poetry-art18.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
The Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock - Wallace Stevens. Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Disillusionment of Ten o' Clock. The houses are haunted. None are green,. Or purple with green rings,. Or green with yellow rings,. Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange,. With socks of lace. People are not going. To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor,. Drunk and asleep in his boots,. Catches tigers In red weather.
poetry-art19.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
The Shiva-Shakti story demonstrates that pure consciousness is placid, empty yet full and content at the same time, until creation stirs and then all the trouble begins! Perhaps this is what Stevens refers to, in relation to himself as Shiva, disturbed by some creative urge or inspiration: 'the indian struck and disappeared. / I knew my enemy was near - i, / drowsing in summer's sleepiest horn.' When the creative urge strikes, the poet must be roused to work. Peace and sleep are over. In. The Indian stru...
poetry-art20.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). 13 ways poem in new media. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. Among twenty snowy mountains,. The only moving thing. Was the eye of the blackbird. I was of three minds,. In which there are three blackbirds. The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. A man and a woman. A man and a woman and a blackbird. I do not know which to prefer,. The beauty of inflections. Or the beauty of innuendoes,. Icicles filled the long window. In what I know.
poetry-art21.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Connected with the moon. Who have lived longer. Run to capture it. This subtle sort of thing that. Doesnt happen every night. I'm. Not interested. Everything I care for. Happens all the time. It's the way you walk. If you dont like. That it's the way you. Talk Or any other. Rimes with the ordinary sun. This is my best deal:. Yourself exactly as you are. Or anything at all the way it is. Watermark template. Powered by Blogger.
poetry-art22.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). The green that grows from me depletes my soil,. Is not variety, does not mulch down. A complement of intimate support. Growth. Stands between me and the sun, the branches. Repeat endlessly the same ideas, the same form. Rain comes through, I get the leach of it. Colored by monotonous unstable leaves. I thought these feelings into place and now. Feelings have no place to thing their own. The tree trunk is will, skeleton of earlier design.
poetry-art23.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). What Do Women Want? I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap,. I want it too tight, I want to wear it. Until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless,. This dress, so no one has to guess. What's underneath. I want to walk down. The street past Thrifty's and the hardware store. With all those keys glittering in the window,. Past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old. Donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers. I want to walk like I'm the only.
poetry-art24.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Creation of Man detail. Michaelangelo, Sistine Chapel. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). A hand is not four fingers and a thumb. Nor is it palm and knuckles,. Not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow,. Not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins. A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines. With their infinite dramas,. Nor what it has written,. Not on the page,. Not on the ecstatic body. Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping—. Not sponge of rising yeast-bread,. Not rotor pin's smoothness,.
poetry-art25.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Skeleton Pirate with Ghost Ship. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Ghost in the Land of Skeletons. I answered, every day. He laughed at that and disappeared. All I could think was he beat me to it. Watermark template. Powered by Blogger.
poetry-art4.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Just outside the frame. There has to be a dog. Chickens, cows and hay. Where a ham in hickory. Is also being preserved. Here for all time. The borders of the Gothic window. The tines of the pitchfork. And front and center. The long faces, the sober lips. Above the upright spines. Arrested in the name of art. The sun this high. Instead they linger here. Within the patient fabric. Of the lives they wove. He asking the artist silently. And worrying about the crops. She no less concerned about the crops.
poetry-art5.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
Matisse: "The Red Studio". There is no one here. But the objects: they are real. It is not. As if he had stepped out or moved away;. There is no other room and no. Returning. Your foot or finger would pass. Through, as into unreflecting water. Red with clay, or into fire. Still, the objects: they are real. It is. As if he had stood. Still in the bare center of this floor,. His mind turned in in concentrated fury,. Like a great beast sinking into sands. Slowly, and did not look up. His own room drank him.
poetry-art7.blogspot.com
Poetry/Art
The Parable of the Blind. This horrible but superb painting. The parable of the blind. In the composition shows a group. Each other diagonally downward. To stumble finally into a bog. And the composition ends back. Of which no seeing man. Is represented the unshaven. Features of the des-. Titute with their few. Pitiful possessions a basin. To wash in a peasant. Cottage is seen and a church spire. The faces are raised. As toward the light. There is no detail extraneous. To the composition one.
