Henri Matisse's Expression (or, How One Can Sound Smart and Be Stupid) - by Bob Atkinson

Henri Matisse's Expression

(or, How One Can Sound Smart and Be Stupid)

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

"... Expression to my way of thinking, ...

does not consist of the passion mirrored upon a human face or betrayed by a violent gesture.

The whole arrangement of my picture is expressive  ..." 

Henri Matisse

 Bing Images of Matisse

here we go with confrontation

can't help it, made that way

this nonsensical perversion

explained by gibberish salivated

from the mouth of one not stout

claiming name but not productive clout

his junk not trashed in his time

let's do him justice of the more refined

absinthe, and other devious

chemicals removing neurons from senses

bring alive that senseless style

obviously arranged to sell to those

not understanding of how art goes

well, need not strike this horse

whose death has found due course

will simply, in this argument

present not words but photographs

Poem: Art D'cor by Bob Atkinson
Les Phares by Charles Baudelaire, translated to English by Bob Atkinson

The Art of Poetry vs The Discipline of Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

The Art of Poetry

vs

The Discipline of Poetry

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Encyclopedia

Fine Art has its alter ego

Art D'cor which also breaks

these two ideas into factions

one primitive, one more staid

Fine Art means something learned

art constructed from the past

having trained in master's techniques

meaning that will ever last

Art D'cor lies more transitory

fills merely a momentary need

more for pleasant decoration than

further advancement of the breed

in literature begins an era bold

of truly differentiated tastes

in a time of new beginnings

of newness that will rage

Poetry as an art leans

toward the wispy, mindless tripe

thoughts without complex emotions

guided by throttled emptiness

no purpose in its dreaming

no research done for its themes

no imparting information gathered

beyond simple illusion of mindless motif

Discipline of Poetry

on the other hand

takes our minds into a world

of culture broadly expanded

always purpose in those words

always thought deep in what seems

complex exploration of existence

researched flowing through watered streams

that tell us what we didn't know

what a writer knew not too

when he began his assemblage

of words that wanted to

expand our understanding

of this, that, or the other

setting us on a journey to

correctness, not toward blunder

he sets out to explore a point

be it theory or merely fact

and takes us on a journey meaty

never wanting to look back

he opens books of reference

gives those notes there for our usage

to let us quickly acclimate toward

understanding an idea's currency

here we've gotten something good

what pushes on our hearts

total construction of our world

observed at least until we're dust

Susan - by Bob Atkinson

Susan

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Susan

what Paris does for our hearts

town of Susan did for theirs

nine thousand years of civilized

carried on with their own standards

why could they not inform us

tell tales of their daily lives

give to future generations

what would open our eyes

we have in our true destiny

a charge of challenge great

provide that literary document

upon which our lives rage

our wants, our hopes, our charity

our dreams of love fulfilled

simple direction of our souls

how we walk, talk and feel

true, in our bustle we

don't see ourselves from afar

so let us document our dreams

thus give them to the stars

Discipline of Poetry

THE - by Bob Atkinson

"THE"

"... definite article

(used, especially before a noun, with a specifying or particularizing effect, as opposed to the indefinite or generalizing force of the indefinite article a or an ): the book you gave me; Come into the house ..."

Dictionary - THE

use of this word denotes "lazy"

one who cannot think in terms

beyond banal into deep fissures, or with

broad ideas toward which we burn

simple thoughts of simple minds

throw caution against fast winds

flying back to slap our face

thereby waking us again

time to give this world our best

not bristle with biased phrases

facing forces of simplistic convert

via superficial activity nauseating

MFA, CW - by Bob Atkinson

MFA, CW

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Plato

she teaches masters program

doesn't know how to write

the, the, the's abound in

her legacy, so hackneyed, trite

she gets accolades abundant

from those who do not know

how words affect the mind

how our life force flows

wake up, smell common thoughts

darned establishment of note

tell all how you devised this

promotion of words mundane

how you took our poetry

to a lower level of performance

how you left emotion and

ideas out of your chattered notions

no explanation of history

art, science or deeds well performed

no telling stories true in form

you've poetry, by yourself, undone

You Call That Poetry? Oh My - by Bob Atkinson

You Call That Poetry?
Oh My

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

give it one more shot

simple benefit of doubt

sally to our Center

to see what Poetry's about

all hoopla rides their banter

quick and slickly shown

a presentation of quality touch

to show us how it's done

he teaches that master's program

fine art of languages good and great

lets students wait for him to speak

comes not quickly out the gate

here to read his poetry book

upon which his ego thrives

that self appointed guiding light

of deep oceans and large tides

none of these words harmonious

no flow of thought he makes

no point in his dissertation

no desire to emotions elevate

Poem: 18 Stoic Faces

those 18 stoic faces written

about such an event of long ago

turned into two-fifty students

were told they had to go

he must have been a failed preacher

learned from the seminary techniques

droned on and on into infinity

no thoughts in words he spake

was like a moving stopwatch

hanging on a golden chain

could see the implementation

of hypnotic techniques again

Poem: Emotion of Disgust

emotions grew within me

those emotions of disgust

as he threw my genre' to the dogs

kept respect with his language not

thought I heard a statement

cuss word, had he just read?

