Poetry competition CLOSED 16th June 2015 2:58am
WINNER
MadameLavender
MadameLavender
Poems about other artistic expressions
Poetry Contest Description
Go One Deeper!
I am curious what ya'll can come up with for this competition. I would like you to write a poem about another artistic expression. So essentially I would like you to use poetry to serve as a second hand source about a sculpture, drawing, music performance, etc.. Or you may look at is as art inception 
old or new. one or more.
old or new. one or more.
'Rite of Spring’ (Stravinsky)
there is a madness in the music.
the madness of rebellious composers, & of poets.
of lovers, & of those who suffer for believing
there is a place beyond obscurity.
L’Adoration de la Terre:
there is rage in the choreography.
the dancers profess their pagan adoration
of Spring, mistress of renewal.
they dance a sexual frenzy, in thrall to Gaia.
their dementia deviates into terpsichore,
as their king kneels & kisses the earth.
Le Sacrifice:
the ballerinas arrive from the river.
they are lithe & lovely, as ballerinas are,
clothed in peasant tunics, torn & form-fitting.
& the fairest of these becomes the ‘chosen.’
but the primitive dance steps, lacking the grace & fluidity
of traditional ballet, are met with disdain by the audience.
(who are we to judge?
we are human parodies in a penny opera.)
in the final movement, the girl dances
because the gods demand it.
her maneuvers are contorted, & energetic,
almost ugly, & exquisitely beautiful.
until the intensity of it ravages her,
& she lay upon the stage…& does not move.
it is the music
& the dancing
& the beauty
that killed her.
(the way of all art)
there is a madness in the music.
the madness of rebellious composers, & of poets.
of lovers, & of those who suffer for believing
there is a place beyond obscurity.
L’Adoration de la Terre:
there is rage in the choreography.
the dancers profess their pagan adoration
of Spring, mistress of renewal.
they dance a sexual frenzy, in thrall to Gaia.
their dementia deviates into terpsichore,
as their king kneels & kisses the earth.
Le Sacrifice:
the ballerinas arrive from the river.
they are lithe & lovely, as ballerinas are,
clothed in peasant tunics, torn & form-fitting.
& the fairest of these becomes the ‘chosen.’
but the primitive dance steps, lacking the grace & fluidity
of traditional ballet, are met with disdain by the audience.
(who are we to judge?
we are human parodies in a penny opera.)
in the final movement, the girl dances
because the gods demand it.
her maneuvers are contorted, & energetic,
almost ugly, & exquisitely beautiful.
until the intensity of it ravages her,
& she lay upon the stage…& does not move.
it is the music
& the dancing
& the beauty
that killed her.
(the way of all art)
Pimp With A Slow Southern Drawl
my other craft of expertise
is pimping women down to their knees
I do it like a hot wind on a cool summer breeze
nobody is pimping the business like me
women love conversation
they love to talk and talk on and off vacation
don't compliment them with unnecessary flattery
women love to hear the sound of their own chattery
on the same day you can get them naked
sucking your balls and swallowing your babies
pimping ain't nothing but orange juice
I stopped pimping because it's old sour news
I'm focusing on fiction and writing a novel
about a heroine who knows no tomorrow
so don't ask me for advice how to pimp it out
I stopped pimping southern belles in the South
now I'm just in solitary confinement
trying to find peace of mind in the mindless
my other craft of expertise
is pimping women down to their knees
I do it like a hot wind on a cool summer breeze
nobody is pimping the business like me
women love conversation
they love to talk and talk on and off vacation
don't compliment them with unnecessary flattery
women love to hear the sound of their own chattery
on the same day you can get them naked
sucking your balls and swallowing your babies
pimping ain't nothing but orange juice
I stopped pimping because it's old sour news
I'm focusing on fiction and writing a novel
about a heroine who knows no tomorrow
so don't ask me for advice how to pimp it out
I stopped pimping southern belles in the South
now I'm just in solitary confinement
trying to find peace of mind in the mindless
Tuesday Night Jazz Club
Carol-Lee sits in her favorite chair, wearing
her aura like the blue-haloed smoke rings, congregating
overhead, as if transparent thoughts, or
souls, flocking around
the bar-flies.
"Another scotch!"
