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Poetry of art or art of poetry, that is the question...

ANNA AKHMATOVA ~ IN THE EVENING

in Poetry of Art by

IN THE EVENING  BY ANNA AKHMATOVA

The garden rang with music
Of inexpressible despair.
A dish of oysters spread on ice
Smelled like the ocean, fresh and sharp.

He told me: “I’m a faithful friend!”-
And lightly touched my dress.
How different from embraces
The touch of those two hands.

That’s how one strokes a cat or bird
Or looks at slender lady riders…
Just laughter in his quiet eyes,
Beneath his light gold lashes.

And the despondent voices of the violins
Sing out beyond the hanging smoke:
“Give blessings to heaven above
At last you’re alone with your beloved.”

March 1913

RECLINING FIGURE

in Poetry of Art by

RECLINING FIGURE

Then the knee of the wave

turned to stone

By the cliff of her flank

I anchored.

in the darkness of harbors

laid-by

Henry Moore

Poem by Donald Hall (1928- )

Statue is Reclining Figure (1951) by Henry Moore

Plaster and Figure (Tate Gallery London)

WITH THE RAIN (A REQUIEM) ~ POEM BY WILLIAM (CHILI) GONZALEZ

in My Artist Friends ~ and their creations.../Poetry of Art by

Let me sleep
Leave me be

Let my eyes close
Leave my soul to fade away, forever more

Let me rest in peace
Leave my blood to freeze

Let me travel to the unknown
Leave the body; it’s just flesh and bone

Let my spirit wander in darkness
Leave memories of past in fondness

Burn this coffin, for I am not there
This burden is not for you to bear

Do not lament or shed tears
When serenity comes, I will be near

When you are lonely in silence of night
I will embrace you with all of my might

I will finally be at peace, no pain
How I will miss you, my tears will come with the rain

I am the air and the fog
Take a deep breath, I will feel your heart call

You are not alone, this you must remember
I will always remain, like a dying fire’s ember

In a place of tranquility. Taken away too soon (?)
Do not fear what is in store, what the future holds, do not feel gloom

Night falls again, I walk in the obscure
Never ending love / forever pure

In Memoria M.T.A
MCMXXXIII-MCMXCVII

William (Chili) Gonzalez

MIRAGE ~ POEM BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

in Poetry of Art by

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,

Was but a dream; and now I wake

Exceeding  comfortless, and worn, and old,

For a dream’s sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,

A weeping willow in a lake;

I hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snapt

For a dream’s sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;

My silent heart, lie still and break:

Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed

For a dream’s sake.

Mirage

Charles Conder (1889)

AKOSAH KWADWO ~ THE HEART IS NOT YET SWEET

in Poetry of Art by

And then we added the colors in the rain

The hundred pins in the skeletons of dust

In the dawn and evening

Of the wedding of mourning

In the earth of the harsh country

But if the sun falls

Within you in the years

And the heart is not yet sweet

Let no one touch it

In the how many years of the sun…

Akosah Kwadwo
2012

Painting is A Summer Night, 1890 by Winslow Homer

DANIIL KHARMS ~ ON POETRY

in Poetry of Art by

“One must write poetry in such as way that if one threw the poem in a window, the pane would break.”
― Daniil Kharms
(1905-1942)
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev(Даниил Иванович Юёв) was born in St. Petersburg, into the family of Ivan Yuvachev, a well known member of the revolutionary group, The People’s Will. By this time the elder Yuvachev had already been imprisoned for his involvement in subversive acts against the tsar Alexander III and had become a religious philosopher, acquaintance of Anton Chekhov during the latter’s trip to Sakhalin.

Daniil invented the pseudonym Kharms while attending high school at the prestigious German “Peterschule”. While at the Peterschule, he learned the rudiments of both English and German, and it may have been the English “harm” and “charm” that he incorporated into “Kharms”.rs. It is rumored that he scribbled the name Kharms directly into his passport.

In 1924, he entered the Leningrad Electrotechnicum, from which he was expelled for “lack of activity in social activities”. After his expulsion, he gave himself over entirely to literature. He joined the circle of Aleksandr Tufanov, a sound-poet, and follower of Velemir Khlebnikov’s ideas of zaum (or trans-sense) poetry. He met the young poet Alexander Vvedensky at this time, and the two became close friends and inseparable collaborators.

In 1927, the Association of Writers of Children’s Literature was formed, and Kharms was invited to be a member. From 1928 until 1941, Kharms continually produced children’s works and had a great success.

