Triptych
Prelude, climax, aftermath,
that is the story of our lives, triptych
that takes away from he who hath,
without bell, book or even candlestick,
what he regarded as his own,
his life, which will be confiscated and
leave him with nothing, all alone,
trite triptych trash within a no-man’s land.
His narrative is adumbrated,
returning earth to earth, to adamah,
where he as prelude was created,
to be mere aftermath, from climax far.
Adamah is Hebrew for “earth, ” and the root of the name of “Adam, ” which in the Creative narrative denotes “First Man, created from the earth” (Gen.2: 7) .
Inspired by an article by Alan Jenkins in the TLS, December 5,2008 (“Human Meat”) . He writes:
That so many of Bacon’s motifs derived, in complex, vigilant ways from photography and film is entirely consistent with his acute awareness that these new art forms had rendered representation in painting obsolete, and with his horror of mere “illustration”. This was not to say that painting should not deal in “fact”: just that fact comprehended more than what is “seen naturally”. “One wants a thing to be as factual as possible and at the same time as deeply suggestive or deeply unlocking of areas of sensation other than simple illustration of the object”, as Bacon put it to David Sylvester. He was also one of the most literary of painters, an admirer of Ulysses, an avid reader of poetry and drama who saw that the Oresteia and T. S. Eliot’s Sweeney Agonistes were blood relations, who liked to quote lines from both yet who repeatedly and sometimes fiercely repudiated attempts to read “a story” into his own work.
But he insisted too much. At one level, his habit of working in triptychs, and at a deeper one the suggestiveness he often in fact achieved, not just in triptychs but in single paintings, militates against that very insistence. It is hard to look at such works as the “Crucifixions” of 1962 and 65, “Lying Figure” (1969) , “Triptych, Studies from the Human Body” (1970) or “Triptych March 1974” without a sense of prelude, climax and aftermath – though not necessarily in that order. Some such adumbrated narrative, an intimate human drama about to be embarked on, concluded or aborted also haunts the restrained and very beautiful portrait studies of a suited “Man in Blue”, his face and hands bright-lit on a deep blue ground, that are at once the most “readable” of all Bacon’s male figures, and the most ambiguous.
12/8/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Two, Yet Only One!
This earth is one and human race is one!
God made us live an earthly life just once;
Each species has female and male portions;
They fuse in flesh to bring offspring on earth.
God created from Adam’s rib, his Eve!
Our first parents were parts of one same whole;
God made the male and female differently;
But, both are equal in the eyes of His.
Each sex has duties special to its class;
Both sexes have some common properties;
Though morphologically different,
They were created from the same earth’s soil!
The breath of God that entered Adam’s lungs,
Is just the same that dwells in Eve, as well;
God showed that humanity is just one;
What human eyes perceive is deception.
Although some innate differences stay,
God made each sex with purposes varied;
Both tend to go towards eternity,
By doing roles God-given properly!
When marriage consummates in children, then,
‘The two, yet only one’ – proved beyond doubt;
The better half is weaker not always;
The stronger man is weaker in some ways!
The union of sexes gives bond-strength;
The children born strengthen this love further;
And this is how, the human race goes on;
And till the earth remains this must be so.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-21-2008
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Beautiful Rose
A beautiful rose
With crimson petals
Bloomed in
In the back yard
She laughs and plays
Under the rays
The wind caresses
Her face, the rain
Washes her dirt
And makes her bright
Aesthetic sight
Worthy to be put
In the memory
Of the hard disk
The story is not so simple
It has twists and turns
Yet to get the climax
Before comes to an end
The cruel tale unfolds
The owner of the rose
Is type of Romeo
With colourful wishes
Better He knows
How should end
a love story
So He sends
A man of his gang
Very obedient
With apparently cruel
But artistic hands
Me, the gardener
A mere caretaker
Beg for mercy
But I am told
He has a better place
To keep a beautiful rose
With a pretension
Of cough and cold
His man comes
Spreads his hand
And plucks the rose
Before reaching the climax
Keeping the promises she shows
And walking down the miles of the roads,
this story ends in a tragedy
In a folder of the hard disk
He leaves for me only a tearful memory.
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Story
I love story.
Truly I do.
And always will.
Of the best of them
I shall not ever
Get my fill.
