A Wednesday poetry reading /or/ The Artful Blogger

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Guess they gotta good grip on me

Answer to my critics

This popular idea today of writing is something of a distraction. It is hard to escape it’s trappings. Form, style, punctuation, bow down to them and we will love you, publish you, sing your praises. But to write as art is different than all that. Telling you just where to stop and start, which words or syllables to emphasize would be like telling you what to see in a painting. Words have notes, and colors, and scents. They can be drum beats, or paintings, or melodies when put in a certain order. You can taste them, or smell them, even breath them. Sometimes they are sharp and loud and unsettling, other times smooth and flowing. Editors are looking for something that sells, the same ole same ole. I am looking for something that moves, that lives, or dies. Warhol didn’t need a canvas the size of the Sistine Chapel to reach into peoples soul, Jean-Michel Basquiat could intrigue an entire generation with a few letters on a wall, Patti Smith could move a whole city with just one set.  But what my writing means to me is of little importance, what it means to the reader is what counts. All I hope, is that when I am done with one of my works it hits you like the opening riffs to Sweet Jane, or Honky Tonk Women. Or like Kevin Blanch saying “they’ll be calling you a radical”. Now that moves me!.
Love is the answer!

1 Corinthians 13New International Version (NIV)

13 If I speak in the tongues[a] of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,[b] but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. 12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

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A Saturday Poem

[ from afar I fell for you ]

from afar I fell for you
at a distance counted every freckle
the small scar above your pink lip
things that would fool a microscope
I followed from a telescope distance
that cute mole stuck on your shoulder
the sweet crease inside your elbow
the ever slight cowlick above your brow
and that auburn hint in your flowing hair
sights missed by the common uninitiated
I see as lighted billboards flashing constant
decades passed all traces erased
but still your beauty remains
and I fall for you again each day

A Short Love Poem on a Thursday

close breaths draw deep these colors

close breaths draw deep these colors
that shade cool the attraction growing
in sights small want builds it’s castle
where pecks evolve in melting moisture
on fallow ground star dust seedlings
share chilly bumps an intimate soothing

 

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A Sunday Evening Poem

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The Beating Rhythm Psychotic

swirling clockwise the sands surround my head
violently throwing up a black widow brain twister
sucking at the orphaned airborne chattering near by
a taste of green drops, and catches on tongues edge
spit up ascending the ladder of the dark mass growing

yellow woven turnstiles shade broken mirrors blushing
few castaways survive the blue sharp edged slivers
a cutting positioned high slicing multiple hard wares
shaved metal showers fire the gears to slow grinding
hot the forging casts an orange tint inside quick lightning

skull bobbing and nodding a whitish poultice oozes out
backwards talking carnies run this shaky festival booth
the show, a perpetually moving storm of three card Monte
red the queen traveling veins of this tornadic spun tempest
to fall in monster hail stones pounding out the beating rhythm

A Poem for a Sunday

Please check out my poem published today at Dissident Voice, and give it a like and share while there.

http://dissidentvoice.org/2017/06/my-white-privileged-poetry/

many blessings

Rob

 

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