Long Pollock Poems
Long Pollock Poems. Below are the most popular long Pollock by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pollock poems by poem length and keyword.
Did the first creature to crawl
out of the proverbial, primal primordial,
onto the sand,
feel like a fish out of water,
out of its depth,
when high and dry on land?
With no wish to carp or cock a snook
I won't leave you in the lurch
but oh my cod take a look
what a plaice to perch
as just for the halibut
putting seahorses out to paddock
is enough to give one
a severely bad haddock
so no red herring I don't flounder around
take a peeled eel flake of baked hake
plus a pinch of pickled pilchard
and an ichthyic sandwich make
but if my words are vitriolic
you may grunt and kiss my bass
as it's all a load of pollock(s)
I wrote this at the last minute.
You know,
the minute before, I raced out the door.
I scrawled it out until the paper tore.
The thoughts I wanted to convey
about another hurried, scrambled day.
I spilled and splattered it on the page.
I was Jackson Pollock in a frantic rage.
My muddy, muddled words never tired.
My rutty, riddled will never expired.
This scratch was never worth any cash.
This paper crumpled and tossed in the trash.
On second thought, I recovered the script.
The meager text told a tale I never gripped.
I wrote this at the last minute.
You know,
the minute before, I raced out the door.
Paul Jackson Pollock
Condense versions that affected the times,
Immense variants that scoped his pleasures,
Florence immersed unravel a mentor,
Propense expounds at immortal measures.
Paul J. Pollock, painter, from Wyoming,
Haul labeled abstract impressionist art,
Gall at pouring, splashing, horizontal,
Call, was his ardor, loved beyond his heart.
Drip technique viewed canvass at all angles,
Whip body whole, frenetic dancing style,
Flip the brush, traverse the canvass boldly,
Grip abrupts a hold, paint flicks, dons a smile.
Divide hath praised his immediacy,
Pride his fluency of the creation,
Deride the random effects of his art,
Astride the split, sits a fenced summation.
Face that he wore was like seasons changing,
Space art goes on, naught a start, nor an end,
Trace that he drew, nay pictures, but events,
Chase rare acclaimed, never, nor what they penned.
He paints Blue Poles in 1952,
The Australian government purchased it,
Be it known, poles sought, chase made, was futile,
We found the entitled, be a misfit.
First, the Mural most expensive of his,
Burst, Number 17-A, naught mellow,
Dispersed, Mural on Indian Red Ground,
Versed, The Deep black and white, hints of yellow.
Guise his failing marriage with Lee Krasner,
Unwise, alcohol, substitutes his wife,
Empathize, Ruth Kligman, unfaithfulness,
Dies, drunk driving, Ruth lived, late renown life.
2020 February 08
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT J ,any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
Painting Voices
by Odin Roark
How indelible
These frequencies abounding
Filling our senses with color
Defending our spirit with aura
Voices speak
Sing
Chirp
Bellow
Crosshatching endless layers
How personal their colors
Sounds of red
Yellow
Green
And blue
Diminuendos to crescendos
Weaving and blending
Curling and attaching
Mixing hues of sonance
Into the kaleidoscopic surrounding we absorb
To make into our own palettes
How lightning gray
The subway shriek
The yellow/blue
Of a lone sparrow
The crimson red
Of a Pavarotti high C
Would that the world might create
A global canvas harmonized
By colors of passion
Love
And peace
Even as they sort out
The dissonant vibrations
Of a Pollock guise
To allow our blue/gray tempest rage beneath
To surface and become one
With the purity of white
To know that the reflection of all color
Cannot be known
Without the awareness of black
Painting voices
Pulsation needing only whisper’s hue
To truly hear and see
Yours are the paintings that speak to me
In a way that cannot be spoken
They fill both my heart and breast
They cause my mind eternal unrest
I see them in my dreams.
My heart beats faster
In the presence of their rhythms
They dance to the music of another lover.
Or that lover could be me
I feel your passion as my truth.
The broader the strokes the more I feel
The lesser your details must be given
Every color executed with a reason
I know the fervor that you’ve shown
The metrics of your vision.
The finer grains of your textured points
Like stars thrown cross the heavens
Are they the products of a celestial force?
Did God choose to show himself through you?
Or just serendipity as many would believe?
Some accidental truths.
Nothing special
Nothing to be gained
Nothing to be learned from you.
I see them as an orchestration of the divine
conducted from above.
Yours are the paintings that speak to me, Jackson.
Yours are the paintings I love.
(November 30, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
This may seem strange to many of us randomlike spontaneity sans a focus Spontaneity drips involuntary &yet deliberate from above.Joyous expression of inhibitions,inner experience made free to be.Painter and creative force united as one living moment.It and its residue,to remain, in epigraph thus
In
Jackson Pollock: Memories Arrested in Space,by Martin Gray
..... 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).., 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 eight books ,(albeit without the usual notes and references ),all help to make this an easy poetic bio read.
Part one ,in 30 stanzas ,entitled 'Pollock breaks the Ice' is the most helpful to the student of art who seeks to understand Pollock's spontaneous ' energy made visible' of his' memories arrested in space 'as the artist himself so defined his painting.
