The Physique of Intimate Poetry
I decided to read poetry
written only by
imagined beautiful people.
In my psyche
their words
structured into poised stanzas
become refined paragraphs
that perch elegantly
on slender ankles
supporting the upper half
of their bovine torso.
This pastoral vision
of grass
metamorphosing
into milk suckled from a teat
is so convincingly surreal
that it is not
may not be a tit.
Reality is that
a refined ankle to one
is the size of a thigh to another
a simile to an inverted pear
one must eat
starting with the arse.
Botero
and his crushingly mammothian
figurative representations
weigh heavily on my mind.
I also like them plump
and towering
close to my eyes
enabling me to kiss such
by only slightly
turning my head sideways.
Needless to say
this is one time I am bullish
on a mad cow.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Nov©2008
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The Physique of an Intimate Painting
I decided to do canvases
painted only by
imagined beautiful people.
In my awareness
their brush strokes would structure
into poised angular shapes
and become refined parallelograms
elegantly perched on slender easels
firmly planted in the grass
supporting the upper half
of their bovine torsos.
This pastoral vision
of domesticated beasts in paddocks
metamorphosing grass into milk
suckled from teats
will be so convincingly surreal
that one will have to be constantly reminded
they are not teats
and that the dribble from the corner
of their mouths
is only a mind trip.
The reality is that
refined breasts to one
are watermelons to another
simile to inverted pears
one must eat
starting with the arse.
Crushingly mammothian
the figurative representations by Botero
weigh massively on my mind
as I also like them plump
towering above my eyes
enabling me to lick kiss each
by slightly turning
my head sideways.
Needless to say
this is one time I am bullish
about mad cows.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Nov©2008
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Ace of Hearts
Ace of Hearts
I ain’t goin’ nowhere
And that frickin’ raven
Ain’t gonna make me write
No Poe poem
Nor this goddam bridge
Ain’t goin’ nowhere either
Not even straddling
Sarah Palin’s arse to Russia
~~~
Alex Nodopaka ©2008
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Deconstruction of transcendence
The concentration
on the idyll to nature
as a wide range of loneliness
seems to nature
as disposition is to scenery and
the discovery of post modernism
thus continuing the individual and
the romantic feeling
of contemporary visual representations.
Loneliness is coupled
with a number of symbolic qualities.
Now that emotions and personal feelings
are linked with a Romantic revaluation of
the representation of Postmodernism
and the discovery it is conjuring,
the pictures form issues
range from the Romantic feeling
to Postmodernism and the discovery of
the message becomes transcendental.
The symbolically charged beauty
of the immediate experience
of motif strands outlining a reawakened
interest in a number of formulations
dealing with the fundamentals of
Romantic representations.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Nov©2008
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The Handmade Poem
Because I am no poet
this ode shall be sculpted
with handmade paper and malachite
and when the papyrus will fossilize
its lyrics shall be chiseled in 3D.
The drummed hammering
shall be its melody
with the notes cleaved
and for the rustling sound
use the flow of myriad marble dust.
And if the stanzas won’t hum right
they’ll be shattered chipped off
scraped instead of crumpled.
Well, all this visual
and aural circumlocution
is only in my mind because
there’s no more than a soft tap
when the apex of my finger
glides on the keyboard of the PC.
Sigh!
But maybe,
just maybe,
instead of sculpting
I should paint this poem
on handmade paper
in the way of Hiroshige or Mi Fei
who thinned down black ink
suiting it to necessary transparency
distinguishing
the astigmatic background
from the myopic forefront.
And for good measure
I shall sculpt this poem
in French and intersperse it
with a bit of Slav
like here and there
a da and a couple of niet
since most readers would know
those crucial words.
Then I shall sit in a lotus stanza
sigh…
and dedicate this poem
to water lilies
so when the paper
it is written on
is discovered
it will have completely
dissolved
with only stripped letters
floating down the stream
reforming fluid stanzas
worthy of the river’s
amorous curves.