there again twice repeated

four letter word of sin

"one more and we're outta here

can't stand what he presented"

there it was, "I'm finished

can't take no more of this

 his reading's senseless!"

the cuss words eliminate

any chance of PK-12 inclusion

in usage of these writings

becomes just useless musings

so to those who profess

with airs and pretense made

without profound perception

of why we think with brains

I say with deep conviction

as Wordsworth said to Lucy

"... Poetry, dear should be written

as with normal conversation ..."

else it's not the stuff of legend

as with Plato, Homer and Baudelaire

this stuff of smell begets disgust

and frustration for those who care

Poetry in its strongest form

those emotional words of note

lives through generations

to inform and excite the folks

thus holding a tight bond
between people of today's events
with those not yet born or living
until hundreds of years away

 how we feel about our times
and our history we elaborate
all connected to our descendents
through stories of our mind's state

this is Poetry's legacy

Poem: MFA, CW 

The Verb: "To Be" - by Bob Atkinson

The Verb: "To Be"

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Cliché

"to be" defines one self

in a simple kind of way

ignoring all nooks and crannies

ramifications forever delayed

a word that says in statement

oh so clichéd in practice, "I am"

gives not much style and integrity

not much intricacy of action planned

is, am, was, were,

along with he, she and it

become examples of simplicity

not descriptions for speeches fit

words with all good thoughts erased

dumbed down by language hacks

backed not by true grit and utility

but by veneer of effort lacking

turns complexity to simpleton's banter

deep thoughts to duh's and ah's

many ways to rearrange

so thoughts more easily absorbed

sure, times do arise

where these keys fit in a hole

of course, they can complete a theme

but please

don't spread them like jelly on toast

To Poet - by Bob Atkinson

To Poet

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Homer

to poet means a lot of things

here in one round land of feelings

conjured by dreams of flowing streams

striving to alter causes sadly dreamed

me, I drool upon my desk

with tongue between my teeth

and hallucinate about progress

we could make if astute, tenacious

that is, faithful to ourselves

and our long lost friends of note

faithful to some we've never met

and yes,

to some who frighten us to the bone

we're all in this boat together

this leaky kind of world

where every little thing we do

creates problems, whirlpools

we see ourselves as lucid beings

with hindsight, feelings oh so good

yet we thrust upon each other burdens

with our violent kind of moods

tell me if my dreams of glory

for my fellow man and woman

drift toward the impossible

outside of words that can be certain

to poet means to understand

not all wants, just what comes to mind

to poet means to bring out thoughts

to emerge those tears of crying

living as though in utopia

that perfect kind of world

where all that ever could be

has this Earth encircled

No Poet - by Bob Atkinson

No Poet

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Poet

saw a trailer on TV

a party at somebody's castle

in NY, where money flows

OP's that is, nothing anchored

fellow asked the beauty what

she did in life, that small talk stuff

said to him in sincere tone

"I'm a Poet," he winced, groaned

asked again same question there

"a Poet, yes," she replied with airs

"hmmm...." he said and pondered this

what this meant escaped his head

his thoughts raced back to a phrase

he'd read on somebody else's page

".....a Poet, huh ... what does that mean?

A Poet, lady are you just dreaming?

who told you this

your P.O. or your lawyer

your barber or dog's groomer

or, your fortune teller Roma?"

taught CW for years at U

doesn't mean you're stuff's not goo

saw some words written such

five "the's" in two lines of muck

no purpose in those lines of junk

just 'azure skies,' the older stuff

fuzzy words on a stained page

nothing good, simple ego raging"

so, you're a Poet, huh?

what does that mean?

simply put, it's in your dreams

Poets lift our world above

by helping us survive the lust

it's something you do
not who you are
it's part time musings
not to the bar

not a title bequeathed by blood
just a simple labor of love

Poemwriters, Not Poets Words, Not Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

