the ocean of brine
you wear on your face
that gray weight
die for more
this is life
8
the plain can do almost
nothing but weep
to turn my eyes away
destroys its power
the untamed fire
9
between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear
I am sad when I see you
10
your letters arrive fat
swollen with human form
they fly out from my palms
look around you
11
mind now
mistaken
dying flowers
not traceable
instead -
believe the sky is not so wide
it reaches forward
(let us pass)
it is a far cry
is pervasive
get rid of everything
only see in me a part
12
tell me now
glass-handled knives
I'm not clear where we started
13
the pagoda and the spire
poke the eye
I once understood you as
articulate who couldn't stand
now knowledge is less and less to
me
and a clear mind -
the rose
are squared
white edge
of the world
ugly
sitting in
snow
14
where dispose of the joke of bones
one must feel the forms
bursting in the tranquil shade
the reality of virtual form
sitting in said snow
the beat of a wing we grieve
certain words repeating -
the world 'ugly'
and just is the 'plain'
what becomes of skin
what becomes of a lotus petal
it tears apart
15
believe the streets are blistering
Nature is the wheel
settle for less
some sense of home
those forms bursting forth
between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear
they fly out from my palms
look around you
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Silent Conversation With Myself
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face.
That is the best way to speak.
This is what is life is all about.
Speechless. Alone always.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Is Mumbling This Is Rambling
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face. That is the best way to speak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dark Circles
Never have I seen anything so clear and promising
As the landscape rolling before my eyes at this moment
Now I see that there is a force I must stop resisting
The readiness to rebuild is becoming more potent
The ashes of what used to be play in the dry wind
And I see a beautiful vision that looks so kind
Dark circles made of ash dance in the air around me
I begin to dance in the beautiful storm and I smile
Why is it that I laugh when there is no light to see?
Why do I dance when I will soon face a testing trial?
There is something exciting and humbling in darkness
From this darkness I will soon find a new grand happiness
In my heart I am feeling the new life. I feel paralyzing
In my mind I am prepared to rebuild. Nothing now stops me
I can feel that soon I will be on top and I’ll be blazing
I can feel that soon I will be revered and I’ll be free
So, why not dance with the swirls of ash so black and dry?
I would rather dance now then continue to hopelessly cry
Dark circles cover me from head to toe!
Dark circles decorate the dead landscape!
Dark circles are flying so high, like my hero!
Dark circles lead me to a grand escape!
Dark circles wrap around me and we fly!
Dark circles! A dance I always wanted to try!
All the ashes mold and form into black angels in the air
They reach out and take my hands and we run
Dark circles cover my eyes and dance through my hair
Dark figures lead me through the darkness to the sun
And in the end of the darkness I see a shining light!
It’s a mirror; it reflects me, a shining light so bright
Dark circles dance around me in celebration of a new birth
They fly high and fall down to create a wind so strong
My face is covered with colors from the burned earth
I do not look like a man. I look like a creature of wrong
I smile and I realize that this is my new territory
Dark circles form a new black castle free of any tragedy!
Dark ashes line the air and the skies!
Dark circles swirl through the land!
Dark circles vibrate with my joyful cries!
Dark circles run along my porcelain hand!
Dark circles shine new light into my life!