I think it’ll be
a sculpture
gratifying the erotica
between water and clay.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Aug©2008
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Poetry, That's What I Write
Parody of the classic song Money, That's What I Want
The best words on the page are here
Teaching you a hell of a lot more about life
Then just the birds and bees
Now you know words of magic
Words of wisdom
Given birth
Right here, right now
Oh, yes
Poetry, that's what I write
My wicked writing should give you such a thrill
So don't be shy
Go ahead and click on this link right here
My poetry won't pay your bills, no
But I can promise to give you some kinky thrills
Now you know
Poetry, that's what I write
Bright and beautiful
Perfect as can be
Poetry, that's what I write
Oh yeah baby
Poetry
Poetry, that's what I write
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I like
Poetry
Oh yes
Poetry, that's what I love
Poetry, that's what I write
Whoa
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Well, now read my poetry
Ooooh, oooh yeah my poetry
Read my
Love my
Poetry, oh yeah that's what I like
What I love
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I write
Yeah
2008 Ramona Thompson
poem by Ramona Thompson
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The First Poem
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
The words I love you
written by this beauty's tongue
turned a heart rosy red from a somber blue
and made me burn for my heart was wrung.
The first poem I ever read
is the first poem I ever said.
On her poetic lips love words refined
and shaped a sonnet on her flesh defined
On those lips I read a poet's song
And knew it was there my lips belonged.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I love you, I love you
What does it mean?
These words said, to start anew
something pure and something serene.
The first words I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
Those first words she whispered into my ear
And in my heart, her poem stood near
Those are the most beautiful words one ever said
I love you, I love you, will live till its dead.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I read her lips, I love you, I love you..
now to sleep I go in love's sweet bed.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Poetry Is Sexy
Poetry is sexy
Its lyrics aim to please
Poetry is sexy
Engaging in its tease
Poetry is sexy
It radiates with verb
Poetry is sexy
Every idyllic word
Poetry is sexy
Refined for purity
Poetry is sexy
Stripped of subtlety
Poetry is sexy
When read between the lines
Poetry is sexy
Laced with frilly rhymes
Poetry is sexy
Both singular and plural
Poetry is sexy
Every exclamatory swirl
Poetry is sexy
Grammatically raw
Poetry is sexy
Even typos and all
Poetry is sexy
Consummated publicly
Poetry is sexy
When performed properly
Poetry is sexy
Irrespective of its font
Poetry is sexy
Fashioned any way you want
poem by Brian Dorn
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I have a story that’ll
I have a story that’ll
bury Tiger Woods
under 6 feet of sand.
It’s the wishful thinking
of any golfer
to eagle their balls
in Alice’s hole.
But I wonder if anybody
wants their balls
to shrink fast enough
in the time they fly
from the golfing club
to birdie Wonderland.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Apr©2010
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Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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A Contemporary Critique about Art
I'm troubled by the suggestive complexity of
Distinctive formal juxtapositions in this artwork.
Its disjunctive perturbations & eloquence make it
Difficult to consciously enter this chef d’oeuvre in
A manner in which the sublime beauty of the bio-
Morphic forms verge on codifying its agitated con-
Tent finding this creation remarkable in how it
Handles the figurative-narrative line-space matrix
By spatially undermining the visual gesture while
Abstractly activating critical thinking. As an ad-
Vocate of the issue of content, I feel that here at least
The suggestion of spatial relationships endangers the
Disjunctive perturbation of how disrupting it seems
In light of the eloquence of the substructure that
Conceptually activates the spatial relationships of the
Auto-erotic signifier and appears disturbing in light of
How it imperils the artwork from being understood.