They are never read, told, shared or sung
In vain,
They create, live and give
An allegorical ardor to life and being
That in no other form
Can anyone find or explain.
Yet,
the fact remains,
for each persons story
'tis the same:
Wherever great fictional stories
Are shown or told,
New or old,
There is a moment of climax, fantasy,
Where the main character overcomes confrontation.
And from that moment on everything is good, o.k.,
Pure and perfect transformation.......
Real life is story too,
One big Story
Filled with every human's sub-story,
All just as real, and true.
With the full ability to be every bit as great,
Word for word,
As any fiction
Ever told and heard.
With one powerful and true exception:
In the story of our human reality
The conflict may lesson,
But never, here and now, does it ever cease.
In this life, no matter what else,
There just will not be
Perfect, never-ending beauty and peace.
It's a fantastic fable
That from a moment forward
Life can be happily ever after;
No such thing has God here promised.
Only upon Christ's return
Shall tears and pain completely give way
To joy, dancing, and laughter.
Death to evil's horrid beast,
Finally and fully finished
At the great and glorious wedding feast!
But, tis not yet so;
Tis futile to think
For anyone life is unfragile,
We are all so soon wind-swept,
Our time, place and position on earth
Is never ours to be savored and kept...
So the story goes on and on
To it's final chapter,
Where the great author alone
Writes in the wonderous finish:
'The Eternal Happily Ever After'.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Narratives
Narratives we tell to show
who we believe we are deceive
the listeners who are forced to go
with that one version they receive,
because we’ve may others we
can tell to different people to
impress them with our pedigree
and perspicacious points of view.
Do we from truth take long excursions
by changing tales about ourselves,
to find as many different versions
as books in volumes on our shelves?
No, there’s some truth in each refrain,
for every life is like a ballad
with different verses that explain
its variations, each as valid
as the next one, contradictions
all harmonized with disappearance
of prejudice about the fictions
that help to give the facts coherence.
Inspired by Benedict Carey, who writes about narratives we tell of our lives (“This Is Your Life (and How You Tell It, ” NYT, May 22,2007) :
For more than a century, researchers have been trying to work out the raw ingredients that account for personality, the sweetness and neuroses that make Anna Anna, the sluggishness and sensitivity that make Andrew Andrew. They have largely ignored the first-person explanation — the life story that people themselves tell about who they are, and why. Stories are stories, after all. The attractive stranger at the airport bar hears one version, the parole officer another, and the P.T.A. board gets something entirely different. Moreover, the tone, the lessons, even the facts in a life story can all shift in the changing light of a person’s mood, its major notes turning minor, its depths appearing shallow. Yet in the past decade or so a handful of psychologists have argued that the quicksilver elements of personal narrative belong in any three-dimensional picture of personality. And a burst of new findings are now helping them make the case. Generous, civic-minded adults from diverse backgrounds tell life stories with very similar and telling features, studies find; so likewise do people who have overcome mental distress through psychotherapy. Every American may be working on a screenplay, but we are also continually updating a treatment of our own life — and the way in which we visualize each scene not only shapes how we think about ourselves, but how we behave, new studies find. By better understanding how life stories are built, this work suggests, people may be able to alter their own narrative, in small ways and perhaps large ones. “When we first started studying life stories, people thought it was just idle curiosity — stories, isn’t that cool? ” said Dan P. McAdams, a professor of psychology at Northwestern and author of the 2006 book, “The Redemptive Self.” “Well, we find that these narratives guide behavior in every moment, and frame not only how we see the past but how we see ourselves in the future.” Researchers have found that the human brain has a natural affinity for narrative construction. People tend to remember facts more accurately if they encounter them in a story rather than in a list, studies find; and they rate legal arguments as more convincing when built into narrative tales rather than on legal precedent.
5/22/07
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stories
The stories
Night bed its mats
And also we are
Wait and see
The narrative begins with the story
The stories of long time ago
Between fact and fiction
The stories from the ends of the earth
And depth of the ocean
We draw the characters and imagine
Live roles
And sail far and far
And overwhelmed with happiness
And the longing pulls us
And eyebrows painted terms on our faces
The story behind the story
Delight our nights
The stories of my grandmother.
poem by Mohammed AlBalushi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetical Triptych Trick Trip
POETICAL TRIPTYCH TRICK TRIP
I
Poetry is metamorphosis
Of heart and mind combined, -
Emotions surge to urge osmosis,
To merge what ‘chance’ can find
Revealed behind blind synthesis
Yoking letters neatly lined.
