SCHOOL
kindles
awareness
processing raw quartz
as gems of pride and joy
shine with the dreams of morrow
“an atelier that sculpts future”
Querer
Muitas vezes
uma pessoa
quer ser
estilista ou escritora,
no entanto,
descobre
que antes,
precisa
comprar e vender,
para criar seu
atelier,
e fazer
mais e mais.
Man Rape
In the charming town of Mertola
there was a painter, a pleasant little man
who painted flowers and tree and augmented
his living by teaching foreigner Portuguese.
A man came wanted to buy a painting, the painter
was glad to show him his work.
The man had evil in his heart and brutally raped the painter
left his atelier and slammed the door shut.
The painter of a pleasant landscape, whose gentle heart
was now full of hatred.
He took an axe, followed the rapist, who, when coming out of the bar,
was hacked to death by the raped.
The painter went to the police turning himself in.
The law, upon hearing his story, had deep sympathy for him.
He got 15 years but didn’t have to sit in prison, they gave him an ankle bracelet to stay at home.
His painting had a darker hue, there are untold dangers behind every tree,
the flowers are venomous, and the sky is dark.
The art world being what it is, loved his work, now he is famous.
I behold what I have created,
immaculate but yet not true,
a celestial conceptualization created by the chiseling edges of my fended anima.
Your image does not belong to you, but is simply carried by the many. As a shadow among the faded, I seize what you bestow so easily and wide-eyed. While my spirit paints and composes, the defenses that once fended the atelier become dismantled. My creation is no longer of nature, and so the spectral replica consumes my pertinent, frail obscurity, turning it as dim as the ghost enclosing the uncharted space.
Sur les mêmes toiles, peindre les sentiments de souvenir.
Sous d'autres cieux, semer les espoirs d'avenir.
Quels que soient les environs, quel que soit le chemin,
On te voit toujours tendant sans discrimination la main,
Aux élèves dans l'aisance et aux ceux dans le besoin,
Oeuvrant pour les faire s'épanouir dans ton jardin.
Si les lieux aux liens de ta trace deviennent aromatique,
C'est grâce à tes pas modèles qui marquent ta pratique:
Les broussailles rustiques inhalant la senteur de parfum,
Le Lac de l'Ouest douillet ayant l'appas d'emprunt.
L'abord amène s'affiche d'entre tout les mouvements
Dans ton enseignement, où s'écoule l'élégance et l'aisance.
Les moissons massives se font à chacun moment
Dans ta classe, où s'allument la connaissance et la jouissance.
Te voilà! Une fois ton émission répandue de vive voix,
Dans l'oubli tombent les annonceuses de choix.
Te voilà! Une fois présenté ton attrayant visage,
De l'oisiveté s'agite l'esprit de tout sage.
Où vas-tu nous emmener, à travers cet atelier incoloré?
Voilà! La fenêtre ouverte aux constellations diaprées!
With no place to hide, the atelier of this poet, abides. Ticking of fires cooling can be heard, the rise and fall of virus eating man's soul.
Rage has sucked the oxygen of all but those who have become translucent in the wave sweeping over our village.
Drumbeats grew louder at first, vibrations coursing through all living things. Crimson and carmine emerged in vivid dreams, air escaping in desperate gasps as lungs collapsed in explosive tephra from retreating volcanoes.
As the virulent dust settled amidst the crumbled towers, Spring ephemerals emerged, roots cleansing the toxic soil, sending ions of pure air up thru the translucent blossoms connecting our will to live. Drumbeats became the sound of our hearts beating together once more, prayers of gratitude to a God we can not see, but whose miracles we can not deny.
3/15/20
See that little girl in white
With the golden locket?
She is what you could be
She is what you would be
If I had a penny in my pocket
L’artiste a son atelier
Le fleuriste a son bouquet
Écrivaine sans histoire
Qu’est-ce que donc j’ai ?
All of your efforts…
an homage to false reasoning
Excuses misleading,
art’s truth to disown
Heaven’s Atelier
beyond comprehension
Its masterpiece living
—beyond canvas or stone
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
I was upstairs,
looking around in some stranger’s workshop,
I didn’t see him on the way up.
I saw the coordinated lines of artistry
which appeared to me as mere chaos.
Is that what she means?
Is she trying to be confusing?
Or is this poor perception a default in my 20/20 vision?
I saw the stacks of papers that didn’t make the cut,
left in a rumpled hump on the floor.
Is this pile of rejected text
the piece she intended to present as artistry?
And the junk drooping on the walls a mockery?
This is too much philosophy.
I left.
I walked down the stairs,
and there,
I saw him.
The spider.
Hanging,
strung up in his own web,
dead,
and lifeless,
just dangling.
Her most creative masterpiece.
~ Pink clouds ~
~ careless floating by ~
~ A piece of artwork from nature's atelier ~
~ Life is worth living, ~
~ when it is inspired by ~
~ Good Feelings ~
06.10.2016
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
I ogled through the open Atelier,
And chance into a spacious grotto,
Wanting to carry out an exploration of voodoo kingdom,
I made a pact with my kinetic limbs,
On they ride and halt at interval
Introducing to the eccentric phantasmagoria sheen;
The jaunty strokes dance on sheet nondescript,
A splash here fund a dash there, presenting views
Of nucleus of venerable attenuation of skeletons,
Damp dark commingle with laser flavour colours in a bout,
The power in waves transformed curves alive,
In practice of the occult, evergreen vision on screens;
The spirit-fay on the bark of Iroko,
Entangling themselves in limn haphazard liquid manner,
Chorusing in their parasitic wail:
You won't go until you bless me.
The wizard tore deep into the belly of denizen,
And offer sacks of intestine, pancreas and spleen,
Liver and heart on thorns of kernels,
Including a farrago of feeze, symbolism of shaggy
figures,
The ragged cupboard of labourer’s model,
Hole infested trusted rusted metals bind tight with
arteries,
And rope of twirling circles,
Tin filled up to shed.
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