Poemwriters, Not Poets

Words, Not Poetry

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

over and above my trials

extended out for many miles

search I do most frequently

for an explanation holding tea

yes, it's hard to find that which

my heart looks for, an open ditch

holding, directing, a flow of words

toward my cache of nouns and verbs

by this my meaning's been quite clear

I need in desperation some useful phrases

thoughts of which in my understanding

build ramparts and battle flags waving

but no

can't find these words of note

that which living authors recently wrote

they seem to take over vanity presses

wanting rewards for writing messes

perhaps they wish the title cheaply

"Poets" they call themselves not meekly

in my mind, they're "Poemwriters,"

a word which says nothing at all

of quality they've brought into our halls

  

sheepskins cover them with camo

words denoting their entitlement shallow

merely define actions, not quality of verbs

hold themselves harmless for being brazenly disturbed

so, to those poemwriters of today

I give the challenge, if they can take it

send your words out to the world for free

quit taking what isn't yours to keep

you are not a poet if you don't

give the world much of what you wrote

words upon words of quality value

ideals bequeathed, not held as chattel

The Establishment - by Bob Atkinson

The Establishment

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Earth

I love it when

the establishment gets undone

all their panties in a rolled up bunch

all their words shown insincere

all their ugly precepts not revered

Poe gave us nonsense to blabber

look upon, drool, stoop and lather

allowing those of dubious talent

credentials best used for wiping crevasses

don't think, myself, when given choice

would know what's right in serious discourse

just grasp what's wrong with closed eye feelings

what's plain,  clichéd, lacking real meaning

Poetry stands straight and tall

as emotional content of learned halls

not confused with dreamed up plots

similes, metaphors and thesaurus rot

flitting, flying, fermenting pictures

fluttering statements devoid of meaning

of Azure skies, rock filled basements
absolute nonsense, irregular pacing

write it so faces you see when reading

show emotional twitches, tweaks, turn red

smiles, yells and laughs not voluntary

applause not simply seduced, or ordinary

only then the power's unleashed

expanded horizons, enhanced freedoms

only then our life evolves superior

to pettiness of thought we've adhered to

Fog and Other Nonsense

Fog

Poemwriter: Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg1878-1967

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then, moves on.

I rest my case!  This nonsense was found in a poetry book entitled:  "The Standard Book of British and American Verse"

 

Bob Atkinson

May, 2013

Emotion of Disgust - by Bob Atkinson

Emotion of Disgust

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

softly settled to my ears

those words I wished to hear

brought me to a higher level

when written well, so treasured

waiting patiently among

the throng of citizens, no guns

a gentle lot of doers well

those who praise art and tales

standing up to do their best

to settle for all the rest of us

a trumpet sound of sculpted tones

ones with meaning held upon

a field of life, pages open

emotional tags, sometimes spoken

carry me to advanced nirvana

please read good words, not trivia

when they speak these honored verses

so well received and prizes awarded

my hand reaches for the door

so I might escape these awful chords

no, they don't speak for me

blank faces in the audience
form so simply irrelevant
purpose one's only good intent
 

when sung accolades flow quickly

a million sold six months a pittance
poetry had come of age
yet nobody knew or accepted change

Chandos lamented openly
no quotes from us, our poetry
were made outside our borders
were not champions of language order

thought about this for a while
remembered friends in distant lands
who spoke Germanic languages different
no English were they aware of meanings

yet sung our tunes with impassioned voices
wildly swinging arms to chorus
the words meant nothing to their minds
but beat with rythyms to their hearts timed     

18 Stoic Faces by Bob Atkinson

18 Stoic Faces

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

eighteen stoic faces

faced four who had come

to read the erudite refrains

of poets both dead and gone

A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

readings were in earnest spoken

for respect for some who had

garnered from the establishment

accolades, awards, well sanctioned

yes, eighteen stoic faces

faced four who read so good

those meaningless diatribes

of useless linguistic words

significance became not evident

for similes provided here

metaphors vaguely crafted caused

me not them to revere

this didn't change my attitude

my demeanor didn't rise

waiting for an end to it

was my only real desire

so I couldn't clap and whistle

and be smiling in my face

that would not have been sincere

became just a little bit ashamed

whistle I didn't do at all

felt not much real emotion

gave a polite nod to those speaking
headed quickly out the door

save me from disjointed thoughts
can't those people see the truth
senseless disorganization
does not good poetry produce
 
of those thoughts not poetry 
I firmly do believe
the fireplace requires cellulose
for bright flames to feed

listless words written poorly
carried my imagination not
was frozen in my dreamy state
rusted any worthwhile thoughts 

next week went to Vegas

to see the eagle band

and watch as pure emotion

rocked that audience grand

ten thousand had paid apiece

a couple hundred bucks

to see those wordly masters

like Henley, Frey and such

they told of the situation

which emotion played upon

a woman's real life choices

why she'd become despondent

ten thousand cheered upon

recognition of great words

displayed while coddled with sounds

soft guitars and drums beat purrs

Lyin' Eyes by the Don Henly and Glenn Frey

I thought "now here lies real poetry"

not those prissy kind of words

that speak only of the unimportant

with wispy mindless verbs

some lock credentials grand

for that which moves us not

and laugh at the suggestion

that song is our greatest art

me, I have a vision

that we shall all enjoy

songs we've grown up with

as emotional literal tomes