Poetry Blogs (art)

Living in the shadow

of someone else’s life

is a safe hiding place,

most of the time. 

You get to observe, 

detached, 

no fear, no pain. 

Fertile breeding ground

to create art, music, poetry...

Until the shadow turns around,

chases you down, 

strips you naked in front of a

stone-casting society. 

Do you stand erect

in the blinding light...

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Alone in this moment I stand. 

Leaning against the bathroom sink.

Tears cloud my vision then stream down my cheeks.

 I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror.

 A reflection of destruction stares back at me. 

Everything I’ve been holding back escapes my soul. 

I grip the sink and try to fight it. 

I’m not Human,

I’m Emotion.

I’m bottled up pain.

I’m held back...

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Poetry and creative writing by the philosopher and author, alexis karpouzos.

Actress : Martha mourouzi

alexis karpouzos on Amazon

alexis karpouzos on Goodreads

alexis karpouzos on youtube

alexis karpouzos on spotify

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Poetry and creative writing by the philosopher and author, alexis karpouzos.

Actress : Martha mourouzi

alexis karpouzos on amazon

alexis karpouzos on Goodreads

alexis karpouzos on instagram

alexis karpouzos on twitter

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Alexis karpouzos poetry and creative writing.

Actress : Martha mourouzi

Alexis karpouzos on Amazon

Alexis karpouzos on Goodereads

alexis karpouzos on instagram

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It's attitude was neutral

Neither here, nor there

Just a bare canvas

That stands without care

A vast space vibrating

It waits without rush

Filled with anticipation

For the stroke of a brush

Allowing anything 

The artist desires

Till the picture appears

For all to admire

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Let the anticipation build Let the angst grow inside your gut Allow it to rumble and tumble and wreck havoc on your insides Feel the magnetic pull when we lock eyes a little bit too long and struggle to break away Watch me watching you while trying to hide your prying eyes Don't you dare rush a thing

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This poem was painstakingly transcribed by 23 unpaid

interns labouring under my cool, indifferent 'tutelage'

(and who, after each day's work is finished, in bars and cafés

across the city will pretend to their friends how valued

they're made to feel as students and protegés of mine.)

                                                                                                   E...

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A single blue dot on a canvas
That no one can understand
Over looked and unappreciated
So quit yet so loud 
A story waiting to be told 
But no one cares to ask 
Every canvas tells a story
This one is called depression

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Mortality stalks me 
like a jealous lover.

Breathlessly follows me
wherever I go, incessantly
banging a gong, 

chanting, 

it won't be long, 
come to me, let 
the pain end.

My eternal soul sees
this game of mortal gods 

and challenges me

to go where mortals
fear to tread...

Meditate in silent space
past the black hole,

beyond illness,
depression, despair

to that ...

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Dr. Love (or How I Learned to Stop Wallowing and Write Poetry)

By: Rodolfo Perez

Love is (sometimes) patient,

Love is (sometimes) kind,

And sometimes, love is a needle in the eye,

Or a kick to the groin.

It is a cliff-hanger,

With your mother waiting to catch you,

When you let go.

It is losing your voice,

From crying into your pillow.

It is real...

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Poetry about Real People - The power of poetry in hospice care 

There is a tension between the advance of medical science, that pursues its ability to fix and treat, and an acceptance of the natural order of death and how that may be experienced. Atul Gawande, a surgeon and health researcher, has reignited this debate with his book 'Being Mortal' (and also presented the 2014 Reith Lectures on B...

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If your art is good, as it feels in your bones

You will become known

Long after your ashes are sprinkled

And all of your senses are gone 

Particularly if you cut off your lobe

Or choose for yourself to end it all

Note scraps reveal queer love affairs

Poems show in the rubble of fallen walls

Fans will become obsessed

Frame you in the brightest light 

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Your body is a masterpiece 

I want to trace it with my tongue 

I lust after this art 

Longing to mimic its movements 

Like playing piano 

I keep stroking you 

To map your beauty with my hands 

The muscle memory kicking in 

I close my eyes 

I lean in to kiss your hips 

I taste you 

Your skin so soft and savory 

This is what art taste like 

It’s magic 

It’s ...

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This piece comes from an exhibition of the work of celebrated Australian artist and sculptor Brett Whiteley. Parts of his enormous masterwork "Alchemy" can be found on the cover artwork of Dire Straits' album of the same name. A long-term drug user, he died in 1992 from a heroin overdose.