So direct was Jackson Pollock
giving the art world quite a shock
Art with no beginning & no end
he established an artistic trend
Pollock impulsively hurled his paint
making spots&splatters quite quaint
Action painting novel& new
arrested moments out of the blue
painterly picturesque it ain't
Jackson opened the 'abstract ' door
laying the canvas on the floor
The creator of 'drip' 'flick' and 'stick'
spontaneity was his artistic trick
Vast, powerful motion of all time,
How many do you facilitate sublime?
To discover, protect and to ably fight,
By wood, to keep our territory right.
To race, enjoying the sea air of such waft,
And to fish for delicious bites from our nets cast;
Enjoying the freedoms of the Common Fisheries Policy,
Having livelihoods protected through areas of advocacy.
One of carbon and two of oxygen, water,
And of course with salt which does the liquid alter;
Also with sodium, magnesium, calcium and sulphate too,
Plus the ions potassium and chlorine which do.
You can't really drink it apart from a sip,
But seawater and its fish can be boiled for your lip;
Cod’s coming back as no more overfished,
So pollock does not anymore need to be wished.
Our first travels were made on the ocean wave,
Its captains gave respect and sensibly did behave;
We journeyed from England to America to make,
A life for ourselves which nobody was to brake.
It moves with power, and sometimes takes a life,
And hides oil that's dug through much toil and strife;
The global community needs to channel its energy,
For renewable sources to be designed with synergy.
So exquisite Claude Monet
colour filled never gray
A nebulous impression
from each plein-air session
Arthritis afflicted H Matisse
but his art he did not cease
He switched to coloured cutouts
to give his reputation more clout
Abstract artist Mark Tobey
loved his calligraphy
White writing was a theme
in later years to come onstream
Jackson Pollock loved artistic drips
a form most of us can get-a-grip
Arrested moments one-by-one
careful don't let them run
Strasbourg's Hans (or Jean) Arp
with random art was quite sharp
Everything was made by chance
why not give his art a glance
Troubled soul Vincent van Gogh
yes,the one with the ear cut off
Painted sunflowers so yellow
was in fact a talented fellow
The smoky clubs of thought/ where shadows dance and poets talk of truth whispered low/man, a story without end/ can you dig it, my friend/ improvisation’s the key, always unlocked in time, a jazz riff echoing truth in research of a paradigm/
assumptions about the nature of reality in jazz talk, scales, and harmonies, the framework we embrace/is not life the same? like established knowledge, but thinking out of frame, lighting up the space, to build on a jazz note we create, we innovate, say, give the funky drummer some/
just like Miles on his horn, exploring what's in the score, man, the vibing brain, a hipster’s thought, where networks of creativity ignite, and a conscious soul control breaks through/
The mind unfurls its thinking wings, a melody takes flight in a jazzed-up symphony of science, burning ever so tight/
a rock steady beat, the rhythm deepens, but the jazz spills over, it paints a wider scene, Pollock's action strokes, vibrant, raw, and jazzy, mean/
Oh, but the freedom in his canvas, a rhythm in his hand like McCoy Tyner’s dancing on the keys/
improvisation's spirit, always in jazz and graffiti wall art on subway trains sprayed across the Bronx highlands/Miles himself, he painted too, abstract hues so bold, from horn to brush he journeyed, a creative, restless soul/ life jazz influence profound, taking its hammering toll on his body and soul/
man, the tempo picks up, into the evolution of funk more emphatic, much more in the pocket of James Brown/ ya dig? exploration, a pattern found, a quantum leap into the unknown jazz heap of sounds/ like a jazz horn solo taking a giant step into the ubiquity of a jazz riff, a seed that has been sown across the river of stars/
In science and music, the spirit intertwined/a quest for understanding, etched upon a circle of fifths/ and the universal wind cries Mary, a jazz solo vast like a Jimi Hendrix acid jazz blast/
repeating rhythms echo across jazz music and cosmology/ in spoken word harmonies with in and out thinking with room for improvisation, improvise your life, and breathe it in/ get hip to the rhythm in your soul/ let it flow, man/
Let the jazz of physics make you brilliantly whole/gung-bow-chi, chi, gung-bow/ drums as the backbone to the funk thing/ It’s a strong emotional and spiritual bond into Life, and the physics of the Jazz sound
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
To a place full of colourful lights.
I was having a beer with Nelson Mandela,
And we talked about our own civil rights.
He put down his drink and quietly said,
“It always seems impossible until it’s done”.
And then he just vanished, replaced by a tin hatted soldier,
Blood covered from World War 1.
He looked numb and dead, behind bleary eyes,
And didn’t really want to talk at all.
I think he wanted to weep, for the people in his mind,
When he let go a short mournful squall.
And then Jackson Pollock walked in, with a smile and a grin,
With a new paint of his crazy Blue Polls.
He shook hands with the soldier and gave him his painting,
Saying this is for all the lost souls.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
Where everything seemed so extreme.
Can’t wait for tonight, when again, civil rights can be done,
In another profound, definitively chaotic dream.
This is for Brian Davey's "My cousin chaos" contest.