Artistic Creation - by Bob Atkinson

Artistic Creation

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Artist: Marjorie G. Miller

many objects strive to gain

attention in the artistic game

setting themselves up as central

artistic cores for painted subjects

birds, trees, animals

raging wild snorting bulls

buildings, bridges, royal halls

religions sacred, meant to awe

all these have good meaning

drawing artists' artistic feelings

to the fore of creative minds

standing still for painted lines

yet

when we sit down and ponder

didn't create that scene so wonderful

didn't make the river bend

shallow brook, or sweet red hen

aren't gods who have that power

so how can we claim due honor

without adding something creative

else our talent won't ring true

false talent beyond our measure

tallies points deducted summarily

by those who carry on their drama

claiming that which they do not own

talent casts an angry wave

onto the canvas if not made

with the efforts long and sincere

many critiques voiced by peers

simple forms made to shock

no close looks within those blocks

no lines of worry on the brow

or angry man breathing hard

tell me now and firmly why

graffiti is an art of yours

simple forms and simple lines

do not fine art make

they only tell stories of

your backwards feelings

lack of love

for those you share life with

truly common simple breath

making ugly our environment

taking from us all our pride in

what we've built, what we've made

through deviant cultures on parade

ingrained elegance

that which you do not know

powerful feelings inward hopes

of living a life civilized

beauty ever by our side

if you've not shown emotion

can't claim directness or devotion

need to shrink within your lark

can't hold good form if not good art

in my mind no subject can

rise higher in importance than

history of our sweet green land

or brown earth areas sparse of man

water conquered by design

perseverance, endless trials

confusion of our fellow man

in how to live in tree lined lands

can't freeze ingrained feelings

better than with artistic notions

trained with an eagle eye

pouncing ever upon emotional ties

seeing dates, times and places

brightened eyes and furrowed faces

stances proud, kneeling, crying

solid hope and violent dying

tell me if my idea hits walls

or

can we line these hallowed halls

with that which we feel inside

always driving through our pride

with time set still, a frozen crystal

down below, our deepest thoughts

flying firmly beyond light's vision

toward that which defines good mission

Emotion of Disgust - by Bob Atkinson

Emotion of Disgust

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Poetry Critic 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 

Poem: 18 Stoic Faces by Bob Atkinson 

Poem: Emotional Literal Tomes     

Thoreau, Hawthorne, Alcott, Fuller, Emerson - by Bob Atkinson

Thoreau, Hawthorne,

Alcott, Fuller, Emerson

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

Henry David Thoreau

inspiration takes place today

charged in form by yesterday

times of which we're not aware

of all small details of daily fare

 Nathaniel Hawthorne

poets leave a legacy

calm descriptions of greening trees

emotions so deep, near heart's feelings

all we've got of lucid dreams

Louisa May Alcott

in our times, many thoughts

of when, where and here abouts

most ideas pass into oblivion

tragic loss of truth and vision

Thomas Fuller

poets document our lives

not time not dates, but sacrifice

truth in feelings, open display

of useful tidbits, funny sayings

Ralph Waldo Emerson

add your feelings to the mix

your experience, your simple fixes

document all you see of life

help those not yet born survive

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

Adopt the Useless Reject the Truth - by Bob Atkinson

Adopt the Useless

Reject the Truth

(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

cat out of the bag

ruthlessness means heartlessness

when the adamant becomes obsessed

to some point of bold indiscretion

without such simple happy regrets

as one does of a brutal callous nature

saves those dog-eat-dog inhuman animals

who become iron fisted malevolent ravens

shakily standing on tilted rocky tables

but then

their mothers love them

in spite of all their faults

senses nature gave away

defines other useful wants

fathers, wouldn't know them

either missing or concerned that they

could snatch some charity at home

or look

out somewhere in the bay

here, the meaning simplifies

when trying to explain

how one could write the truth of it

and have nobody understand

yet

here out in the open phrase

lie words of uselessness

that someone out there will adopt

as gospel and declare their best

all remains open to interpretation

although I've let the cat free when he

scratched through a paper sack enough

to quash thinking about my dreams

go figure

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 know 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

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

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

RC Mandeville, Master Poet, P.I.F. (Poet in Fact)

 

Rocky & Ashley

Horses Will Surely Save Me  

RC Mandeville's site 

 by RC Mandeville

An infinity of olfactory intoxicants -
sweet grass, hay, and sighs
of sweet mint -
shuddering long breaths,
thick muscles, warm necks:
Horses will surely save me
unto my very depths.