Dark circles bring new beauty to my eye…
poem by German Alcala
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The Mistake
it was a different thing that you see
from that you feel
a war between the bulge of the eyes
and the pumps of the heart
the lines of the palms are clear
nobody wants to mind now
in the middle of too much desire
it is the heart that wins
slashing the blinks of the wondering eyes
the lines of the palms are clear
there is no doubt
the heart bleeds upon its mistake
and begins to remember the veils
and the sonorous sounds of the funeral bells of
the little town
the lines of the palms are clear
there is no doubt about it
at the end every part shall accept the fate
no regret
once again the self rides upon the wings of destiny
until the final word of the years rest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pretty On The Inside
Slut-kiss girls wont you promise her smack
Is she pretty on the inside
Is she pretty from the back
Slut-kiss girl wont you water her back
Is she pretty on the inside
Baby pretty from the back
Slut-kiss girl well have some rot black strap
Is she ugly on the inside
Baby ugly ugly from the back
My pretty power my pretty power
My pretty power my ugly
Slut-kiss girls wont you promise her smack
Is she pretty on the inside
Is she ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly
Bad boy
Rows and rows of angel hair
And ice cream pencils baby do they care
And fibre yah glass where is she powered that way
Blues and shoes but this isnt ugly
Yah where is it a marriage in a wheel
Will to calls that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone so so many things
Wow hey I made it down
I I i I made it mosh in everyone acid hair
Acid stars youre getting there
Is she high that way
But now its just another show
Your living life as ready go
Its all its all a doll no a doll
Give me a shelf of a whore
Yah now my friends are ugly strange
They shake their heads man
They gave us a trap well
Well send this love as
Rearrange of who of
Baby I lie with pictures now
From riddle love and streets of gold
He says he reach of a candy heart of
I really love it I really dont know
I really dont know I really dont know
I really dont know like I used to live
Yah berry parts and I wow what was it
song performed by by Hole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time
(m&l - deris)
Feel it running off
So strong and clear
An age is over fast
And disappears
Help him if you can
His hour will come soon
Push away his fear
Hell see elysium
Its time
Its time
Guard him a little while
And calm his shiver
Wash and dry his tears
And cold his fever
Take the bibles words
Speak it pure his soul
Lay love in his mind
His close to the final goal
Its time
Its time
Its time to go
Time for the freedom
Time to face what we all believe in
Pray strong
Pray to the higher
Turn your back on the devils fire
Time to go
Time for freedom
Time to face what we all believe in
Time is passing by
When his mind is clear
He called your brother
Now his brain is dazed
Its resigning rather
Mother take his hand
Say a last good-bye
Were not gifted to
Turn water into wine
Its time
Its time
Its time to go
Time for the freedom
Time to face what we all believe in
Pray strong
Pray to the higher
Turn your back on the devils fire
Time to go
Time for freedom
Time to face what we all believe in
Time is passing by
Solo: michael
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Things That Cannot Be Hidden
allegedly there are three things that cannot be hidden.
the sun
the moon
and the truth
throughout my life i have hidden the truth
about myself and it will still be that way
till i take my last
breath
do not insist in seeing that face of truth
my truth is ugly
and i have seen it from the very first day
that they brought
me here
without my permission
i know you like to see it and perhaps describe the horrible details of its
features
i plea before you
do not lift the cover of my being
you may soon regret that you live in this world having seen
the ugly face of my
truth
do not insist to see my truth
it may be the cause of your untimely death
and the gods may pity you
look at me
i wear a smile but my heart is bleeding
it is inflamed
but never bursting.
poem by Yolly Polly
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Morning Spring
The foul mist has been replaced in the greening plain,
And the dew-drops shine on the ear lop of a balmy rose, not rain,
The coquette rose awakes facing East again
Its lovely self adorning in such fresh scent morning with no strain.
Oh, the vast plain is grassy, untamed wild and bare
Wild, wanton and wide open to the morning air
Which has built up everywhere
Making the little rabbit to the meadow tread and dare
upon the far horizon blue peaks in the distance rise
And ivory white against the cold sapphire sky
Shine out of the crowing crests of snow
Beneath their line the bushes stretching in a dominant grow
The morning wind is hiding, sighing, dodging among the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, of glee, not tears
The sun is rising in bright dusk skies
Veils his fair head of glory while contently he spies
This morning it is my love unclouded luster of her eyes
Her beauty shines as nature does; and once it descried
The jealous vanquish roses lose their bursting pride
And back into their home buds their blushes hide
Copy rights 2010
All rights reserved
Ugly Paint
crack
in the brush,
slice the line and tamper
the bold corner,
waste of time, comes
no regret of it fingers tips,
swollen thumb
with tailing nails of broken pieces
of color
folded
join together
and faded brightness of
Red and Green,
scattered Indigo pamper
the shape and form,
ugly as the skin touches the smooth
face of beautiful picture
of tomorrow's gone,
the guided stream of lines, blacken by its
careless hands of
touch
Yes!
