Modigliani by Martin Gray
A biopic poem of an unconventional artist ,that fulfils Modigliani's motto 'know you are living' .with iambic Trimeter, a line of three beats ..Iambic trimeter is a line of poetry made up of three iambic feet, creating a rhythm of six syllables that alternate between unstressed and stressed beats. [1], impromptu phrasing of a conversational style ,..devoid of figurative texture and symbolism
Gray' s purpose is to leave all interpretation to
the poetry prose style is Gray's USP
(unique selling point) in this bio poem ,divided
into 152 stanzas ,(albeit without the usual notes
and references ),all help to make this an easy
poetic bio read.
A worthy endeavour in Gray's typical usp approach
Will S provides a short analysis of 'the true' equivalents in the nature of marriage(I speak as one married 65 years(& counting) this August month).He does this in his usual 'standard sonnet style of 3 quatrains & usual couplet conclusion albeit some outdated rhyme prounciation .
Emily's poetry (unusually for its era )was untitled so this poem is in reality posthumously known as 822,also its four quatrain length form is very untypical of Dickinson's delightful(still popular) famous short form style .The great majority of her prolific output (for 19th century times) remained unpublished in her lifetime.No 822 has her typical 'occasional capitalisation' of nouns which does not help either visually to read & inhibits the cadence when reading aloud this somewhat morose content albeit so atypical of Emily poetics
I see out there, besides the pond,
a quartet of Canada geese,
picking through the manicured lawn,
hunting for some insects to eat.
Two adults and two little ones,
necks outstretched and probing the ground,
something about the silhouettes
just seems to tear the eons down…
I know that birds are therapods,
but when that long neck ducks I see
the outline of a Brontosaur,
albeit one that stands two feet…
And when it’s walking straight at me,
the head and neck up towards the sky,
it looks just like a sauropod,
at least until it starts to fly.
A weird thought, given on most days
they paddle around in the drink,
but change the place and back in time
the whole animal seems to sink.
Perhaps that’s why they’re ill-tempered,
hissing at you like a sinner,
since once they used to rule this earth,
but now they’re just Christmas dinner…
A loner drifts and struggles
A loner shifts and giggles
... flip and hop
... slip and drop
A loner never detaches from good people
A loner appreciates those who stay firm
and never turn purple.
A loner smiles and keeps his/her head down
A loner defies wickedness and never bow down
A loner, I may be, in an open world --
a small one and untenable from scrofulus strands
albeit all of me may change the torn world...
and being full and winnable in God's mighty hands!
A loner...
My toilet bowl Muse, how splendid thou art!
Unlike the Bard, who had no time to poop,
I pen rhymes, metaphors, and rhythms that fart.
His sonnets, the best ever, did not droop
in force or beauty. Rather, they endure
for ever, and live alongside his plays.
My sonnets, albeit, like inspired manure,
excrete in the most personal, human ways.
But, as with Shakespeare, Pope, or Lord Byron,
divine afflatus, like their excrement,
smells like scent—but my droppings of bronze and iron,
like cow dung, are solid and more feculent.
O, toilet bowl Muse! Thou art my Tenth Muse:
when you breathe on me my bowels still won't refuse.
Mislike me not of my burning ray
My light bequeath thou the lukewarm day
Albeit the cherished dew doth dry
The ray cannot lurk, thus thou dost rely
The light dost form faint shower
And warmth bloosoms the flower
Creatures dwelling in the frost
Yearn patiently for mine accost
The world and his wife sings with bliss and mirth
Such harmonious with no thirst and dearth
My light dost pierce the abyssal floor
When night falls, it sheer to the ashore
Thou shall hath faith and trust
It shall never ought to carry by the gust,
Methinkst of burning all woe of thine
To garnish this realm of benign
Reasons unchanged,
breed endless cycles of shame.
Habits we form young,
ingrained in the old remain.
Redemption albeit rare exists,
in the purpose driven mind
Relentless to shift,
what most you're looking to find.
For the soul to grow
Itself it must know
What all it's looking for!
A desire to know more.
Explore what’s inside!
Be unwilling to hide.
When afraid face fear!
Accept moments it's near.
Even if courage leads stray.
It's okay to not be okay!
Hard, not impossible
The search for inner belief.
Identify what enables,
your self-defeating grief.
Realize reason,
the smallest morsel for cause.
Allow that to be,
Your needed second for pause!
For the soul to grow
Itself it must know
What all it's looking for!
