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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4)


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Old 30-01-2014, 19:56
mr. mustard
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Boulevard of Lovers Bar

Down the boulevard of lovers
There's a bar the poor admire;
Here the wanderer uncovers
What’s for free and what’s for hire.

Statuettes of Aesop’s fables,
Bronze illusions on a plinth,
Candles shimmer where the tables
Carry brandy or absinthe.

Blondes who sometimes switch to henna
Lure men, hanging nearby are
Faded scenes of old Vienna,
Prints of Paris by Degas.

And a stage is kept at centre
For the dancing girls to use,
Sensually half-dressed they enter;
This alone explains the queues.

How much is desire at night priced?
Spotlight-hungry legs assure,
Writhing to the final zeitgeist
In the years before the war.

Now the blue dance has proceeded
Down to just a black beret,
In the bar that’s always ceded
To a darker cabaret.


©
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Old 31-01-2014, 06:45
mr. mustard
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It seems a long time coming Biz - it is, for all the Avebury work has taken ages. But I'm determined to get this collection out. I need a large portfolio and it's going to happen this year
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Old 31-01-2014, 17:16
scottie2121
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I'm part of a writing group and we're working on a new collection of work. We've each been allocated a month of the year and mine is January.

I'd welcome any comments & constructive criticism about my draft poem.

Thanks in advance.


January

January wakes with a weary yawn,
a sore head – heavy and hung over
from the year before.

A dead chill holds streets and alleyways,
reluctant to let go, while low clouds loiter
with heavy regret.

Ice clings – a glaze of crystals
holding on for dear dear life,
struggling to surrender.

A drip of water,
the creak of a gate,
a lone bird fluffs out its feathers,
a cat watches.

The air shifts into a slight breeze;
scraps of paper, remnants of last night,
lift then fall.

A curtain shifts and a glazed face
peers out onto a frozen yard,
cast in monochrome.

A turn of the head, a muffled response,
‘Too cold to go out today’. Let things lay
for a final lie-in.

In other homes bodies stir, taps are turned on.
Plumes of vapour rise as houses fire up.
Preparations begin.

January 1, a cold pause before plans form
and thoughts turn from what has gone
to what should be.
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Old 31-01-2014, 22:35
sandydune
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Originally Posted by mr. mustard
I'm off to London tomorrow
I hope you are having a lovely time, it is a little rainy in London, so I hope you brought your brolly
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Old 31-01-2014, 22:41
sandydune
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Originally Posted by scottie2121
January

Ice clings – a glaze of crystals
holding on for dear dear life,
Interesting Scottie, reminds me of ice in a glass as it melts away slowly.
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Old 31-01-2014, 22:51
sandydune
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You be bold

I saw you there in the cold
a look that said you be bold
but in your eyes there was much
of something and of whether such
I wondered why you felt the need
but of course and then indeed
you just did what need to see
and in a way of that to be.
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Old 31-01-2014, 22:52
Biz
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Ooops! I've just noticed the new page.

Boulevard of Lovers Bar

©
Come to the cabaret.

It seems a long time coming Biz - it is, for all the Avebury work has taken ages. But I'm determined to get this collection out. I need a large portfolio and it's going to happen this year.
It sounds a gargantuan task,but I'm sure it will be worth it.
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Old 31-01-2014, 23:03
Biz
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I'm part of a writing group and we're working on a new collection of work. We've each been allocated a month of the year and mine is January.

I'd welcome any comments & constructive criticism about my draft poem.

Thanks in advance.


January
Not being a poet Scottie I'm not one to offer criticism, but your poem reminds me how lucky I am to be tucked up warm on these grey, chilly days.

Musty is the one and as you've probably noticed he is off piste at the moment. Not sure when he'll be back.
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Old 31-01-2014, 23:08
Biz
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You said it Sandy.
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Old 31-01-2014, 23:12
sandydune
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Originally Posted by Biz
You said it Sandy.
Thanks Biz
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Old 02-02-2014, 23:30
mr. mustard
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The air shifts into a slight breeze;
scraps of paper, remnants of last night,
lift then fall.
I always know I'm going to enjoy the material you post Scottie January is no exception. I like the way you list the descriptions verse by verse here - Ice clings, A drip of water etc. The poem also captures that feeling of walking around on the morning after festivities have taken place. I do a lot of solo walking and your observations on things like litter really chimed. Writing about the ordinary things can be hard, but you've taken the mundane and invested it with great interest. That's a trick only good poetry can do.