a lasting way of just
an ugly paint,
pattern on me, cover and let the rain
of adoration of search for
an easily hurt get
of deception of hope; something
smarter than
a little boy and girl stand and push
beyond the paint of gain and grain of
whole
pieces of sweat,
pattern makes every paint seems ugly,
yet! it makes sense in me;
sphere revealing
painting you have been long leads
my home,
of what is today and the future
of my day paint goes on,
as the color
printed with its style and let
every passers-bye
says a sweet
good bye …..
poem by Antonio Liao
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You've Got It Bad
And if I could hold you where would you belong
Sitting here to reason how the world's gone wrong
And if I could listen to half the words you say
Would your pathway glisten and help you on your way
Oh you've got it bad
But you shouldn't expect any cover
Oh you've got it so bad
Worse than any other
If I was in your shoes would it be the same
Would you sit in silence while I dish out the blame
And if the world was laughing would you close your ears
There is no creed of chanting to make the world more clear
If I bought you flowers would you watch them grow
Spring time is for certain to follow on the snow
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Buddha faces me
In lotus form, Buddha faces me
This afternoon, his palms clasped
He is seated, his feet kissing,
There is peace
And quiet, there is no sound no ripple
In this cool crystal clear pond
Both of us here, in a while It is I
as usual bubbling,
Speaking words, and more words in
Popping out from my restless mind
Overheating, overdoing,
Why me now? Why have you come now
When I have no peace to offer you?
How can this kind of prayer work for me?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bloody Paper Dolls
They bleed an ink of green blood
Cut them out
Faces of drawn misfortune
Bodies of frail dresses
Minds of empty blue lines
Given names of whores from distorted streets
Megan molly Shannon mind so weak
Created world of plagiarized lives
These bloody paper dolls have no eyes
They see not the tears upon her face
They bleed words onto the page
Green ink dripping
Soft words describing a life
Take there heads the lose all purpose
Fixed scissors this time ill make a man
Green ink bleeds from the cut up words
And the body it forms
These dolls aren’t real they are a shaken reality
Let her be she has dreams
And I cut the words from this page
I lost my age
I’m old... and still
I have bloody paper dolls all around
They rule my life
They are my reality
My friends
These words now just letters
Green ink stains my finger tips
My bloody dolls you are it.
poem by Victoria Martinez
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A Dance In The Dark
A dance in the dark Is a nude dance
Two forms Fuse as one
Shades in the Dark with some Specks of light
A dance of Coming and going
One that tells me Out you go And yet takes Me by her hand
And without a Word the two Forms kiss
and Lose themselves In an empty space
Where the specks Of light may Turn into fire
a wild fire A burning dance A wild dance
And it stops only As the Two Lovely Forms
Become the dark And an empty space.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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37
A dance in the dark Is a nude dance
Two forms Fuse as one
Shades in the Dark with some Specks of light
A dance of Coming and going
One that tells me Out you go And yet takes Me by her hand
And without a Word the two Forms kiss
and Lose themselves In an empty space
Where the specks Of light may Turn into fire
a wild fire A burning dance A wild dance
And it stops only As the Two Lovely Forms
Become the dark And an empty space.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Living In The World Of Art Dealers
Of art dealers ‘commit misery death of art’
Decorate houses with domesticated flowers
The wild ones never grown with your hair
Bathing in floral ornaments of a peaceful world that’s not to be
That’s never been
Did you know that words can kill
Words kill words
Words kill meanings and shades
Uninterpret facests of the world interpretable
Did you know words can sing
They sing both good and evil
There’a word and an anti word
The former born to heal
The latter born to kill
Bend your brow to your feet
And see
The feet moving in two different directions
Even though you still might be standing
On the tip of your mind
Thinking you’re a bird
The mind just a permanent rest of the wings
But it’s not true
As one day you might wake up and find
A weapon artist in yourself
A healer artist in yourself
And you also may find out
That the world does not sway
In parochial floral design of an escape home
No matter how much you tried
To squeeze the happy colours from your walls
The paint will ooze in a slapping hand
The music turn aleathorically
The words divorce rhethorically
Once in a while
The slap will make you choose
Between a weapon wound
And healer heart
Between cheek turning silence
And words
It would be ideal to pick up both
And silence speak
But you are not God
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Crying As An Art Form.