In 1928, Daniil Kharms founded the avant-garde collective OBERIU, or Union of Real Art. He embraced the new movements of Russian Futurism laid out by his idols, Khlebnikov, Kazimir Malevich, and Igor Terentiev, among others. Their ideas served as a springboard. His aesthetic centered around a belief in the autonomy of art from real world rules and logic, and the intrinsic meaning to be found in objects and words outside of their practical function.

By the late 1920s, his antirational verse, nonlinear theatrical performances, and public displays of decadent and illogical behavior earned Kharms — who always dressed like an English dandy with a calabash pipe — the reputation of being a talented but highly eccentric “fool” or “crazy-man” in Leningrad cultural circles.

Even then, in the late 20s, despite rising criticism of the OBERIU performances and diatribes against the avant-garde in the press, Kharms nurtured a fantasy of uniting the progressive artists and writers of the time (Malevich, Filonov, Terentiev, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Kaverin, Zamyatin) with leading Russian Formalist critics (Tynianov, Shklovsky, Eikhenbaum, Ginzburg, etc.,) and a younger generation of writers (all from the OBERIU crowd—Alexander Vvedensky, Konstantin Vaginov, Nikolai Zabolotsky, Igor Bakhterev), to form a cohesive cultural movement of Left Art. Needless to say it didn’t happen that way.

Kharms was arrested in 1931 together with Vvedensky, Tufanov and some other writers, and was in exile from his hometown (forced to live in the city of Kursk) for most of a year. He was arrested as a member of “a group of anti-Soviet children’s writers”, and some of his works were used as an evidence. Soviet authorities, having become increasingly hostile toward the avant-garde in general, deemed Kharms’ writing for children anti-Soviet because of its absurd logic and its refusal to instill materialist and social Soviet values.

He continued to write for children’s magazines when he returned from exile, though his name would appear in the credits less often. His plans for more performances and plays were curtailed, the OBERIU disbanded, and Kharms receded into a very private writing life.

Source …Good Reads

OCTAVIO PAZ ~ THE LOVE IN LOVE

in Poetical Visions/Poetry of Art by

At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death;
the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens;
the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments;
the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page;
the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses,
for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert;
the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self;
the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors;
the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the
garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought;
the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands;
the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language;
the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love.”
― Octavio Paz

NEIL GAIMAN ~ FRAGILE THINGS

in Poetry of Art/The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by

“She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.

She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.”

Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things

I ~ POEM BY TOM SHELDON

in Poetry of Art by

Know that space dilates with your own breath;
sing out, as a bird in the desert
from the shadowy rafters of its own high perch-
Our senses cannot fathom this darkness, so
learn the transformations through and through
staving off the inevitable is futile, non-efficacious and fruitless
Be the meaning of this strange encounter;
at their crossing, be the glowing center.
Immerse yourself at the precipice
With the words: I am.

Tom Sheldon

I © Copyright Tom Sheldon

A SOUL INSIDE ~ POEM BY MONIQUE LUCY WEBERINK

in My own creations/Poetry of Art/Uncategorized by

For sure you must have a soul
Somewhere there buried inside
With strong metal welded shut tide
You play your mister perfect role

But things are not as they always seem
Fragile are the walls that you keep up
And if I could peak through the cracks
Its all just compromises into extreme

Why don’t you show your true face now
For once lower the wooden painted mask
I beg you to show me your teardrops
All I get is a lonely sounding sough

I admit when you do I might run scared
Your face forward straight and open wide
With eyes as window holes without the glass
It happened right after you no longer cared

Shadows growing on the walls and floors
The room gets dark and a struggle starts
Its following me and freaking me inside out
Paranoid trying to escape via narrow doors

Personal private sufferings took control
You committed suicide of your inner self
I know noble thoughts are fighting inside
just figure out whats wrong with your soul

I want to run away from you for good
To be the one who ditches you hard
Make you feel the same pain and anger
Being the girl who did what she could

Taken your passion and your freedom restrained
Trying to break your soul free from its cage
Bittersweet deep down up till its solid core
but the key to unlock is all that maintained

I am forced to lie, but do whatever it takes
Shorty said, exactly that and not a bit more
Every wise man should know himself to be a foul
To save you even when it takes till day breaks

Its made from paper so there is nothing to destroy
Only delineate it to get it back to the surface
Writing memories down with different colors of ink
Red curves for our love and black words to deploy

Watching the ink lines getting sucked dry
I just elegantly reclaimed my true soul mate
You are not going to take me down again
If erasing is the only option, I wonder why

Then that is what I will do.

Monique Lucy Weberink

February 2012

Odilon Redon

Silence

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