II
Poetry is music by another name,
Or in some manner harmony applied,
Explaining day to day occurrences supplied
To offer eurythmic interpretation game
Responding with logic on magic patter[n] frame.
Yet the alphabetic formula hid inside
Enables one to say one’s peace, with self confide
Much which must, ecstatic, “out”. Emotion’s flame
Outpours feelings plastic, amoeba-like to claim
The victim of elastic interplay to guide
Instincts in search of prey. But, pray, what when the tide
Of energy harmonic falters, who’s to blame?
Not soul but spirit enters into print,
Sends signals out which others’ glasses tint.
III
Poetry: alphabetical exercise linguistical
Overcoming excess, slick success stylistical,
Excluding artifice artistical, puny puristical,
To create with comprehensive characteristical
Respect for rythm, rhyme and meaning meta-magic mystical -
Yet melting emotions alchemistical.
11 September 1995 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_0770_robi03_0000 ASX_IXX
Poetical Triptych Trick Trip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH STITCH SANDWICH TRIP TIP
S[w]ing...Heart'S....String
Thoughts.Ch arT......These
In............TempI......Ideas
Taut....... .InstanT....Tempting
Click........TantriC.....Chic
Hear........ SandwicH.Here
triple acrostic written 22 November 2006 revised 23 May 2008
Triptych Stitch Sandwich Trip Tip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP
String on Heart’s skeinS,
Threads tie, Cast, kniT!
In time, Train I
Taut pins In, ouT,
Click clack. TantriC -
Heaven Sends sigH
14 May 1996
robi03_0810_robi03_0000 AXX_IMX
Triptych Stitch Trip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP II
S[tr]ing...H eart’S
Thought C harT
In...........T empI
Taut.......I nstanT
Click......T antriC -
Here......S andwicH
triple acrostic
22 November 2006
robi03_1508_robi03_0000 AQX_IKX
Triptych Stitch Trip II poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRYPTICH
Drip, drip, drip, slip trip
trickle ignores Time’s sickle
drop, drop, dropp crypt..tic
24 October 2006 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_1484_robi03_0000 HXX_ZXX
Tryptich poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Triptych Stitch Trip II
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP II
S[tr]ing...H eart’S
Thought C harT
In...........T empI
Taut.......I nstanT
Click......T antriC -
Here......S andwicH
triple acrostic
22 November 2006
robi03_1508_robi03_0000 AQX_IKX
Triptych Stitch Trip II poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH STITCH TRIP III
StitcH Heart’S SheatH HaS StretcH
TiC CaughtT ToC, CharT TerrifiC.
I treaT ThaI, InspecT TmumulI IntacT
TsunamI, InstanT Typhoon, I ImparT TempI,
ChanT TheatriC CasT TantriC ComplimenT.
Here’S SketcH. HopeS SearcH H[e]avenS
15 December 2006
robi03_1523_robi03_0000 AQX_MXX
Triptych Stitch Trip III poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP
String on Heart’s skeinS,
Threads tie, Cast, kniT!
In time, Train I
Taut pins In, ouT,
Click clack. TantriC -
Heaven Sends sigH
14 May 1996
robi03_0810_robi03_0000 AXX_IMX
Triptych Stitch Trip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH STITCH SANDWICH TRIP TIP
S[w]ing...Heart'S....String
Thoughts.Ch arT......These
In............TempI......Ideas
Taut....... .InstanT....Tempting
Click........TantriC.....Chic
Hear........ SandwicH.Here
triple acrostic written 22 November 2006 revised 23 May 2008
Triptych Stitch Sandwich Trip Tip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRYPTI CH
Drip, drip, drip, slip trip
trickle ignores Time’s sickle
drop, drop, dropp crypt..tic
24 October 2006 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_1484_robi03_0000 HXX_ZXX
Tryptich poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
POETICAL TRIPTYCH TRICK TRIP
I
Poetry is metamorphosis
Of heart and mind combined, -
Emotions surge to urge osmosis,
To merge what ‘chance’ can find
Revealed behind blind synthesis
Yoking letters neatly lined.
