1269 Arts and sciences poems

Can’t hear things well if they are things whispering. Nothing gentle to hand on back of hand. A horsehair bow across gut string. A heart is a physical object singing in the chest. Chamber doors oxygenating blood rushing through. Salmon through river climb. When one writes of light as a painted smile across face. You call bullshit to the interpretation. A post re-posted significant meme image locked to words. Speak of Soul? Sounds like a grifter’s hustle. Don’t do it. Anyways, you try to place yourself into the nature poetry experience. In your nature placement, you’re constantly thinking of how you don’t like to shit outdoors. You like a toilet throne and a stall and toilet tissue. Your mind ruins beautiful poetry expressions by expressions before a flush. Yes, if you see a nature painting you ponder a spot to express self. Think of hole digging and burial afterward. A courtesy thing. Some mass crushing flowers. Or smeared across a granite slope. Is not a waterfall one constant flush? You mean, if you were to see this world through black-light vision, knowing everything covered in shit , this planet would be a beautiful glow.

Of Mina-sarpilili-anda II, the only surviving record is this splendid bas-relief in which he presses the neck of his Hittite foe beneath one battle-shod foot while minions shoulder the spoils of a conquered city. In fact there was no war that year; a bored stone-carver was looking for preferment. He received an allowance of good wine. In a perfumed cloud of dust that loitered over the plain, Hittite ambassadors came to the king with golden bells and rosewater candy, birds in cages and spotted cats, and departed in peace. The king was beloved, laughed often, feared nothing, and died in his bed of poison. A carnelian image of his second-best wife, accurate to the last mole, was plucked from the dirt by a boy tending goats, sold, and spirited out of the country, rolled in a rug, on a ship that sank on a cloudless day. An image of his first wife, in chrysoprase, lies tightly packed in buried rubble for the next generation of archaeologists— should they prove worthy, persistent, and slyer than goatherds.

Philip Gallo is a typographer-poet, or "typoet," and his work depends on the careful alignment of simple words for its effects. "untitled" makes reference to the concrete poetry of the middle of the twentieth century. Diter Rot, whose name serves as the central text of this poem, was famous for a number of rigid typographical poems, including one that played with the letters "t" and "u" to produce, in varying ways, the words "tu" (you) and "ut" ("do" on the musical scale). Gallo's poem also appears to allude to "ping pong" by Eugen Gomringer, another early concrete poet.—Geof Huth More About Visual Poetry >>

derek beaulieu often works at the edges of language, using isolated letters to create visual, instead of verbal, patterns and deconstructing found texts to tease out hidden meanings. His "untitled (for Natalee and Jeremy)," produced for two of his friends, is either a visual poetry epithalamium or simply a joyous celebration of the physical beauties of lettershape and writing. The resulting poem, which is created with press-on type, gains most of its effects from the repetition of identical letters, visual poetry's equivalent to rhyme, consonance, and assonance.—Geof Huth More About Visual Poetry >>

Elle’s writing her book of wisdom. She writes until she cannot hold her pen. The labyrinth miraculously is uncovered. An American woman’s progressing on her knees. She read something but not Elle’s book. No one will read Elle’s book. I walk the circular path, first the left side, then the right, casting petals to the north, east, south, and west (this intuitively). A diminutive prelate shoos me away. When he leaves, I return to the center. The organist, practicing, strikes up Phantom. Elle says she cannot hear him. Elle! I cry,I cannot see you. I had prayed Death spare you. Remember our meal among the termites of Arcadia Street, that cottage of spirits with its riddled beams and long veranda bordered by plantain trees, and the spiral you traced for me on scrap-paper? I kept it for such a long time. The organist, of course, is playing Bach. A boy has scattered the petals I threw. Elle’s voice surrounds me. The quiet hills I lift mine eyes.

Within this sober frame expect Work of no foreign architect; That unto caves the quarries drew, And forests did to pastures hew; Who of his great design in pain Did for a model vault his brain; Whose columns should so high be rais’d To arch the brows that on them gaz’d. Why should of all things man unrul’d Such unproportion’d dwellings build? The beasts are by their dens exprest, And birds contrive an equal nest; The low roof’d tortoises do dwell In cases fit of tortoise-shell; No creature loves an empty space; Their bodies measure out their place. But he, superfluously spread, Demands more room alive than dead; And in his hollow palace goes Where winds as he themselves may lose. What need of all this marble crust T’impark the wanton mote of dust, That thinks by breadth the world t’unite Though the first builders fail’d in height? But all things are composed here Like nature, orderly and near; In which we the dimensions find Of that more sober age and mind, When larger sized men did stoop To enter at a narrow loop; As practising, in doors so straight, To strain themselves through Heaven’s gate. And surely when the after age Shall hither come in pilgrimage, These sacred places to adore, By Vere and Fairfax trod before, Men will dispute how their extent Within such dwarfish confines went; And some will smile at this, as well As Romulus his bee-like cell. Humility alone designs Those short but admirable lines, By which, ungirt and unconstrain’d, Things greater are in less contain’d. Let others vainly strive t’immure The circle in the quadrature! These holy mathematics can In ev’ry figure equal man. Yet thus the laden house does sweat, And scarce endures the master great, But where he comes the swelling hall Stirs, and the square grows spherical; More by his magnitude distress’d, Then he is by its straightness press’d, And too officiously it slights That in itself which him delights. So honour better lowness bears, Than that unwonted greatness wears; Height with a certain grace does bend, But low things clownishly ascend. And yet what needs there here excuse, Where ev’ry thing does answer use? Where neatness nothing can condemn, Nor pride invent what to contemn? A stately frontispiece of poor Adorns without the open door; Nor less the rooms within commends Daily new furniture of friends. The house was built upon the place Only as for a mark of grace; And for an inn to entertain Its lord a while, but not remain. Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may, Or Billbrough, better hold than they; But nature here hath been so free As if she said leave this to me. Art would more neatly have defac’d What she had laid so sweetly waste; In fragrant gardens, shady woods, Deep meadows, and transparent floods.