And one slides out from oblivion, amidst
the take-15 chatter,
to husky-up her voice for the next set.
More faces float in from the dark, and
Carol-Lee shifts, the sparkles like pin-dots on
her taffeta and crinolines, moving obediently with her
as she drains her glass, ice
cubes clinking their applause at the last drops
of liquor, sliding away.
She reclaims the stage, while outside, the
glow of gas lamps, light the dusky passers-by,
a million moons, lining
the sidewalks of eternal jazz, and a lone
saxophonist, case opened on the pavement, softly
plays along with Carol-Lee, offering quiet notes, drifting
into the night.
Carol-Lee sits in her favorite chair, wearing
her aura like the blue-haloed smoke rings, congregating
overhead, as if transparent thoughts, or
souls, flocking around
the bar-flies.
"Another scotch!"
And one slides out from oblivion, amidst
the take-15 chatter,
to husky-up her voice for the next set.
More faces float in from the dark, and
Carol-Lee shifts, the sparkles like pin-dots on
her taffeta and crinolines, moving obediently with her
as she drains her glass, ice
cubes clinking their applause at the last drops
of liquor, sliding away.
She reclaims the stage, while outside, the
glow of gas lamps, light the dusky passers-by,
a million moons, lining
the sidewalks of eternal jazz, and a lone
saxophonist, case opened on the pavement, softly
plays along with Carol-Lee, offering quiet notes, drifting
into the night.
Despair
I
Have
Come
To
Very
Firmly
Believe.
A
Piece
Of
Art —
Whether
Music,
Painting,
Writing,
Dance —
Whatever.
Is
Never
Truly
Finished.
Rather
Its
Creator,
In
Final
Anguish
Of
Never
Getting
It
Exactly
Right —
Abandons
It.
In
Despair.
I
Have
Come
To
Very
Firmly
Believe.
A
Piece
Of
Art —
Whether
Music,
Painting,
Writing,
Dance —
Whatever.
Is
Never
Truly
Finished.
Rather
Its
Creator,
In
Final
Anguish
Of
Never
Getting
It
Exactly
Right —
Abandons
It.
In
Despair.
Art has died
Sliced and diced
By modernism cynical hand.
Or drowned in a bath,
With the pretentious posturing
of absurd conceptualism.
What would Van Gogh do?
Probably pluck out an eyeball!!!
And sew an ear to his head.
Everything is a metaphor for our existence(yawn)
or the construct for some mildly interesting
philosophical concept(double yawn).
Art is dead my friend
Art is dead
Shot in the face,
At close range.
With twelve bore gauge.
It's remains posted to the kardashians
To use as a pillow,
For their well manicured asses.
Art is dead my friend.
Ierapetra 2014
ON TWO ASPECTS OF 20th & 21st CENTURY'S MUSIC (interrelated, me thinks)
1. MUSIC MINIMALISM (I)
The European challenge
Was serious and severe,
Impossible to match it,
Or come anywhere near.
Its social background,
Its inner mechanism,
Trying to forget about them,
Invent minimalism.
As long as farts sound different,
In every miniature,
There is a sense of newness,
Even if it's manure.
You may invent new names,
Music you couldn't invent,
Just crying out loudly,
Creates an event.
2. FUSION BREEDING CONFUSION
This "Global Village" music fusion
in stadium or in concert hall
it is a matter of confusion,
to the musicians most of all.
The band is playing jingoistic,
the orchestra sounds Javanese,
the rock stars ever egoistic,
listeners worship on their knees.
This universal disco sound
on rhythmic Japanese machine,
our music culture, newly found,
as mach pathetic as obscene.
Plebian taste, glorified,
everything goes in the same pot,
Bach and Beethoven stand defied,
all you can say is "Why not?"
There goes again the chant, medieval,
with salsa rhythm in the background,
the lager louts in upheaval,
excited by this "new sound."
String section on single chord, sustaining,
the lead guitarist pedal-hooked,
my ears more or less abstaining,
this recipe sounds overcooked.
I've seen young kids doing it better,
not really knowing what they do,
at least they're honest to the letter,
they have been screwed, so now they screw.
The only thing being fucked is sound,
musical sound, once a bliss,
but what goes round must come round,
and then I'll say "I told you this."
*****
Oh, that's a style modulation!