II
Poetry is music by another name,
Or in some manner harmony applied,
Explaining day to day occurrences supplied
To offer eurythmic interpretation game
Responding with logic on magic patter[n] frame.
Yet the alphabetic formula hid inside
Enables one to say one’s peace, with self confide
Much which must, ecstatic, “out”. Emotion’s flame
Outpours feelings plastic, amoeba-like to claim
The victim of elastic interplay to guide
Instincts in search of prey. But, pray, what when the tide
Of energy harmonic falters, who’s to blame?
Not soul but spirit enters into print,
Sends signals out which others’ glasses tint.
III
Poetry: alphabetical exercise linguistical
Overcoming excess, slick success stylistical,
Excluding artifice artistical, puny puristical,
To create with comprehensive characteristical
Respect for rythm, rhyme and meaning meta-magic mystical -
Yet melting emotions alchemistical.
11 September 1995 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_0770_robi03_0000 ASX_IXX
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIII
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Triptych Stitch Trip III
TRIPTYCH STITCH TRIP III
StitcH Heart’S SheatH HaS StretcH
TiC CaughtT ToC, CharT TerrifiC.
I treaT ThaI, InspecT TmumulI IntacT
TsunamI, InstanT Typhoon, I ImparT TempI,
ChanT TheatriC CasT TantriC ComplimenT.
Here’S SketcH. HopeS SearcH H[e]avenS
15 December 2006
robi03_1523_robi03_0000 AQX_MXX
Triptych Stitch Trip III poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP
String on Heart’s skeinS,
Threads tie, Cast, kniT!
In time, Train I
Taut pins In, ouT,
Click clack. TantriC -
Heaven Sends sigH
14 May 1996
robi03_0810_robi03_0000 AXX_IMX
Triptych Stitch Trip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP II
S[tr]ing...H eart’S
Thought C harT
In...........T empI
Taut.......I nstanT
Click......T antriC -
Here......S andwicH
triple acrostic
22 November 2006
robi03_1508_robi03_0000 AQX_IKX
Triptych Stitch Trip II poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH STITCH SANDWICH TRIP TIP
S[w]ing...Heart'S....String
Thoughts.Ch arT......These
In............TempI......Ideas
Taut....... .InstanT....Tempting
Click........TantriC.....Chic
Hear........ SandwicH.Here
triple acrostic written 22 November 2006 revised 23 May 2008
Triptych Stitch Sandwich Trip Tip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRYPTI CH
Drip, drip, drip, slip trip
trickle ignores Time’s sickle
drop, drop, dropp crypt..tic
24 October 2006 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_1484_robi03_0000 HXX_ZXX
Tryptich poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
POETICAL TRIPTYCH TRICK TRIP
I
Poetry is metamorphosis
Of heart and mind combined, -
Emotions surge to urge osmosis,
To merge what ‘chance’ can find
Revealed behind blind synthesis
Yoking letters neatly lined.
II
Poetry is music by another name,
Or in some manner harmony applied,
Explaining day to day occurrences supplied
To offer eurythmic interpretation game
Responding with logic on magic patter[n] frame.
Yet the alphabetic formula hid inside
Enables one to say one’s peace, with self confide
Much which must, ecstatic, “out”. Emotion’s flame
Outpours feelings plastic, amoeba-like to claim
The victim of elastic interplay to guide
Instincts in search of prey. But, pray, what when the tide
Of energy harmonic falters, who’s to blame?
Not soul but spirit enters into print,
Sends signals out which others’ glasses tint.
III
Poetry: alphabetical exercise linguistical
Overcoming excess, slick success stylistical,
Excluding artifice artistical, puny puristical,
To create with comprehensive characteristical
Respect for rythm, rhyme and meaning meta-magic mystical -
Yet melting emotions alchemistical.
11 September 1995 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_0770_robi03_0000 ASX_IXX
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIII
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Theory of Evolution in Islam
The holy Koran supports
Theory of evolution
But it opines that
God has created human at first
In a different way
Since humans are His best creation
The angels took mud from the earth
To God’s main court in paradise
Then God expanded His visible glow
So that the angels can see His body
And make a body like His body with it
But the angels were unable
To make the face
Because God’s body
Is the most beautiful thing
Consequently
God’s body made the face
Of Adam with His own hand
And gave finishing touch
Then he breathed into
Adam’s body a soul
And Adam became alive
Afterward
God created Eve
From a bone of Adam’s breast
By necessary genetic mutations.