Mother made act of crying
An art form; she knew
Sense of tears on cheek
And leak from blue of eyes.
Father would have his way
Of bringing on the tears in
Her, making the blue eyes
Red, bruising the cheek of
Bone and flesh, making an
Art of bringing black and
Blue in such human skin.
You recall once the time
He slapped her cheek with
A back of hand for making
Remark in jest: you look like
A Yank with that camera held
So. You never could divine how
Love could have altered form
And made a mockery of care
And concern and deepest sense
Of being well and other’s need
Of being needed here and now.
You think that Father lost it if
He had it ever at all. Some how.
poem by Terry Collett
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After our Likeness.
Before me now a little picture lies—
A little shadow of a childish face,
Childishly sweet, yet with the dawning grace
Of thought and wisdom on her lips and eyes.
Fair, oval, broad-brow'd face—small, delicate head—
Transparent skin, with blue veins shining through—
All the soft outlines, beautiful and true,
Bring me the echo of the words “God said.”
Made “in our image”—sure 'tis that we see,
God's likeness, in the fair face of a child,
By the world's sin and passion undefiled—
Ay, as I look, it seems quite plain to me.
The light wherein the little features shine,
Strange, mystic light, so undefined and faint,
So far too pure for any words to paint—
'Tis a reflection of the Face divine.
Some day the earthly shadows will be cast
Across that sunshine—it may be to dim
A while the visible countenance of Him;
But 'twill be there—the likeness—to the last.
Some day the lucid waters, in which lie
Pictured those glorious lineaments, will be
Stirred up and troubled like a stormy sea;—
But they will yet re-settle—by-and-by.
They will re-settle when the soul is still'd,
Its passions, its wild longings, and its pain;
The pure reflection will shine out again
When earth's hopes are relinquish'd, unfulfill'd.
They will re-settle in those after-years
When life's hard lessons have been conned and learn'd;
Then this child's beauty will have all return'd,
More lovely for the trouble and the tears.
They will re-settle in the calm of death,
When the sweet eyes are laid asleep, and when
The heart is hush'd. Truly God's likeness then—
The mirror clear, unsullied by a breath.
Ah! while I look, and trace each tender line,
I think most of the day when I shall see
The dear face in that perfect purity,
Its mortal features clothed with the divine.
This self-same face, but with the image bright,
Nevermore undefined, and faint, and dim;
This self-same face, yet like the face of Him,
In glory and in beauty infinite.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Emptiness of Words
On morning walk, I raise my eyes up,
Not like King David to the mountains,
But to purple flowers, the Pride of India
Queen’s flowers, blossoming bunches out
This hot April summer on Bandra pavement.
I look further up, sky is blue unusually!
Filled with many pieces of clouds
In different shapes and sizes;
To describe cannot go beyond
Squares, circles, triangles, rectangles etc
As if all shapes are governed by angles alone.
What about angels of irregular sponges,
Candyfloss shot through with morning silver,
Evolving like forms of life vibrant, joyful?
In this hot summer April month alone,
More than a billion Indians feel anger
And each Indian a thousand times:
Yet anger is the only available word!
Was your ‘anger’ last Monday morning
Same as of others or yours on weekend?
Like in Heart Sutra of the Buddha
Form is empty: so also, says he, feeling,
Perception, impulse, and consciousness.
Here anger is followed by other words!
poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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The Painter Dreaming in the Scholar’s House
in memory of the painters Paul Klee
and Paul Terence Feeley
I
The painter’s eye follows relation out.
His work is not to paint the visible,
He says, it is to render visible.
Being a man, and not a god, he stands
Already in a world of sense, from which
He borrows, to begin with, mental things
Chiefly, the abstract elements of language:
The point, the line, the plane, the colors and
The geometric shapes. Of these he spins
Relation out, he weaves its fabric up
So that it speaks darkly, as music does
Singing the secret history of the mind.
And when in this the visible world appears,
As it does do, mountain, flower, cloud, and tree,
All haunted here and there with the human face,
It happens as by accident, although
The accident is of design. It is because
Language first rises from the speechless world
That the painterly intelligence
Can say correctly that he makes his world,
Not imitates the one before his eyes.