Retrospective

A metaphor for clear technique,

the Gallery (patrolled, secure,

well-scrubbed, ...

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Spiritual Hymns

Are the essence of a highschool choir
That sings often the sounds of Queen in the style of acapella
But also the rolling notes of Ezekiel Saw the Wheel
And the thumping heart of Elijah Rock.

How Can I Keep From Singing
When piano pushed
And the opening notes gently pulled in, to meet a booming brillance
My life goes on in endless song
And I recall the disconnect...

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My head is full of numbers, 
my heart is full of dread 
if I go from black to blue 
all the rhymes 
will come out new. 
Red bleeds to yellow 
and all the numbers are blue
the three comes in threes and
makes the nine incomplete and 
the moon tells the secrets 
I'm not meant to keep 
it's a message of the future 
and the past complete. 

A half yellow star sharp 
pierces my art.
The tr...

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Here we stand 'twixt mighty walls

Which once were feared by one and all

Today the bravest swordsmen's face

Jeans and jumper have replaced.

We're here for artists on display

To banish thoughts so torn astray

By Donlad Trump & Theresa May

Of meanness, cruelty and shame 

And all that humans do complain

And therefore just for a while

Replace our thoughts and hidden smile

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Don't be afraid of the night,
take the feathers 
and follow the light
for in the light we forever fly, 
eternally divine,  
immortalised through time.

©JMCole 

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I've lived the times
Of the theater of my life
Dancing in the foyer:

Commedia dell'Arte
Comprised the entirety
Of my personal repetoire;

Dress rehearsals were
Never taken seriously:
The final play was just

A moments decision
Hurried through a huddle
Of half-written plots.

The masterful monologues
Of my long and intrepid career
Were carried off by the

Glib tongue of the characters
I...

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On 21st November 2015, we all swing into action to light up the whole town with words and arts!

Make a day of it.. Arrive on the ELR as part of their Ales and Tales event. Come for brunch and leave your kids writing in the library 

Events for all the family all day and an 'adults only' theme in the evening as poetry meets burlesque.

See the website for details www.rammylitfest.com.

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Have you any idea how hard it is for me to play a G major?
Should I write a standard progression, put the chorus where it should be and scream ‘dada’ in a controlled display of abandon?
Know I am a charlatan?
The only true rebellion would be to, with utter sincerity, believe yourself a penguin
Flying in the face of all authority

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
MMMMMMMMMWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR...

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I have always collected paintings

Always on the lookout for another piece

Something to go there

Next to the door

I have pictures of women

Their backs turned

Japanese ink drawings

Of cranes

I have splashes of colour

That mean something different

Each time I see them

I have scenes of desolation

And of hope

I have idyllic cottages

Crumbled apartment blocks

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i am drawn to

    seas of clouds above in nothingness    

                    the seas of water

    the seas of open land and forests

    the cities with seas of

                        concrete and people

i was born to be a

                                sailor

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The greatest Russian star of ballet,

About herself she used to say:

I didn’t betray my friends,

I didn’t offend neither men nor animals.

Dealing with the professionals

I worked hard to improve my skills,

Always paid my debts and bills,

Thanks to my nature

And life full of adventure

I endured all and didn’t break

For someone’s crazy sake.

I have never given up

An...

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She was a painter and he was a performer. Both artists molded with talent but divided by passion. Nonetheless they connected emotionally and spiritually. Her canvas illustrated bright myriads of color and abstract scenes of memories and mental photographs. He sang with an emptiness of blues and love ballads intertwined with lost hopes and faded dreams. Empty acrylic paint tubes and coffee stained ...

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(I've been struggling to show anyone this poem for a long time but I've been inspired to let it free. These feelings are behind me now and it turns out writing was to thank for that afterall)

How does someone stop cutting?
Do they cut into the paper instead?
Replace flesh and blood with diaries and ink,
Replace physicality with mentality,
Replace actions with words,

It isn’t enough.

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Love

Inspires

Creativity

Creativity

Produces

Art

Art

Voices

Emotions

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We’re pleased to announce the following promotions for our 24th September OpenMind event at Fuel Cafe Bar.

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Take a look at the poster for our OpenMind: Slamming September event at Fuel on Monday 24th September.

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OpenMind: Slamming September:

Following on from our highly attended and jam packed 2 year birthday show OpenMind are back at Fuel on Monday 24th September for OpenMind: Slamming September, our first ever multi-genre OpenSpace slam event. This event will be presided over by GrIm who's taking his first ever crack at presenting an event, so be sure to give him your love, energy and full ...