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Triptych Stitch Trip
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP
String on Heart’s skeinS,
Threads tie, Cast, kniT!
In time, Train I
Taut pins In, ouT,
Click clack. TantriC -
Heaven Sends sigH
14 May 1996
robi03_0810_robi03_0000 AXX_IMX
Triptych Stitch Trip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP II
S[tr]ing...H eart’S
Thought C harT
In...........T empI
Taut.......I nstanT
Click......T antriC -
Here......S andwicH
triple acrostic
22 November 2006
robi03_1508_robi03_0000 AQX_IKX
Triptych Stitch Trip II poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH STITCH SANDWICH TRIP TIP
S[w]ing...Heart'S....String
Thoughts.Ch arT......These
In............TempI......Ideas
Taut....... .InstanT....Tempting
Click........TantriC.....Chic
Hear........ SandwicH.Here
triple acrostic written 22 November 2006 revised 23 May 2008
Triptych Stitch Sandwich Trip Tip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRYPTI CH
Drip, drip, drip, slip trip
trickle ignores Time’s sickle
drop, drop, dropp crypt..tic
24 October 2006 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_1484_robi03_0000 HXX_ZXX
Tryptich poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
POETICAL TRIPTYCH TRICK TRIP
I
Poetry is metamorphosis
Of heart and mind combined, -
Emotions surge to urge osmosis,
To merge what ‘chance’ can find
Revealed behind blind synthesis
Yoking letters neatly lined.
II
Poetry is music by another name,
Or in some manner harmony applied,
Explaining day to day occurrences supplied
To offer eurythmic interpretation game
Responding with logic on magic patter[n] frame.
Yet the alphabetic formula hid inside
Enables one to say one’s peace, with self confide
Much which must, ecstatic, “out”. Emotion’s flame
Outpours feelings plastic, amoeba-like to claim
The victim of elastic interplay to guide
Instincts in search of prey. But, pray, what when the tide
Of energy harmonic falters, who’s to blame?
Not soul but spirit enters into print,
Sends signals out which others’ glasses tint.
III
Poetry: alphabetical exercise linguistical
Overcoming excess, slick success stylistical,
Excluding artifice artistical, puny puristical,
To create with comprehensive characteristical
Respect for rythm, rhyme and meaning meta-magic mystical -
Yet melting emotions alchemistical.
11 September 1995 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_0770_robi03_0000 ASX_IXX
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIII
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Triptych Stitch Sandwich Trip Tip
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH STITCH SANDWICH TRIP TIP
S[w]ing...Heart'S....String
Thoughts.Ch arT......These
In............TempI......Ideas
Taut....... .InstanT....Tempting
Click........TantriC.....Chic
Hear........ SandwicH.Here
triple acrostic written 22 November 2006 revised 23 May 2008
Triptych Stitch Sandwich Trip Tip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP
String on Heart’s skeinS,
Threads tie, Cast, kniT!
In time, Train I
Taut pins In, ouT,
Click clack. TantriC -
Heaven Sends sigH
14 May 1996
robi03_0810_robi03_0000 AXX_IMX
Triptych Stitch Trip poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRIPTYCH ST....ITCH TRIP II
S[tr]ing...H eart’S
Thought C harT
In...........T empI
Taut.......I nstanT
Click......T antriC -
Here......S andwicH
triple acrostic
22 November 2006
robi03_1508_robi03_0000 AQX_IKX
Triptych Stitch Trip II poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
TRYPTICH
Drip, drip, drip, slip trip
trickle ignores Time’s sickle
drop, drop, dropp crypt..tic
24 October 2006 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_1484_robi03_0000 HXX_ZXX
Tryptich poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
POETICAL TRIPTYCH TRICK TRIP
I
Poetry is metamorphosis
Of heart and mind combined, -
Emotions surge to urge osmosis,
To merge what ‘chance’ can find
Revealed behind blind synthesis
Yoking letters neatly lined.
II
Poetry is music by another name,
Or in some manner harmony applied,
Explaining day to day occurrences supplied
To offer eurythmic interpretation game
Responding with logic on magic patter[n] frame.