Wonder what else is in the bag,
Aeolian mode, what an elation,
mistaken for an Indian rag!
Is this what you call "Ethnic Style",
ignoring nations been involved?
Hindus or Greeks would simply smile,
simple equations, still unsolved.
Before you know your own tradition
you borrow music from Maghreb,
as if that was the sole condition
for been admired on the Web.
You print publicity material,
before you know how to play,
uploading in youtube your serial,
keeping true music far at bay.
The funniest thing is theorizing,
each species has its own guru,
his ignorance just emphasizing,
taken as wisdom, pulls him through.
fusing musak with roaring croud,
techno-latino-disco-rap,
the corpse of music on the ground,
21st century sound crap.
Curse of this art, ethnic musician,
you may suspect that I'm elite,
I'm nothing but strait logician,
who knows true music from bullshit.
Plebian taste, easy going,
for healthy ears simple to spot,
the writing on the wall is showing,
I've had enough, I've heard the lot.
ON TWO ASPECTS OF 20th & 21st CENTURY'S MUSIC (interrelated, me thinks)
The European challenge
Was serious and severe,
Impossible to match it,
Or come anywhere near.
Its social background,
Its inner mechanism,
Trying to forget about them,
Invent minimalism.
As long as farts sound different,
In every miniature,
There is a sense of newness,
Even if it's manure.
You may invent new names,
Music you couldn't invent,
Just crying out loudly,
Creates an event.
2. FUSION BREEDING CONFUSION
This "Global Village" music fusion
in stadium or in concert hall
it is a matter of confusion,
to the musicians most of all.
The band is playing jingoistic,
the orchestra sounds Javanese,
the rock stars ever egoistic,
listeners worship on their knees.
This universal disco sound
on rhythmic Japanese machine,
our music culture, newly found,
as mach pathetic as obscene.
Plebian taste, glorified,
everything goes in the same pot,
Bach and Beethoven stand defied,
all you can say is "Why not?"
There goes again the chant, medieval,
with salsa rhythm in the background,
the lager louts in upheaval,
excited by this "new sound."
String section on single chord, sustaining,
the lead guitarist pedal-hooked,
my ears more or less abstaining,
this recipe sounds overcooked.
I've seen young kids doing it better,
not really knowing what they do,
at least they're honest to the letter,
they have been screwed, so now they screw.
The only thing being fucked is sound,
musical sound, once a bliss,
but what goes round must come round,
and then I'll say "I told you this."
*****
Oh, that's a style modulation!
Wonder what else is in the bag,
Aeolian mode, what an elation,
mistaken for an Indian rag!
Is this what you call "Ethnic Style",
ignoring nations been involved?
Hindus or Greeks would simply smile,
simple equations, still unsolved.
Before you know your own tradition
you borrow music from Maghreb,
as if that was the sole condition
for been admired on the Web.
You print publicity material,
before you know how to play,
uploading in youtube your serial,
keeping true music far at bay.
The funniest thing is theorizing,
each species has its own guru,
his ignorance just emphasizing,
taken as wisdom, pulls him through.
fusing musak with roaring croud,
techno-latino-disco-rap,
the corpse of music on the ground,
21st century sound crap.
Curse of this art, ethnic musician,
you may suspect that I'm elite,
I'm nothing but strait logician,
who knows true music from bullshit.
Plebian taste, easy going,
for healthy ears simple to spot,
the writing on the wall is showing,
I've had enough, I've heard the lot.
Why is it that the real artists never get played on the radio. ever hear Sonic Youth on 104.5 or 103.7
When i get any sort of 90's throwback on vh1 i am literally no pun intended head over heels
mybe play some of the spectacular shit.
this is why i like vinyl.
When i get any sort of 90's throwback on vh1 i am literally no pun intended head over heels
mybe play some of the spectacular shit.
this is why i like vinyl.
Anonymous
a pseudo-poetic prolix of disconnected thoughts ~ [//patchwork poetry cut & paste//]
the incomparable zdzisław beksiński*
[an oldie, posted under my "shadoe" profile so i'm not ripping myself off]
oneiric aspirations suffocate
in the half-light of
quarter truths
sloughing from the pulpit
of tongues nailed
to dilapidated roofs ~
.. how long has it been
since you fucked conformity
& pierced the sensitivity
of your ajna
to release
a stream of consciousness
unabridged
uncensored
unrestrained [?]