i look into the noise          mouth paper thin my tongue a scatter of forgotten belongings extinguishes the heat of home *once, my mother plagued a painting       swept oceanic throughout the dreams of a brown man in lower manhattan         three years later           she sun rose in california        swan dove into an oblique woman there are days i forget my name my name  i forget my claim    this kind of fire       that strikes black bodies into fever spliff        clean        cleaner, still   ain’t no mountain of needles or glass        pipes large enough to tow away my body       today, my mouth is a tomb      of the things people forget      such a power my maw, this spill wonder, this rapture of psalm      ain’t no way             I let the sun                      set us afire        again

for Walt Whitman Besides the obvious technological and architectural advances, only one thing has really changed between our generations: We now live in an America where blacks are not only allowed the right to vote but can become the Redeemer President of the United States Otherwise, we still live in an America where the audacity to openly enjoy the pleasures of sex and being respected for wisdom are contradictions without reconciliation We still live in an America where the economy collapses while the masses are consumed with preventing the rights of anyone with a fancy for anything out of the ordinary We still live in an America where rotting leaves, tufts of straw, and debris are found in more homes than poetry books We still live in an America where Christ and Dracula provide both excitement and fear for restless lives longing for a simple touch We still live in an America where the impact of urbanization reaches out to the common person more than the obscene nature of poetry We still live in an America where writing about prostitution is considered trashy and profane We still live in an America where poets have to work while publishing to survive financial difficulty unless they are fashioned like Shakespeare We still live in an America where, unless you belong to a church, you are a religious skeptic believing in nothing We still live in an America where overt sexuality, siding with the barnburners, and authoring disreputable books limit poets to a vagabond lifestyle We still live in an America where breaking tradition and the boundaries of poetic form are considered the trademarks of a pretentious ass We still live in an America where everything from thieves to dwarfs to fog to beetles deserve validity We still live in an America where books cannot prevent war and the sick and wounded need healing We still live in an America where not everyone can appreciate the beauty of immigration, crowded streets, brutal differences, urban affection We still live in an America where the same sun that once invigorated your passion continues to provide us with the beauty of life worth fighting for We still live in an America where America still lives in us

rilke’s separation the unusual rilke and the usual rilke are stuck in their sameness the unusual rilke and the usual rilke would have stayed together the unusual rilke and the usual rilke would have to separate the unusual rilke and the usual rilke both knew it rilke’s breath 1 rilke breathed the air the good air 2 rilke breathed without pause rilke’s nose entrance and exit of the air it knew stench scent aroma handkerchief sniffles rilke’s name rilke said he when asked for his name rilke one said when asked for his name or never heard of him rilke, unrhymed rilke said he then he said cuke then quietly cloud rilke’s boat taking a stroke sitting there sitting there taking a stroke rilke’s drawer 1 he pulled out the drawer he put something in something was in there he pushed in the drawer 2 he pulled out the drawer something was in there he took something out he pushed in the drawer 3 he pulled out the drawer nothing was in there he put nothing in he left the drawer open rilke’s chest 1 he lifted up the lid he put something in something was in there he shut the lid 2 he lifted up the lid something was in there he took something out he shut the lid 3 he lifted up the lid nothing was in there he put nothing in he left the chest open rilke’s shoe rilke’s shoe was one of two each shoe of rilke’s was one of two rilke in shoes always wore two calf to calf stood rilke jutting up from his shoes rilke’s window he opened the window stuck his head out pulled his head in closed it he opened the window morning air rushed in evening air night air he closed the window rilke’s glass rilke took a glass filled it with water lifted it to his mouth drank rilke’s hand rilke’s hand and rilke’s hand hanging by his side rilke’s hand in rilke’s hand the one in the other rilke’s hand in the hand of another greeting him rilke’s hand at rilke’s mouth sensing it there rilke in conversation someone asks rilke answers rilke asks someone answers neither is very happy about it neither is very sad rilke’s reward this now was his reward nobody was certain what he meant rilke wept rilke’s contradiction and yet small and white and yet big and black and yet small and black and yet big and white and yet small and big and yet white and black and yet small and black and yet big and small and black rilke’s eyes rilke opened his eyes everything was visible nothing was invisible rilke shut his eyes nothing was visible everything was invisible rilke opened his eyes nothing was invisible everything was visible rilke shut his eyes nothing was visible nothing was invisible rilke’s weight rilke is being relieved of his weight so roughly does the earth raise her son Translated from the German

Half-ended melodies are purer. To no longer perform in broad daylight, the apple’s a radish for it, the winter chill a living thing. But take your brother into later learning: Let the girls who will smell the buried cloves there. So I am only beginning to learn what I from time to time forget. But throw away these childish things! Barney’s coffin disappeared, and luckily you said the right thing for the sky mentioned for the last time. The little master of small talk is really the seducer of your every move, taking you into his confidence the way a cat his mouse. And still young Lycidas cannot express himself fully. And: “Everyone is the same,” even down to his jockey shorts,dolce far niente, as they say.