Matisse said “I couldn’t stand it anymore”
perhaps in that moment Denouement
occurred.
the claims of the slaves are set aside;
the nude will descend the staircase all at once
She says;
-- ”I want you to love me
beat me
I want to be blue"
time is discrete lavender
sweet
the crowd breathes
every thing is wet
moves hands swift
slaves cannot locate
the queen of hearts
on the small black bubble.
this is not my face she says
wanking rhythmically on the floor
as the eyes dissolve .
falling light will change
and with it everything become confused
Jongleur a tumbler gives way before the task
who is not mad will be made so;
the strings twisted, thick with wax.
a serpent's skin is shed
mottled with prophecy
street lamps marry eyes
Eyes fill up rooms.
“There was no murder here,”
says an Inspector.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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An interesting read, thank you. Bits of it are still cryptic to me, and I may come back to it after it has dropped off the feature list.
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Nicely done and full of deep thought. Pen on...
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MNFLP.
Here are some words I wish to share here from Mr. Faure:
Every time that a great event happens in history, we expect to see "men changed" -- morally of course. But so long as men have stomachs, and sexual organs, which may for a long time yet, they will not change. The drama has its function to reveal, for a lifetime or for a century, to some men, sometimes to whole peoples, the depths of the lyric universe and the frightful heroism of their hopeless destiny. It creates the poet. That is all. And the whole of history does not unfold itself, according to my opinion, except as the work of a poet or as the life of a powerfully imaginative man, in successive crises of life, divided by more or less feverish states of repose, in which criticism and dissociation succeed to concentration and creative enthusiasm to prepare for another leap forward toward the reconquered illusion.
When one knows, and feelsm and believes, this suffering does not matter. It is the fatal passage from one joy to another. To justify the cruelty of amorous courtship and the laceration of the maternal belly, it suffices that a child should be born. It suffices that a poem should leap from the heart of the artist in order to justify the moral tortures which his thirst for the absolute imposes upon him. It suffices that a lyric world should leap from the breast of a great people to justify the carnage of war or the fury of a revolution. Whoever consents to this is free. He who does not consent is a slave. Humanity will never, doubtless, cease to revolve in that tragic circle of which it cannot admit the necessity without failing in the eyes of the just man who imagines himself leading it on, nor can humanity deny the same necessity without the risk of falling into habit and weariness. Every step in advance is provoked by poets, whose work suffices in order to show the love of order, harmony and peace .... and that which stirs up the poets is precisely disorder, massacre, chaos.
.......For Emerson, there are three kinds of men, the abstract thinker, the materialist and the skeptic, who act as the beam of the balance to put both in accord. I envisage a fourth, the lyrical artist, he who uplifts skepticism to the height of God Himself by magnifying, in laughter or song, in fresco or symphony, in temple or dance, all that is. He is the real liberator of the most noble of men, but it appears to me more and more clearly that in order to liberate men it is necessary to the mechanism of society itself and of intelligence, that there should be slaves. Believe me, all is well, the passions and those whom passions kill, those whom the exercise of passions enlightens, and those who do not give in and he who sneers every time an idea appears, and he who sacrifices himself that an idea may live, and he who, in order that his idea may life, sacrifices millions. Jesus would not have been Jesus without Judas and Caiaphas, nor two thousand years of war without Jesus nor the hope of peace without two thousand years of war. The sea, the ships that sail upon it, the fires upon the banks, represent our destiny.
from the dance over fire and water.
I will return with a comment about how this poem makes me "feel" later. Wanted to share ( and I don't know, maybe I have shared this before? If so, l'm dumb.
I do really like this -- it "uses" those pieces of art to show mankind's the struggle between the slave mind and the free mind somehow but the answer is never really so easy neat and clean -- is it?
Good poem. I can't think of anything to change at present and don't get why the spelling is an issue -- i like the twist to canto Jondo.
( my mind goes from Matisse, duChamp to Picasso in those tumbling lines...)
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well done
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Now now, Lutie ...
You cannot believe this, but you did not take me to LORCA or to the flamenco, but to the deep song of sorrow ... on losing a ping ... on the Internet!
Please do not think me mad, but slaves let me think of inter-webbing and well, NET BIOS.
*sigh*
I cannot take it anymore too.
But then: I shall have to endure all the intermittent tentacles and shall have to be poetic on all levels, if I want to be a Poet within all Dimensions.
satellite cannot light up
a room
by eyes can
Blessed be, Poet -- I shall gladly go insane if that will make me understand your mood.
Myra
Ps. Of course ... without a body, murder cannot be proven.
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Like this. But, isn't it cant[e] jondo you mean?
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a good piece of poetry which flows smoothly along, though the poem could do with an edit with spelling the message is strong
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I wanted to go get Dan Brown's book and see if there was a mention of Matisse because I kept getting the Da Vinci Code each time I reached the final stanza's and ended up looking for the creepy dude from Opus Dei with the blood red eyes...I need an aspirin again
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GRIN
I love reading your comments on these Lutie poems.
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lol Dear Myra if I make you smile and probably him cringe lol then I have achieved one out of two
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