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Untitled


Author: LucyDiamond
ASL Info:    17/F/Sky
Elite Ratio:    3.9 - 365 /575 /251
Words: 380
Class/Type: Poetry /Misc
Total Views: 1560
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 2391



Description:


In response to:

“Art is man’s constant effort to create for himself a different order of reality from that which is given to him.” (Attributed to Chinua Achebe, Nigerian novelist and poet.)

It says to write an essay, but I felt a poem worked quite a bit better.

Does it make sense? OR Is it complete nonsense? Please tell me what you think, or point out the tiniest error. It is important. Thank you!


Untitled



Mold me reality
into a painting
I can see and

a picture I can sing;
possibility fly off and away,
but come back with wind of man—

perpetual human—
beneath your wing.
While off on your desperate flight,

find me my man-on-the-moon-
and Starry Night. Find me
a bloom bright and

rich as an O’Keeffe,
a room melting into the sea—
mermaid eventuality.

Don’t let me be simply me,
but the expanse
of possibility! Write your

Ninth Symphony
and share your reality—
loud and pounding in deaf ears.

We have heard the human cry
for ages, and we have drowned in it
for years. I turn pages

and pages of written pictures.
I search for words
of the past wise, my search flies

off on wings of roaming bird.
The swirling, cloudy sky,
the Degas dancers twirling

like a paintbrush in the Irises
of your impressionistic eye.
Cry out in color, mold

your created sight—
escape from being, may you find
your way to man.

The repeated Monroe, the Pop can
of tomato soup—
we all need a break

from the day to day, the monotony
of the two-act play—
the normal way of rendering reality.

Scour the shelf of
the library book, the opera score,
the large open door

leading from here to there—
transcend the habitual stair
that leads to our natural death.

Let the ascent be bent towards
ceiling doors that open
into the evermore—creation emanates

from our eternal core.
Oh, The Persistence of Memory
so sketched into every soul—

the musicians, the painters,
the poets know
the constant effort, the common goal

to make what isn’t what is,
to break from anything real,
take what we feel—to abstract it

in what we may
in the hopes that one day we can
fly through possibility—

creation, freedom—

oh, the joy of man!




Submitted on 2007-11-13 17:45:16     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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Comments


  Very well worded. I've never thought of poetry in terms of painted art. But when you compaired it to an impressionist painting it was like a door opened in my mind. My own writing makes more sense to me when I look at it from that perspective. I'm glad I came across your page.

By the way do you like the beatles? that's what caught my eye. LucyDiamond from sky. Hey I am the Walrus. Haha.
| Posted on 2007-12-11 00:00:00 | by owlman23 | [ Reply to This ]
  i really enjoyed this poem, very well written and lots of vivid images.

from the day to day, the monotony
of the two-act play—
the normal way of rendering reality.
i take it this has to do with marriage,like an artist who gives up on his goal,marries and takes a steady job,surrendering to reality.(remminds me from a line in "howl")

The repeated Monroe, the Pop can
of tomato soup—
we all need a break
i get your meaning although i like pop art,but this could also refer to the music industry, or the film industry, old classics done over and over again.afraid to try something new, afraid of failure.that,s how i understood your poem,
to put it bluntly do your own thing, not what,s expected from you. well i really liked this one, keep it up.
tschüß
gerry
| Posted on 2007-11-15 00:00:00 | by eyeless in gaza | [ Reply to This ]


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