A desire to know more.
Explore what’s inside!
Be unwilling to hide.
When afraid face fear!
Accept moments it's near.
Even if courage leads stray.
It's okay to not be okay!
With one this self aware
So attired, twirling round
As shows off, whilst in sync with
True femininity
Woman, on full display.
Its sex as dignifies.
Girlishly youthful, albeit!
Girlish like; loose and free!
Flying over barren lands
Dried grass, withered roots,
Not a single tree stands
Even in calm weather
Wind pushes heavily
On weary feathers
The dove vows to be braver
But with the weight of the sky
Its wings start to waver
Its eyes search the earth
This bare, lifeless expanse
Lacking its prior glory and worth
Just then, a whisper of green—
Could it be . . . a tree?
Albeit a sapling, scrawny and lean
The dove soars down, coming near
As an olive tree emerges into view,
Defying the dry ground, it perseveres
The tree’s arms reach out, inviting a guest
To land in its branches—
Gratefully, the dove arrives,
Having found, at last, a way of rest.
As I walked out in the streets of Manteca,
as I walked out in Manteca one day,
I spied a young cowboy asleep on the sidewalk,
when prodded from slumber these words he did say:
"You are wearing a Stetson, spurs, chaps, and a six-gun:
I assume then you must be a cowboy like me;
come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
then try to guess which shell is hiding the pea.
'Twas once in the saddle I used to ride gaily,
albeit I had not a horse to my name,
but down in the basement my dad had a saw-horse,
so I rode a steed that could never go lame.
O bury me holding a King and five Aces
with a pint of good whiskey to keep my corpse warm,
and a pair of my custom made dice in my watch fob,
for I'm a young cowboy and I've bought the farm."
If I could turn the clock's proud hands around,
And make the past a silent, yielding clay,
What single thing would be my hallowed ground?
What solitary debt would I repay?
Not Caesar's fall, nor some forgotten war,
No grand design upon the human stage,
But just a little moment, nothing more,
A single, unremarked, forgotten page.
I'd find the day the friend-thread started thin,
The one I broke with words of careless spite.
I'd go to the spot where pride won the grin,
And chose the bitter shadow over light.
While with my power used to hold my tongue,
To bite the lip and let the anger cool.
To choose the path of love while we were young,
And not to act the self-important fool.
The world would turn, the stars would still align,
No empires built, no new philosophy.
Albeit, modest, subtle world of mine,
A broken thread would mend, eternally.
And I would trade history's roared acclaim,
I'd bid that one small change, so soft and low,
To keep a bond from ever knowing blame,
And watch the seeds of understanding grow.
The fog stumbles in on fingers of gray,
A surly bell peals to escape the day.
The gas lamp turned with a squeaking sound,
On the stony bluffs, a spirit is found.
A watcher lingers who cannot sleep,
For essences lost in the endless deep.
His abandoning light is not for ships,
Albeit for the rumored, ancient lips.
Their nippy sighs upon the breeze,
A bleak comfort, if you please.
So keep your distance from the shore,
And do not knock upon the lighthouse door.
As I walk on the bridge
I reminisce my childhood
I search my soul bondage
I knew not life nor understood
But delighted for age after age.
Had nothing to relish alright
But happy was I felt ever
Had no feel of hostility albeit.
Taken to conflict never.
Present comes as sailing smooth
Though problems encompass as usual.
Dawn a conflict a day
Now searching for happiness amidst confrontation full.
Future beckons severe
As past did do it causal.
And present passes the reverie
Oh! The Super Being looks casual.
I look deep into me
As I get the insight going into me.
The life seems to be a golden boat
Sent by the Carpenter who cares my being
As I, only I, master my fate.
Here I stand, a godless monk
Without account, my soul is sunk.
My name won’t make the Book of Life
’Cause I’ve been such a cruel ex-wife.
I cursed you in a thousand ways
(There’s been no “high” in holidays.)
The one with whom anew you’d start:
I wished she’d crush your faithless heart.
I hoped in Leadville the spill you’d take
Would leave your back with chronic ache.
A gleeful anticipation would start to thrive
While imagining you cut a wire live.
So, here’s my prayer, albeit unholy:
I wish my thoughts were a bit less lowly.
If I can’t be good, at least I hope to find God
So I can achieve a peaceful facade.
Though rage may be slow to subside,
This year I hope to turn the tide.
While never shall I wish you well
Next year, no longer I’ll hope you in hell.
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