Yet the alphabetic formula hid inside
Enables one to say one’s peace, with self confide
Much which must, ecstatic, “out”. Emotion’s flame
Outpours feelings plastic, amoeba-like to claim
The victim of elastic interplay to guide
Instincts in search of prey. But, pray, what when the tide
Of energy harmonic falters, who’s to blame?
Not soul but spirit enters into print,
Sends signals out which others’ glasses tint.
III
Poetry: alphabetical exercise linguistical
Overcoming excess, slick success stylistical,
Excluding artifice artistical, puny puristical,
To create with comprehensive characteristical
Respect for rythm, rhyme and meaning meta-magic mystical -
Yet melting emotions alchemistical.
11 September 1995 revised 23 May 2008
robi03_0770_robi03_0000 ASX_IXX
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIII
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dont Quote Me On That
Its all eggs bacon beans and a fried slice.
Did you see the one, yeah yeah,
The one they wrote in the paper just the other day,
Well, well would you believe it,
Well what I said, they took it all the wrong way.
Now youve gotta be careful, bout what you say,
Cos theyve got a bad habit
Were you reading in between the lines?
Or is that what I said? , now I just cant remember
They seem to have a very good memory though
But as far as Im concerned, as as far as Im concerned
You don;t have to be black white, chinese or anything really
Just enjoy, shut up, listen and dance...
Its all eggs bacon beans and a fried slice
Dont quote me on that, dont quote me on that
Dont quote me on that, please dont quote me
Dont quote me on that
Dont quote me on that
Hey hey, you know something, I said I liked that guy,
But thats not what I read in the paper
I dont have anything against them,
Its just eggs bacon and a fried slice
Dont quote me on that dont quote me on that
Dont quote me on that please dont quote me
Dont quoe me on that
Dont quote me on that.
You know, now we get worried about what we say
We shouldnt be that way
You know, I dont care who comes,
Cos as far as Im concerned,
Its, eggs bacon beans and a fried slice
Dont quote me on that
Dontr quote me on that
Please dont quote me
Mama mama, you know Im still friends with mickey
They say I shouldnt like him anymore, because Im all white,
Well hes allright by me
Dont quote me on that
Please dont quote me
Dont quote me on that
Dont quote me on that
Now what I do, I bring all my old friends along to see the show
And if you have the wrong ideas well,
Its all eggs bacon beans and a fried slice
Dont quote me on that oh no
(dont quote me on that)
Please dont quote me
(dont quote me on that)
I never said that
(dont quote me on that)
Thats not what I meant
(dont quote me on that)
Well I suppose you could take it that way
(dont quote me on that)
But thats not what I meant to say
(dont quote me on that)
Wont you give me another chance
(dont quote me on that)
Please please
Dont quote me on that....
Id like to say thank you to pete, peter tosh
And all the other people who come and they believe in us for the fun and the music
Cos all Ive got to say to you press now is
Its all bacon beans and a fried slice
Eggs bacon beans and a fried slive
Go to maggies caff
132 liverpool road
Just down the road, just round the corner
Only theres not much corner
Its just chairs and tables and theyve even got a space invaders machine...
A cup of tea, thats fine for me,
Cos its all eggs bacon beans and a fried slive
Are you sure you turned that tape recorder off?
Are you sure? ,
Are you sure?
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Tribute To Bacon (Bacon the food)
Why does almost everyone like smoky bacon?
It tastes too good be not mistaken, the best thing to eat is great bacon.
They say even vegans like to eat bacon.
Have you heard they've even got chocolate covered bacon!
There is a donut with maple and bacon.
So, ode to pigs who give us great bacon.
And hooray to all who love great smoky bacon.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Lord Is The Ultimate Artist
There's Da Vinci, Dali and Picasso,
They were truly a breed apart,
Either designing or painting on canvas,
Their creations are real works of art.
We had Eddison, Enstein and John Logie Baird,
Their ideas are still with us today,
Everything they achieved is still with us,
They were artists in their own way.
They say Columbus discovered America,
That's a statement which is quite unfair,
When he finally stepped foot on this great land,
There were people already there.
All life on Earth has been gifted with skills,
From the plants to the fish in the seas,
Everything alive has a reason to live,
From human beings to the rain forest trees.