Hence the delightsome gardens, the dark shores,
The terrifying forests where nightfall
Enfolds a lost and tired traveler.
And hence the careless crowd deludes itself
By likening his hieroglyphic signs
And secret alphabets to the drawing of a child.
That likeness is significant the other side
Of what they see, for his simplicities
Are not the first ones, but the furthest ones,
Final refinements of his thought made visible.
He is the painter of the human mind
Finding and faithfully reflecting the mindfulness
That is in things, and not the things themselves.
For such a man, art is an act of faith:
Prayer the study of it, as Blake says,
And praise the practice; nor does he divide
Making from teaching, or from theory.
The three are one, and in his hours of art
There shines a happiness through darkest themes,
As though spirit and sense were not at odds.
II
The painter as an allegory of the mind
At genesis. He takes a burlap bag,
Tears it open and tacks it on a stretcher.
He paints it black because, as he has said,
Everything looks different on black.
Suppose the burlap bag to be the universe,
And black because its volume is the void
Before the stars were. At the painter’s hand
Volume becomes one-sidedly a surface,
And all his depths are on the face of it.
Against this flat abyss, this groundless ground
Of zero thickness stretched against the cold
Dark silence of the Absolutely Not,
Material worlds arise, the colored earths
And oil of plants that imitate the light.
They imitate the light that is in thought,
For the mind relates to thinking as the eye
Relates to light. Only because the world
Already is a language can the painter speak
According to his grammar of the ground.
It is archaic speech, that has not yet
Divided out its cadences in words;
It is a language for the oldest spells
About how some thoughts rose into the mind
While others, stranger still, sleep in the world.
So grows the garden green, the sun vermilion.
He sees the rose flame up and fade and fall
And be the same rose still, the radiant in red.
He paints his language, and his language is
The theory of what the painter thinks.
III
The painter’s eye attends to death and birth
Together, seeing a single energy
Momently manifest in every form,
As in the tree the growing of the tree
Exploding from the seed not more nor less
Than from the void condensing down and in,
Summoning sun and rain. He views the tree,
The great tree standing in the garden, say,
As thrusting downward its vast spread and weight,
Growing its green height from the dark watered earth,
And as suspended weightless in the sky,
Haled forth and held up by the hair of its head.
He follows through the flowing of the forms
From the divisions of the trunk out to
The veinings of the leaf, and the leaf’s fall.
His pencil meditates the many in the one
After the method in the confluence of rivers,
The running of ravines on mountainsides,
And in the deltas of the nerves; he sees
How things must be continuous with themselves
As with whole worlds that they themselves are not,
In order that they may be so transformed.
He stands where the eternity of thought
Opens upon perspective time and space;
He watches mind become incarnate; then
He paints the tree.
IV
These thoughts have chiefly been about the painter Klee,
About how he in our hard time might stand to us
Especially whose lives concern themselves with learning
As patron of the practical intelligence of art,
And thence as model, modest and humorous in sufferings,
For all research that follows spirit where it goes.
That there should be much goodness in the world,
Much kindness and intelligence, candor and charm,
And that it all goes down in the dust after a while,
This is a subject for the steadiest meditations
Of the heart and mind, as for the tears
That clarify the eye toward charity.
So may it be to all of us, that at some times
In this bad time when faith in study seems to fail,
And when impatience in the street and still despair at home
Divide the mind to rule it, there shall be some comfort come
From the remembrance of so deep and clear a life as his
Whom I have thought of, for the wholeness of his mind,
As the painter dreaming in the scholar’s house,
His dream an emblem to us of the life of thought,
The same dream that then flared before intelligence
When light first went forth looking for the eye.
poem by Howard Nemerov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eternity Rain
Let this rain wash me
Let it wash my virtual sins
Clean my sorrow from the sins of my fathers
Clean my self form this dirt call life
From the false tells of creation
And clean my mind from the empty words of priest
From the dirty political speech
Let this holy rain clean my sorrow form the sin of love
Sin of being the truthful in this life
I want to clean my mind from the thought control
Clean my head form my mum fairy lies
It need the eternity to clean out my soul and my life from this life dirt
To be clean again i need eternity rain
poem by Aryabod Siharyvani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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