juddarwin 8 learned along the way (to gretchen ---i've finished, i think)

.
.
.
{also to Helen Bascom (i had already
reccomended Helen as a good example to
follow to two new members—-see:
’Where’s Helen’, by Sam Dantone.
my life has been terribly full of many
‘Helens’ since i first saw Helen Of Troy,
eight years old, to the one with me (i think);
i’ve fantisized “coming upon Helen Bascom
in the woods, sitting on a log with that /her
hat on…” —they used to call me Hiawatha as
well as Cochise, on uninstigated; at different
times… }
.
.
.
.
-
-does not, either; does different than—-
poetry! is the last horizon/
challenge/investigation eke
vestal-virgin \ sheet of paper
ze rite of ze/de flower, ever
after the creating of —it,
beyond the serpent & his tail;
the problem; maybe, Pygmalion’s
which was not Michaelangelo’s;
( he’d bade him: Speak!, hammer in hand
—-)
those others’ taboo, Einstein! ruled
their relativity, instead…
(from patent office he decreed;
was doodling between inventions
and, who knows, what kind of theories;
just lucky he was not side-tracked:
theory of relativity)
…making all talk scientific things
despite direct prescription
already very much in use;
he would say, what is the problem?
If you do not want to get wet,
use/wear a brolly/machintosh;
I wear shirt/pants-rainware - stay! dry.
--Moses, he’d just completed; struck!
on the knee, wih his hammer, hard;
the mark still there! on his knee: seen,
said to have familiar features,
looking like Mick, his creator;
Pygmalion, fell in love with his
marble statue of a woman;
others agin! stuck to fiction

a

than note the prescribed way to out,
one sticks to observed agendas
as though there are no other cues.

b

and thinks a tree in the forest
puts on a dress of camouflage,
each projection with h’ id
i.e., trees only stag nite

The pope seems to realise, some,
if I did know, that, they, would not:
poetry, however, all ways free;
technically, words on paper,
pooff!ed off the table…………….
…………………………….yesternight’s
filled crossword (no matter how clean,
there, that finished-with/poetry, look,
as unmistakeably, not prose,
as won’t-read, equates cannot-read;
it’s as easy as newspapers,
there’s one word and then there’s one more;…
read one word after the other
read like you read a list, non-stop,
and you hear your mouth sound tones/speeds,
just coming from the words, arranged;
don’t think to sound like those on air:
they don’t! know how to read poetry:
they take it as a script, and play!
it’s their manner, to drammatise;
like they cannot convey to us
the woman crying in silence;
tears chase previous ones off her cheeks,
- …they can’t convey mimes and gestures…
i know poetry’s meant to be heard,
rather, ergo, than be written,
but you must know that radio plays
are written for us as though , blind
—now, why? did I say that! pray tell!
I’d thought I’d hit on something, well!
Maybe I did exit it, too!
The idea, he had to be there
might have that one thing to do…
Yes, with the radio we are blind
as a blind man when he recites
is the one who does not see _e the _
like we don’t see the voice on air
but we can record poets reading,
and that’s like a radio’s read of …
Must be I don’t like the readers!
Especially the actors who
whine-whimp/brag-sensitive texts
that just ask/task poignance, loss, and…
, to be the one to set the tone
to how to read certain words, and…
-
-nothing to it, just pronounce the
words one-after-the-otherly
giving each word an equal chance
to come out as the poem’s arranged;
they pause/rhapsodise at word/phrase—-
extemporise/imagerise
(you hear over-dramatising
as mocking your read of something
without drumbeats/hullabaloo
or the sledge-hammer e ffect,
the actor, reading, now produces,
for you are not inhibited
We have a bleeder!; She is a
noisy one!; Yes, he over-laughs!,
Sometimes, reading, we actually,
stop—- We rhapsodise, do picture,
supposedly: hanging garden of
Babylon
­equivalents eke:
She’s, the one that’s beautiful!, the
one, being envisioned —-the line,
not even read through. You do.
Poetic lines are made up of pics:
imagery; words, that frame them.
Poetry is the last horizon
because it is constantly new
ever there to be experienced,
our pictures ever all ways new
to the alignments, now, now, NOW!
As come visions to us, mobile,
then arranging into ranks/lines
like alpha beta arranged lines
from the gods, their daughters: the Muse.
Only; mistake: read as it pleases!


juddarwin

juddarwin 8 learned along the way (to gretchen ---i've finished, i think)

juddarwin

Joined June 2009

  • Artist
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