Of men, I've had too many,
but fewer have I known;
I've left my share a-plenty
before the rising dawn,
yet when my sun collapses
from light too great to bear,
it will be horses who surely save me
from the dark that finds me there.

Horses will surely save me,
Yes, this must somehow be.
My horse, how he must save me,
           in his Complex Simplicity.
Fundamentally unbroken,
           Heart-Wild and Spirit-Free,
my horse, unbound by falsehoods
           will guide my soul to me.

I have shown up heavy in heart,
vanquished by life's turns,
unable to find daylight,
all happiness seemingly burned.
Then, meeting his gentle fierceness
and feeling his supple stride,
I am sure my horse can save me
as we head out West to ride.

Horses will surely save me,
Yes, this must somehow be.
My horse, how he must save me,
in his Great Simplicity.
All is not lost in his Presence,
kind and true and strong -
My horse, he's sure to save me
I only pray it won't be long.

 

It takes a Master Poet, or P.I.F. (Poet in Fact), to write and give freely to the world quality works of poetic art. RC Mandeville has those qualities that easily give her that designation. Skilled in the art of poetics, yet publishing openly, without cost, master works to view and appreciate. Her's is fine contemporary poetry given as a gift to the world. For that we thank her.

Bob Atkinson

March, 2013

Robert Hayden, P.I.F., Poet in Fact

Middle Passage

by Robert Hayden

Robert Hayden

Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy:

Sails flashing to the wind like weapons,
sharks following the moans the fever and the dying;
horror the corposant and compass rose.

Middle Passage:
voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

"10 April 1800--
Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says
their moaning is a prayer for death,
our and their own. Some try to starve themselves.
Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter
to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under."

Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann:

Standing to America, bringing home
black gold, black ivory, black seed.

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, of his bones
New England pews are made, those are altar lights that were his eyes.

Jesus Saviour Pilot Me
Over Life's Tempestuous Sea


We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord,
safe passage to our vessels bringing
heathen souls unto Thy chastening.

Jesus Saviour

"8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick
with fear, but writing eases fear a little
since still my eyes can see these words take shape
upon the page & so I write, as one
would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding,
but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune
follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning
tutelary gods). Which one of us
has killed an albatross? A plague among
our blacks--Ophthalmia: blindness--& we
have jettisoned the blind to no avail.
It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads.
Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes
& there is blindness in the fo'c'sle
& we must sail 3 weeks before we come
to port."

What port awaits us, Davy Jones' or home? I've
heard of slavers drifting, drifting, playthings of wind and storm and
chance, their crews gone blind, the jungle hatred crawling
up on deck.

Thou Who Walked On Galilee

"Deponent further sayeth The Bella J
left the Guinea Coast
with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd
for the barracoons of Florida:

"That there was hardly room 'tween-decks for half
the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there;
that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh
and sucked the blood:

"That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest
of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins;
that there was one they called The Guinea Rose
and they cast lots and fought to lie with her:

"That when the Bo's'n piped all hands, the flames
spreading from starboard already were beyond
control, the negroes howling and their chains
entangled with the flames:

"That the burning blacks could not be reached,
that the Crew abandoned ship,
leaving their shrieking negresses behind,
that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches:

"Further Deponent sayeth not."

Pilot Oh Pilot Me


II

Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories,
Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar;
have watched the artful mongos baiting traps
of war wherein the victor and the vanquished

Were caught as prizes for our barracoons.
Have seen the nigger kings whose vanity
and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah,
Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us.