.
.
.
tear the skin
from my mediocrity
& strip it from bones
cocooning surreal terrors ~
... unravel the stitched seams
[seems i want
to spill from myself
out
into
the vermillion atmosphere]
& tug cables from
sepia skin...
*
plug me in to
infinity
let me dance in the sphere
of your third eye
a lotus flower
that never blooms
[unenlightened]
in the shade of
the cosmos ~
... you
preserve esotericism
between the alignment
of dying stars
& long dead dreams
aborted by the disillusioned
there
where the frailty of ego
& the birth of humility
are cushioned
by barbed wire realities...
//
the steel in my spine
liquesces
beneath a holocaust dawn
where shadows tick
across
a scorched earth sundial ~
... thoughts
grind to a halt
with the gears in my flesh
tuning out the static
to maintain stasis
when chaos teems
like maggots
from
my trash bag [in]humanity ...
*
rummage through
my self-inflicted wounds
to find
the shattered remains
of my black heart
& piece the pieces together
piece by piece
to give me peace ~
... be charon in argent hues
awaiting my opaque orgone
to slip & coalesce
with wraiths
of past mistakes
[regrets]
baying at our heels
& euthanaise the fear
ravaging my subconscious...
//
the incomparable zdzisław beksiński*
[an oldie, posted under my "shadoe" profile so i'm not ripping myself off]
oneiric aspirations suffocate
in the half-light of
quarter truths
sloughing from the pulpit
of tongues nailed
to dilapidated roofs ~
.. how long has it been
since you fucked conformity
& pierced the sensitivity
of your ajna
to release
a stream of consciousness
unabridged
uncensored
unrestrained [?]
.
.
.
tear the skin
from my mediocrity
& strip it from bones
cocooning surreal terrors ~
... unravel the stitched seams
[seems i want
to spill from myself
out
into
the vermillion atmosphere]
& tug cables from
sepia skin...
*
plug me in to
infinity
let me dance in the sphere
of your third eye
a lotus flower
that never blooms
[unenlightened]
in the shade of
the cosmos ~
... you
preserve esotericism
between the alignment
of dying stars
& long dead dreams
aborted by the disillusioned
there
where the frailty of ego
& the birth of humility
are cushioned
by barbed wire realities...
//
the steel in my spine
liquesces
beneath a holocaust dawn
where shadows tick
across
a scorched earth sundial ~
... thoughts
grind to a halt
with the gears in my flesh
tuning out the static
to maintain stasis
when chaos teems
like maggots
from
my trash bag [in]humanity ...
*
rummage through
my self-inflicted wounds
to find
the shattered remains
of my black heart
& piece the pieces together
piece by piece
to give me peace ~
... be charon in argent hues
awaiting my opaque orgone
to slip & coalesce
with wraiths
of past mistakes
[regrets]
baying at our heels
& euthanaise the fear
ravaging my subconscious...