Just look at the wonderful diversity of life,
This was never created by chance,
We insult the creator of life itself,
By continuing this ludicrous stance.
Every living thing on this Earth
Was put here by God for good reasons,
If we lose sight of the fact that God does exist,
We may not see any future seasons.
Life forms are too numerous to mention,
But one thing we must never forget,
Is the reason we were given the gift of life,
If we do it's a decision we'll regret.
If we look at the talents we've been given,
Our creator must have been shrewd,
He gave us the ability to know right from wrong,
We can judge the bad from the good.
Science tries to tell us otherwise,
Yet their origin of life is unknown,
Their ideas change from day to day,
Until another of their theories is blown.
The creator of our wonderful universe,
Is the one we should all applaud,
All the artists and the inventors,
were given their gifts by God.
To create this wondrous environment,
Would have taken the one who is smartest,
Remember his name lest you forget,
'' Our Lord Is The Ultimate Artist ''
Etcetera....
i am seeing what you do not see
they are not invisible, they are real, subject always
to more doubtful
and debatable interpretations
which i think you better not see
because it demeans me
and then i begin to write
this poem, something that you may not like
to understand but just the same
it is here with a lot of doubtful validity,
must this be a poem still? plain word getting into a prelude
of a convoluted thinking failing to give more
landscapes of colors and lines
plain straight lines
like a road, a very long road that you have been walking
all throughout your life
and asking if this is worth the day's troubles
what i see here may demean you too
it has demeaned me
many times in the past and perhaps in the coming days, years,
but i am always seeing it
because it makes me alive
my life worth living,
at times i think that i am a very sinful man
but i raise my eyes to God thanking him that he still makes me live
this sinful life
those that understand me have always been misunderstood too
a sympathizer to sinners
but being misunderstood is a fact
it is human
and i am glad that you are here too
supporting cast
to this human drama
this humanity that screams at times
and then so silent in the sleep
because the soul is too tired
coping up with the mistakes of the body
etcetera....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Deluge Aftermath
Deluge aftermath
lies on a pyre of laughter -
sardonic laughter -
holocryptic in its litter of
charms and pangs of incence.
Deluge aftermath
swears oaths of allegiance to
waning day, refraining from
tales of calm and religious prescience;
it recalls the aftermath of the
Deluge of Noah.
Deluge aftermath
rests with inveterate slumber
earned in the cataract of
puissant vices upon lonesome,
green artifacts of a laconic culture.
Deluge aftermath
looms across the dark visage of
waste,
and atop glow-lines of garden lamps
and posts of decaying flames.
Deluge aftermath
crowns crabs monarchs of floods,
and frogs, adjutants of water regiment,
within breaths of rain.
Deluge aftermath
nubiferous - hanging old shrouds
of weeping clouds on the meek contours of
familiar skies to jeer downward.
Deluge aftermath,
bleaching the whited sepulchers
like elephants killed by lightning
in an unread plague of rain;
unearthing fossils of mosquitoes
about to become fuel,
and tickling the ribs of streams
to laugh and grow fat.
Deluge aftermath
dampens the hearth and the phalli -
two hot and intemperate organs
of warmth and man,
cringing in the event of the
breaking of the huge gourd
sitting on the earth-pillars.
Deluge aftermath -
one small flood for a community
and a giant inundation
for the aftermath of mankind.
poem by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Prelude To A Kiss
Duke ellington / irving gordon / irving mills
If you hear a song in blue like a flower crying for the dew
That was my heart serenading you
My prelude to a kiss
If you hear a song that grows from my tender sentimental woes
That was my heart trying to compose
A prelude to a kiss
Though its just a simple melody with nothing fancy, nothing much
You could turn it to a simphony a schubert tune with a gershwin touch
Oh! how my love song gently cries for the tenderness within your eyes
My love is a prelude that never dies
A prelude to a kiss.
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Emulation
Dependence leads to emulation,
but sadly creativity
demands thereafter separation,
with hypersensitivity
the reason often for defection
of emulator, who betrays
his master by his rude rejection.
Disengaged like divorcés,
regretting the dependence that
had once inspired them both, they lose
their symbiosis and combat
each other with conflicting views,
and claim they always had suspected
the other was far less inspired
than they, and ought to be rejected,
the sell-by date now long expired.