And there was one--King Anthracite we named him--
fetish face beneath French parasols
of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth
whose cups were carven skulls of enemies:

He'd honor us with drum and feast and conjo
and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love,
and for tin crowns that shone with paste,
red calico and German-silver trinkets

Would have the drums talk war and send
his warriors to burn the sleeping villages
and kill the sick and old and lead the young
in coffles to our factories.

Twenty years a trader, twenty years,
for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested
from those black fields, and I'd be trading still
but for the fevers melting down my bones.


III

Shuttles in the rocking loom of history,
the dark ships move, the dark ships move,
their bright ironical names
like jests of kindness on a murderer's mouth;
plough through thrashing glister toward
fata morgana's lucent melting shore,
weave toward New World littorals that are
mirage and myth and actual shore.

Voyage through death,
voyage whose chartings are unlove.

A charnel stench, effluvium of living death
spreads outward from the hold,
where the living and the dead, the horribly dying,
lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement.

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, the corpse of mercy
rots with him, rats eat love's rotten gelid eyes. But, oh, the
living look at you with human eyes whose suffering accuses you, whose
hatred reaches through the swill of dark to strike you like a leper's
claw. You cannot stare that hatred down or chain the fear that stalks
the watches and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath; cannot
kill the deep immortal human wish, the timeless will.

"But for the storm that flung up barriers
of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores,
would have reached the port of Príncipe in two,
three days at most; but for the storm we should
have been prepared for what befell.
Swift as a puma's leap it came. There was
that interval of moonless calm filled only
with the water's and the rigging's usual sounds,
then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries
and they had fallen on us with machete
and marlinspike. It was as though the very
air, the night itself were striking us.
Exhausted by the rigors of the storm,
we were no match for them. Our men went down
before the murderous Africans. Our loyal
Celestino ran from below with gun
and lantern and I saw, before the cane-
knife's wounding flash, Cinquez,
that surly brute who calls himself a prince,
directing, urging on the ghastly work.
He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then
he turned on me. The decks were slippery
when daylight finally came. It sickens me
to think of what I saw, of how these apes
threw overboard the butchered bodies of
our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam.
Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told:
Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us
you see to steer the ship to Africa,
and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea
voyaged east by day and west by night,
deceiving them, hoping for rescue,
prisoners on our own vessel, till
at length we drifted to the shores of this
your land, America, where we were freed
from our unspeakable misery. Now we
demand, good sirs, the extradition of
Cinquez and his accomplices to La
Havana. And it distresses us to know
there are so many here who seem inclined
to justify the mutiny of these blacks.
We find it paradoxical indeed
that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty
are rooted in the labor of your slaves
should suffer the august John Quincey Adams
to speak with so much passion of the right
of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters
and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero's
garland for Cinquez. I tell you that
we are determined to return to Cuba
with our slaves and there see justice done.
Cinquez--
or let us say 'the Prince'--Cinquez shall die."

The deep immortal human wish,
the timeless will:

Cinquez its deathless primaveral image,
life that transfigures many lives.

Voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

Commentary:

Here we have perfection in the Poet's purpose. Much emotion documented, converting this observation of events into Poetry with the ease of the Master Poet. 

Robert Hayden's style of attempting to capture the emotional element of all sides without biased comment can only fall into that category of "amazing talented P.I.F (Poet in Fact)." Readable, imbued with detail, converting history into something one can re-live through emotional ties with those participating in these horrible events. Bravo Mister Hayden, well done Sir.

Bob Atkinson

Paul Simon P.I.F.

Paul Simon's words enhance all our lives, a Poet in Fact, P.I.F.