I hope you are having a lovely time, it is a little rainy in London, so I hope you brought your brolly
I had a splendid time thanks Sandy and it was dry I got fairly sozzled in a pub called The Nag's Head, but I never saw Del-Boy or Trig

you just did what need to see
and in a way of that to be.
You have a totally unique style Sandy and this was lovely, as ever I must re-read Just In Time For Tea again soon.

Musty is the one and as you've probably noticed he is off piste at the moment. Not sure when he'll be back.
I stayed over an extra night Biz 'Tis good to be back though
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Old 03-02-2014, 17:44
sandydune
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Originally Posted by mr. mustard

I had a splendid time thanks Sandy and it was dry I got fairly sozzled in a pub called The Nag's Head, but I never saw Del-Boy or Trig

That's good, did you see Rodney?
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Old 03-02-2014, 17:45
sandydune
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Originally Posted by mr. mustard
You have a totally unique style Sandy and this was lovely, as ever
Thanks
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Old 03-02-2014, 20:28
Biz
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I stayed over an extra night Biz 'Tis good to be back though
The traveller's returned. Hope you had a productive trip.
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Old 03-02-2014, 21:15
mr. mustard
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That's good, did you see Rodney?
Nope, even Uncle Albert was absent Sandy

The traveller's returned. Hope you had a productive trip.
I did thanks Biz A format's been chosen and I'm cutting and pasting like a madman back at Mustard Towers
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Old 05-02-2014, 05:21
mr. mustard
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Leonardo's Last Supper

Tchaikovsky modes and Shelley odes,
The tales of DH Lawrence,
What makes someone pour out the sun
Of genius in torrents?
Italian-glazed a child was raised,
From Vinci close to Florence.

He grew to be a student free
Of shackles from the start,
A mind that brought exclusive thought
To science, not just art;
What nature proved, how bodies moved,
He analysed each part.

Now is the night, by candlelight
Come peer with me into it:
A cultured stage, the scholars' age,
Renaissance minds soared through it,
Yet while the prose of logic rose,
Faith was the main conduit.

Da Vinci's skill increased until
It brought him useful contacts,
A chance to grow, to really show
Art unrestrained and on tracks
Steered by his hand, when chance would land
The greatest of his contracts:

Upon a wall divine and tall,
Dominican and holy
He’d soon record friends with the Lord
Who saved the meek and lowly,
That final meal he would reveal;
The Last Supper grew slowly.

Today the paint is rather faint,
Bright tempera and oil
Are prone to fade, each fresco shade
Soon dulled after the toil,
But surface grime and logic’s climb
Can't permanently spoil.

For pilgrim eyes it's vast in size,
Fifteen by twenty-nine,
As Jesus told his guests of cold
Plain treason down the line,
Enjoyment ceased, it stopped the feast
Of sacred bread and wine.

The moment when His loyal men
Found out, in this portrayal
These twelve are locked in pain and shocked,
Yet Christ was bound to say all;
Their rage and grief show disbelief
At news of His betrayal.

Among the chairs and Christian heirs
Apostle doubt I see,
How did the light of Jesus smite
Their pain and set them free?
The Judas kiss was felled by bliss,
Love ousted treachery.

Although in truth, beyond the proof
In Reason’s dreary file
And all of these conspiracies,
This picture has a style
With more to know, more even so
Than Mona Lisa's smile.

Brush strokes anoint a turning-point,
The Son of Man's affliction,
Where paint adheres with sundry fears
At Jesus's prediction,
From loved ones who would suffer through
The Day of Crucifixion.

What art remains the wall retains
On lower space and upper,
No dirt can grease a masterpiece,
No plague or war can scupper
Da Vinci's gift, all spirits lift
On seeing his Last Supper.


©
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Old 05-02-2014, 16:41
Noe Soap
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Leonardo's Last Supper

Tchaikovsky modes and Shelley odes,
The tales of DH Lawrence,
What makes someone pour out the sun
Of genius in torrents?
Italian-glazed a child was raised,
From Vinci close to Florence.

He grew to be a student free
Of shackles from the start,
A mind that brought exclusive thought
To science, not just art;
What nature proved, how bodies moved,
He analysed each part.

Now is the night, by candlelight
Come peer with me into it:
A cultured stage, the scholars' age,
Renaissance minds soared through it,
Yet while the prose of logic rose,
Faith was the main conduit.