Of course, the matter of understanding or not is
Self-subjective as it will not let itself be pigeonholed
Which is solely a psycho-morphic human characteristic.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Oct©2008
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Goddess Durga
Goddess Durga
Astride on her tiger
in menstrual throes
She feels she has a
Tiger in her tank
But her retinue trumpets
that he lost his woodies
and that she should club
her Wood
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Mar©2010
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Stone Fog
Stone Fog
i think
she is your alter ego
someone you pine for
the dizziness
is your inebriation with her
and may be due
to atmospheric pressure
differentials
she comes and goes
like a fog sculpture
or a De Chirico muse
without a shadow
she's pure fog
with consciousness
and a heart of stone
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Nov©2009
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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
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Poetry according to a cynic
Poetry is not
Beautiful words strung together to make you light
Poetry is not
Appreciated by anyone but the author
Poetry is not
Structured and redundant
Poetry is not
All about why women leave, taking pieces of your soul
Poetry is
Life, as you see it
poem by Scott Campbell
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Study Nature
I do.
Victim.
Sales
Met
Wipe
Her
Less.
Was a disappointment
We say it.
Study nature.
Or
Who
Towering.
Mispronounced
Spelling.
She
Was
Astonishing
To
No
One
For
Fun
Study from nature.
I
Am
Pleased
Thoroughly
I
Am
Thoroughly
Pleased.
By.
It.
It is very likely.
They said so.
Oh.
I want.
To do.
What
Is
Later
To
Be
Refined.
By
Turning.
Of turning around.
I will wait.
poem by Gertrude Stein
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Like A Red Rose
If you were a song
I know how you would sound
A rock-ballad
which lasts all day long
Your words would be refined
well formed and everlasting
the kind of words
that never leaves my mind
Like a red rose
newly sprung and beautiful
I would listen to your song
and feel you were ever so close
But if you were a song
we could never be together
I could hear you
but never touch you
and that would hurt me
even if I were ever so strong.
poem by Iselin Steinsto
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The M & M Candy Telephone
The M & M Candy Telephone
The device is switched to mute.
Not a sound comes from
the Raisin Bran guys except
for the pre-programmed
visual message on the LCD screen.
When the receiver flashes
instead of ringing
the Venus de Milo deodorant statue
doesn't move an arm
to pick up the handset.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Feb©2010
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The Poetry Movement
My poems are not sacred
Not something beautiful
-I leave for the afterworld to admire
They are but products
of my pen and mind
-To stay true to these is all I aspire
I don't believe in elitistic poetry
or the words of the Few and Great
-It is the Poetry Movement I desire
I'd like to scream over the rooftops
'Poetry to the people, Poetry of the masses'
-But I know my written words will reach further and higher
poem by Agnes Török
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The Costumed Oscar Eve Party
Mickey has big ears and hears secrets
he's not supposed to. I think of pinning
and taping my droopy
fleshy excesses (the visible only)
with clear adhesive strips and suspend
my eyelids from my eyebrows and
stretch my cheeks to my earlobes
so I can fasten them behind.
You’re right about the big mouse
(a friend’s suggestion) that
his ears are big enough to hide
the decaying extent of my wisdom.
That way at the party incognito
I’ll flit from one guest to another
loosely talk about economics and
the worth of shrunken real estates.
In between champagne sips and
furtive glances at cleavages maybe
I shall make a cleavage photo series?
Yes, yes, we never know except
that a no always leads nowhere.
Well, so much for my simile-stream
Of consciousness written in octoplets.
Speaking of eights, isn’t it breath-
taking to rediscover there’s money
to be made from a large progeniture.
Because historically speaking,
when in dire economic times,
a freak circus is always a
hysterical place to watch an octopus
vaginally birth octopi.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Feb©2009
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A Reader’s Daydream
In books written by scholars
With an element enforced on words
You read with your subconscious
And digest all you’ve heard
Your mind suggest a vision of what immortal life could be
As you wish is silent whisper that your life this way could lead
Then back to reality you frown
As you stumble over words the author has written down.
(date written unknown)
poem by David Harris
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