Inspired by an article Holland Cotter on an exhibition of the art of Titian, Tintoreeto and Verones at the Boston Museum of Fine Art (Passion of the Moment: A Triptych of Masters, NYT, March 12,2009) :
The show is about three such personalities: Tiziano Vecellio, or Titian; Jacopo Robusti, known as Tintoretto; and Paolo Caliari, called Veronese. All three shot off sparks as they reforged painting as a medium. And all three had feverishly competitive overlapping careers. These masters of 16th-century Venetian painting were no Holy Trinity. They were a discordant ménage-a-trois bound together by envy, talent, circumstances and some strange version of love. This is the story the exhibition tells through 56 grand to celestial paintings — no filler here, not an ounce of fat — sorted into broad categories (religious images, portraits, belle donne) and arranged in compare-and-contrast couplings and triplings to indicate who was looking at whom, and why, and when. And that story is set against a larger historical narrative that goes something like this. Before the 16th century Italian art was dominated by two cities, Florence and Rome, and by two kinds of painting: fresco and egg tempera — water-based, fast-drying, smooth-surfaced — on wood. Venice lay outside this mainstream. Fresco wasn’t viable in the city’s humid atmosphere; tempera had problems too. Then, at the end of the 15th century, oil painting, still little known in the rest of Italy, was introduced, and Venetian art caught fire….Finally into the arena strode a third giant, and a somewhat gentler one, Veronese (1528-88) . Named for his native city and still in his teens when he hit Venice, he was quickly acknowledged to be a prodigy, fully formed. Titian became the artist he was through long growth, Tintoretto by sifting and synthesizing influences. Veronese was Veronese from Day 1. Ingratiating in manner, he was a painter of fine texture, sweet color and courtly reserve. Patrons who found Tintoretto too outlandish gave Veronese their business; the elderly Titian took him under his wing. And from the 1540s to the 1580s Venetian painting became a three-way dance among these three men, a tricky choreography of emulation and rejection, dependence and separation. You can follow the moves in a cluster of steamy paintings of nudes at the center of the show, installed in a gallery with crimson walls and tasseled curtains. The Titians — the “Danae” from the Capodimonte Museum in Naples, “Venus with an Organist and Dog” from the Prado, “Venus With a Mirror” from the National Gallery of Art in Washington — are stop-and-stare fantastic.
3/13/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mother Earth
The Mother Earth, that many praise, has been tainted by evil ways,
When created by God, it was good, suited for all man’s livelihood.
Created by God sound and pure, created by the Creator to endure,
Saying very good after creating man, all part of God’s lasting plan.
But, when seduced by that snake, God’s plan, man would forsake,
With craft Satan would deceive, both the man and the woman Eve,
With that choice, came a price, as they were forced from Paradise,
The devil continues his evil plan, from Adam and Eve to all of man.
For Satan hasn’t stopped at all, since he led Adam and Eve to fall,
Determined to defame the King, Christ, who reigns over everything.
Filling men’s hearts with self worth, to reason they control the earth,
Suggesting all earth will melt away, if demigods don’t save the day.
For God, these men have no room, as they fill men with utter doom,
Wanting to be a god for those, who don’t believe in Christ who rose.
For one month out of every year, they focus on man’s wrought fear,
And since they despise The Lord, all God’s Truth, is simply ignored.
With all the facts these men read, Eternal Truth they just won’t heed,
For God’s Word will tell them all, God is big and that they are small.
He is not in fear, wringing his hands, as all Eternity He understands,
And knows Mother Earth and its lie, by His Hand, shall eternally die.
(Copyright ©04/2008)
Night workers..
Night is frozen and full of dust,
Nocturnal creatures are out on lust,
Trainee painters colored the earth,
Using the shades of grey at the brush,
A few take the paint in the bucket,
Splatter the darker grey on the forest,
They think to color the rivers of blue,
Adding the grey to the blue, make it dark,
How hard they paint the civilization black,
The lights of men make it bright,
Bored of painting on the roads,
back alleys are pained with what they have,
Forgotten the painting of the sea,
They throw their balance paint and brush into it,
Before they finish the job and get paid,
The cleaner of the earth arrives from the Vacuum,
Sucked in all the dust from the horizon,
The perfectly visible earth emerges,
After the thawing of its all nightly desires.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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