Da Vinci's skill increased until
It brought him useful contacts,
A chance to grow, to really show
Art unrestrained and on tracks
Steered by his hand, when chance would land
The greatest of his contracts:

Upon a wall divine and tall,
Dominican and holy
He’d soon record friends with the Lord
Who saved the meek and lowly,
That final meal he would reveal;
The Last Supper grew slowly.

Today the paint is rather faint,
Bright tempera and oil
Are prone to fade, each fresco shade
Soon dulled after the toil,
But surface grime and logic’s climb
Can't permanently spoil.

For pilgrim eyes it's vast in size,
Fifteen by twenty-nine,
As Jesus told his guests of cold
Plain treason down the line,
Enjoyment ceased, it stopped the feast
Of sacred bread and wine.

The moment when His loyal men
Found out, in this portrayal
These twelve are locked in pain and shocked,
Yet Christ was bound to say all;
Their rage and grief show disbelief
At news of His betrayal.

Among the chairs and Christian heirs
Apostle doubt I see,
How did the light of Jesus smite
Their pain and set them free?
The Judas kiss was felled by bliss,
Love ousted treachery.

Although in truth, beyond the proof
In Reason’s dreary file
And all of these conspiracies,
This picture has a style
With more to know, more even so
Than Mona Lisa's smile.

Brush strokes anoint a turning-point,
The Son of Man's affliction,
Where paint adheres with sundry fears
At Jesus's prediction,
From loved ones who would suffer through
The Day of Crucifixion.

What art remains the wall retains
On lower space and upper,
No dirt can grease a masterpiece,
No plague or war can scupper
Da Vinci's gift, all spirits lift
On seeing his Last Supper.


©
Very good work Musty on a great work of art. Such a poem based on a derscription of paintings is called an ekphrasis apparerently, who'd have thunk it? I did one I'll post again I think I did before. Ffank
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Old 05-02-2014, 16:43
Noe Soap
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Guernica
Here's the painting and background of the painting:

http://youtu.be/nf3Q7gS_YSA

Picasso's painting "Guernica" resounds across the ages,
etching an aerial outrage across World history's pages,
a bombing resurrected with overt dismembered parts
so real in its depictions that an abstruseness departs.
Resemblances of tragic victims are graphically depicted,
a war crime of a brutal State via this genius convicted,
monochrome stark disembodied heads of bull and horse
colour darkly a bloody act by the hands of Fascist force.
A culture shock thumped hard into soft belly of our Art,
sent asprawling to canvas knocked out in mind and heart.

(Frank - an old one revisited here if memory serves).
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Old 05-02-2014, 19:17
mr. mustard
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Such a poem based on a derscription of paintings is called an ekphrasis
Thanks for the feedback and info Frank - though it sounds like something the doctor prescribes cream for

I love the painting Guernica, despite the fact that I'm not a great fan of Picasso. Your poem's a good summary of it and of those bomb-ridden times. We should all be grateful that some great art survived the Hitler and Franco dictatorships. Not forgetting Mussolini either.
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Old 05-02-2014, 21:07
Noe Soap
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(an experiment with this form anagrams included)

How to live cheap he thought

So a single peach he bought

It's worth a coin's throw I trow

Thought he, an archaic wonk

was he to know so old a word

and show his hows and whys

Yet a life's short and time flies.
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Old 06-02-2014, 01:07
mr. mustard
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What a great term I haven't got a chance of solving the anagrams Frank

Clever stuff
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Old 06-02-2014, 18:21
Biz
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Leonardo's Last Supper

Da Vinci's gift, all spirits lift
On seeing his Last Supper.

©
I can visualize it at this very moment Musty.

I can't solve the puzzle either Frank.
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Old 08-02-2014, 18:24
Noe Soap
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(an experiment with this form anagrams included)

How to live cheap he thought
So a single peach he bought

It's worth a coin's throw I trow

Thought he, an archaic wonk

was he to know so old a word

and show his hows and whys

Yet a life's short and time flies.
Sorry to confuse Musty & Biz, anagrams in bold. Frank
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Old 08-02-2014, 18:42
Biz
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Sorry to confuse Musty & Biz, anagrams in bold. Frank
Ahhh! All is clear now Frank - verry clevver.
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Old 10-02-2014, 17:59
Dark Star
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Hi folks I bring a message from Musty: "Connectivity problems here so unable to join you guys until I get it fixed, still working on the book though "
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