Paul Simon's body of works provide us with emotional comfort, his words P.I.F., Poetry in Fact

Sounds of Silence

Video - sounds of silence, paul simon and art garfunkel

poemwriter: Paul Simon

Neon Sign

hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
because a vision softly creeping
left its seeds while I was sleeping

and the vision

that was planted in my brain
still remains
within the sound of silence

in restless dreams I walked alone
narrow streets of cobblestone
neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp

when my eyes were stabbed

by the flash of
a neon light
that split the night

and touched the sound of silence

and in the naked light I saw
ten thousand people

maybe more
people talking without speaking
people hearing without listening

people writing songs

that voices never share
and no one dared
disturb the sound of silence

fools said

I, you do not know
silence like a cancer grows

hear my words

that I might teach you,
take my arms

that I might reach you

but my words

like silent raindrops fell
and echoed
in the wells of silence

and the people bowed and prayed
to the neon God they made
and the sign flashed out its warning
in the words that it was forming

and the signs said

the words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
and tenement halls

and whispered in the sounds of silence

Commentary:

It's not often that my thoughts are directed toward interpretation of what others say. Here, that exception to the rule of "Bob's Order" expressly asks me to perform that travesty.   Here, in Paul Simon's ode to sociological order we have the exact same theme as Kris Kristofferson's "To Beat the Devil," previously presented. The question again is "will people listen when you try to talk to them." Here, listen means listen, absorb and act. Paul thinks not, Kris also thinks not, but feels the effort is worth a try. In fact, Kris thinks that even though there's nobody going to listen, he's going to talk to them anyway. The try itself justifies the effort, nothing else needed.

The poetic nuances of Paul's excellent poem are priceless, and timeless. Had we listened to him back then, nearly 50 years ago, we'd all be better off now.

Master Poet: Kris Kristofferson P.I.F.

I hear you Kris, Bob Atkinson

 Master Poet:   Kris Kristofferson  P.I.F.

To Beat The Devil

Kris Kristofferson

Poemwriter: Kris Kristofferson

a couple of years back

I come across a great and wasted

friend of mine

in the hallway of a recording studio

and while he was reciting some poetry to me

that he'd written

I saw that he was about a step away from dyin'

and I couldn't help but wonder why

and the lines of this song occurred to me

I'm happy to say he's no longer wasted

and he's got him a good woman

and I'd like to dedicate this

to John and June

who helped show me how to beat the devil

it was winter time in Nashville

down on music city row

and I was lookin' for a place to get

myself out of the cold

to warm the frozen feelin'

that was eatin' at my soul

keep the chilly wind off my guitar

my thirsty wanted whiskey

my hungry needed beans

but it'd been of month of paydays since

I'd heard that eagle scream

so with a stomach full of empty

and a pocket full of dreams

I left my pride and stepped inside a bar

actually,

I guess you'd could call it a Tavern

cigarette smoke to the ceiling

and sawdust on the floor

friendly shadows

I saw that there was just

one old man sittin' at the bar

and in the mirror, I could see him

checkin' me and my guitar

an' he turned and said

"come up here boy,

and show us what you are"

I said, "I'm dry", he bought me a beer

he nodded at my guitar and said,

"it's a tough life, ain't it?"

I just looked at him

he said

"you ain't makin' any money, are you?"

I said, "You've been readin' my mail"

he just smiled and said

"let me see that guitar

I've got something you oughta hear"

then he laid it on me

"if you waste your time a-talkin'

to the people who don't listen

to the things that you are sayin'

who do you think's gonna hear

and if you should die explainin'

how the things that they complain about

are things they could be changin'

who do you think's gonna care?"

there were other lonely singers

in a world turned deaf and blind

who were crucified

for what they tried to show

and their voices have been scattered

by the swirling winds of time

'cause the truth remains

that no-one wants to know

well,

the old man was a stranger

but I'd heard his song before

back when failure had me locked out

on the wrong side of the door

when no-one stood behind me

but my shadow on the floor

and lonesome was

more than a state of mind

you see,

the devil haunts a hungry man

if you don't wanna join him

you got to beat him

I ain't sayin' I beat the devil,

but I drank his beer for nothing

then I stole his song

and you still can hear me singin'

to the people who don't listen

to the things that I am sayin'

prayin' someone's gonna hear

and I guess I'll die explainin'

how the things that they complain about

are things they could be changin'

hopin' someone's gonna care

I was born a lonely singer

and I'm bound to die the same

but I've got to feed

the hunger in my soul

and if I never have a nickel

I won't ever die ashamed

'cause I don't believe

that no-one wants to know