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OpenMind: Slamming September:

Following on from our highly attended and jam packed 2 year birthday show OpenMind are back at Fuel on Monday 24th September for OpenMind: Slamming September, our first ever multi-genre OpenSpace slam event. This event will be presided over by GrIm who's taking his first ever crack at presenting an event, so be sure to give him your love, energy and full ...

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It’s 1:30 am.

He takes me away from the others unpacking,

opens the front door to the first night

in our first home and squirts WD-40

over both hinges, explains

WD is water dispersal,

NASA concocted this stuff

to keep fields of rockets

from turning orange, then burnt umber.

He heard this on his pocket radio

cycling along blustery North London roads

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Vermeer kept hs best work   in his studio and after his death his widow  refused to sell any of it  keeping the completed canvases at home

Simply to watch the paint dry

Enormous staring eyes

White as jade

Netherworld silk

She is the most  beautiful thing in the  room

Plainly exhausted   same as her daughter

Hour as the glass

She is the fool of t...

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Twisted Maleficarum turned abomination

desperately seeking a return to one's humanity.

Expelling demons,

pumping passion like the blood that summoned them.

Bleeding tears, sweating fears

soaked in trepidation.

Summon some feeling

no time for healing

when paint is just pain with

twin pronged brush strokes.

Tattered, trying, tonal

...

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They say home is where the heart is

and my heart is where the art lives.

So where is my home?

Art lives within us all

and begins an internal/external exchange...

a process

like humanity to trees.

We stop, relax, breathe

as one.

So where is my home?

First Contact was my spiritual home

gave meat and marrow to

broken spir...

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YOU are surrounded by glass

Within that

The world

Can observe

The normality of dinner

The association of wealth

The body on the table

The watching of soaps

The entertaining of guests

The reading of books

Masturbation in bedrooms

The privacy of thought.

WE live under mirrors

And reflect them back at you

With that emotion

We coat o...

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Wood and feather

brittle bone

silver leaf.

An obvious marriage

behind glass

to keepsafe.

There is a world

to know.

Place on paper.

It’s a poem

an heirloom.

If only I could fill

the box with wreathes of  mist then

I could be an artist and a poet.

Smoke out the meaning.

Let it breathe.

Feather, wood and bone.

fo...

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`

On a hand-hewn pedestal

imagination coalesced;

on milk-white face alight

eyes sparkle with a liquid flame.

Some build ivory towers,

these hands raw from driven labour,

on scratched cheeks a stricken eye

ransoms a sculpted orphan dream.

Across time and Middle Sea

another calloused hand chiselled;

laughter on a pine-white...

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With itching fingers I parade the halls;

eyes tutt at banning plaques,

while I understand how corrosive my ridges

still I long to deny sight for a moment

and span the nodular creation plinthed

behind blue velvet ropes; to marvel at shadows

cool perhaps in their indentations;

to print my DNA down the smooth expanse;

trail nails across the tickle of chisel marks.

...

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Recorded live on Soundart Radio.

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Dust motes flare bright as falling stars above his sacred work,
his skillful strokes slash at the demons skin,
interlocking prayers his only protection
from the nightmare trapped by walls of cinnabar and ultramarine.
It coils, threatening to leap into the eyes of any who gaze into its charred-bone face
bleeding into the minds fibres, it's most cunning trick.
Its likeness, flayed as ...

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Another outlook

Another view

Uncoloured by perception

Created by Truth.

For in truth the ‘outsider’ artist

is neither within nor without

but above all, and reaching up.

Reaching not looking

Not looking for, but knowing

And being the one person they are.

For truly all artists

Whether within or without

Once unbounded

Are seers – historians Judges

Builders(‘) instructors

Prophets

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My Life is not my art
My art is not my life
Yet we are like husband and wife-
When you know my Art
You begin to know me.
 
Life is not Art
Art is not Life
Yet they are like reflections
When you know life
You begin to know Art.
 
 
Life does not imitate Art
Neither should Art imitate Life
For when art is at its purest
You begin to know
                                                                        Tr...

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Cars bumper to bumper

Gridlock

Trucks, buses, coaches

Idling

Engine noises,

Reverbs.

People walking

Cell phones to ears

Hand in hand

Close together,

Plotting.

Women chatting

Buddies hugging

The traffic moves

Relief – freedom

Like a dam burst

Open

All travelling

Going in the same direction.

Home.

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