//
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
http://i1317.photobucket.com/albums/t623/curlycue23/cat%205_zpsrgan2982.png
[color=Brown]ARTIST OF THE EARTH
I am an artist of the earth
My medium is soil and dirt
Machined steel in motion
A kinetic tool in locomotion
With a giant careful hand
I till and mold the terrain
Sculpting the clay and sand
Into statuesque domain
I am not the machine
But I’m the man
The Amarillo tractor is but
An extension of who I am
“I’m a Caterpillar driving American”
[/color]
[color=Brown]ARTIST OF THE EARTH
I am an artist of the earth
My medium is soil and dirt
Machined steel in motion
A kinetic tool in locomotion
With a giant careful hand
I till and mold the terrain
Sculpting the clay and sand
Into statuesque domain
I am not the machine
But I’m the man
The Amarillo tractor is but
An extension of who I am
“I’m a Caterpillar driving American”
[/color]
On Making a Slideshow
beauty borne of pain
but to pan, zoom, and tilt
causes such delight
I never dreamed of weddings as a child
but now I can indulge in such fantasies
veils of white
roses and pearls
and blushing brides
while I go masking
layering
transitioning from one image to the other
so smooth
seamless
somehow even better than sex
oh to crop
that sweet feeling
of rightness and perfection
and how the soundtrack seems to lift each image
along its way
and tie the other images together
like a glistening train of snowflakes
damask flourishes
complex montages
fading and blurring
oh yes please
how it takes me out of myself
and I'll burn it onto a disk
let it live
let it go
and hope to live
to make another
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaTABb0Uygo
beauty borne of pain
but to pan, zoom, and tilt
causes such delight
I never dreamed of weddings as a child
but now I can indulge in such fantasies
veils of white
roses and pearls
and blushing brides
while I go masking
layering
transitioning from one image to the other
so smooth
seamless
somehow even better than sex
oh to crop
that sweet feeling
of rightness and perfection
and how the soundtrack seems to lift each image
along its way
and tie the other images together
like a glistening train of snowflakes
damask flourishes
complex montages
fading and blurring
oh yes please
how it takes me out of myself
and I'll burn it onto a disk
let it live
let it go
and hope to live
to make another
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaTABb0Uygo
Because i am no genius
if only i were Shakespeare
then i would write you a sonnet
i would describe the first time i saw you in poem or two
but because i am no poet
i will say it in simple english i saw you and i liked you
if only i were Charles Dickens
then i would write you a novel
i would dedicate an entire book to your grace and beauty
but because i am not that creative
i will use these three words, you are beautiful
if only i were Apollo
then i would write a song for you
i would sing of how much i adore you
but because i am vocally challenged
i will only say i love you
if only i were Adolf Hitler
then i would write you a speech
i would in a thousand words pour out my heart to you
but because i am not charismatic
i will simply ask you to please be a part of my world
if only i could stand not having you
then l would keep my common words to myself
i would not dishonor you with my uneducated words
but because the love i have for you is unquenchable
i will go on and say it, please be mine. I Love You
if only i were Shakespeare
then i would write you a sonnet
i would describe the first time i saw you in poem or two
but because i am no poet
i will say it in simple english i saw you and i liked you
if only i were Charles Dickens
then i would write you a novel
i would dedicate an entire book to your grace and beauty
but because i am not that creative
i will use these three words, you are beautiful
if only i were Apollo
then i would write a song for you
i would sing of how much i adore you
but because i am vocally challenged
i will only say i love you
if only i were Adolf Hitler
then i would write you a speech
i would in a thousand words pour out my heart to you
but because i am not charismatic
i will simply ask you to please be a part of my world
if only i could stand not having you
then l would keep my common words to myself
i would not dishonor you with my uneducated words
but because the love i have for you is unquenchable
i will go on and say it, please be mine. I Love You
Warped Frames Of Mind
Resize
Make it fit
Warped
Is the frame of mind
Narrowed with forced perspective
Simple enough is the photograph
Featuring a bare naked lady
Innocently posed
Sharing what God gave
Hers to give
Likewise
I am glad to display it
Though her beauty is lost upon you
Deemed sexually explicit
BAD
Due to labia showing
Her shaven smooth clit exposed
In plain view of everyone's knowing
And the cost of dealing with such ignorance?
The threadbare remainder of my patience
A reminder we're still living in Claustroburbia
Where erected high into sky
This fence around which keeps
People like you and I apart
When
It comes
To the definition
Answer to the question,
What is art?
Apparently
Whatever that may be
Since the first woman was painted
Decorating the granite surface of a cave
Should
Never
EVER
In a few million years of evolution
Involve a particular visible lady part
Resize
Make it fit
Warped
Is the frame of mind
Narrowed with forced perspective
Simple enough is the photograph
Featuring a bare naked lady
Innocently posed
Sharing what God gave
Hers to give
Likewise
I am glad to display it
Though her beauty is lost upon you
Deemed sexually explicit
BAD
Due to labia showing
Her shaven smooth clit exposed
In plain view of everyone's knowing
And the cost of dealing with such ignorance?
The threadbare remainder of my patience
A reminder we're still living in Claustroburbia
Where erected high into sky
This fence around which keeps
People like you and I apart
When
It comes
To the definition
Answer to the question,
What is art?
Apparently
Whatever that may be
Since the first woman was painted
Decorating the granite surface of a cave
Should
Never
EVER
In a few million years of evolution
Involve a particular visible lady part
