Discussion in 'Philosophy' started by Phil S, Nov 24, 2017.
^ I wonder what Bukowski would have said about that picture.
A poem is a city filled with dead Christmas trees and scarecrows...
Holy Moses, Phil.
Arms spread out in enjoyment, with the sun shining on my endeavors.
But I thought . . . "No one throws stones at a barren tree." Guess that attitude only applies to negative critiques. When you get a compliment, I guess you're supposed to react and make it count. LOL. Needy much?
." Guess that attitude only applies to negative critiques. When you get a compliment, I guess you're supposed to react and make it count. LOL. Needy much?Fred.
Whatever Fred that makes you feel good.
Allen, just to be clear, you make me feel anything but good. That's ok, it's human not to feel good sometimes. For me, you're kind of like a horror movie. In your presence, I tend to feel like vile, awful things are about to come crawling out of holes and spread all over me. Might be good motivation for my creative juices, though, so a thank you may be in order.
Sorry to upset you so much.
And there's no need to thank me but thank you for the kind thoughts.
Enjoy your photos on the street forum.
Hope you keep posting.
I forgive you Fred for some of your not some nice comments. You are just Fred.
Yes Im very wicked. Sorry.
Once upon a time...
A young lady called Mary Shelley (19 years of age ) wrote a story to , pass the time, suggested by Lord Byron a romantic dreamer of the time.
Shelley created a different form of life in her prose bought into the world that, the new life felt, did not want it; it wanted to feel love and acceptance, and when the new life is rejected, by faiths, and fellows....it turned to bitter ways.
In the silence of the night, a eire cry can be heard ; it is Fredeinstein crying out for his soul that has been taken away....but of course it has always been there..
LOL. You and Fred could do a play together of that story. Frankenstein is the name of the doctor though so you'll both have to work out first which (body)part to play...
"Frankenstein is the name of the doctor though" Phil.
Indeed, but the story grows in the telling, and popular culture has only one name .Our new cultural hero has become Fredeinstein and the story and legend walks among us this very day on PN.
"You and Fred could do a play together of that story.... you'll both have to work out first which (body)part to play"...Phil.
I'm going for the eyes and ears and most importantly the "John Thomas" bits. Fred can have the rest.....hey, any left overs we could create a Philistine.
All in good "leg pulling humor gentlemen"
Why not give me the role of a Philanderer instead. Only one body part needed...
Allen's picture still holds up as a condensed philosophy. It's not about how it looks, it's about how it sounds the way it looks. I can hear the beeping noise of a truck backing up while I'm walking by on the side walk after a nights out. The light is too harsh but at least it feels warm.
a poem is a city by Charles Bukowski
a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter...
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows...
a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world...
and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor's scrutiny,
and night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.
There are tree ways of presenting anything.
The first is to present everything.
The second is to present what people want.
The third is to present which will serve them best.
Clever worded poem, Phil.
A poem is like magic, you cannot touch it, only feel it.
But then you have to believe in magic.
r"Allen, just to be clear, you make me feel anything but good. That's ok, it's human not to feel good sometimes. For me, you're kind of like a horror movie. In your presence, I tend to feel like vile, awful things are about to come crawling out of holes and spread all over me. Might be good motivation for my creative juices, though, so a thank you may be in order"
'For me, you're kind of like a horror movie" Fred.
" feel like vile, awful things are about to come crawling out of holes and spread all over me". Fred.
Love you to bits, Fred....really. Masterful prose from the soul.
I've photographed it, framed it, and put it on my wall. True.
To my mind Art comes from.... whether it is the brush/the photograph/the sculpture it comes from a depth of feelings and imagination.... the human mind needs to express itself, the cry of the soul, for want of a better word...
We use those feeling and join them together with our imagination to express the ethereal/the hidden subconscious..
Always, to my mind, Art is the expression of feeling/imagination and wonder.
Without practice and without putting in the work and engaging with the world, imagination seems useless. I have too many creative ideas that I haven't done anything with yet. The ideas will all wither away. The moral of Frankenstein's story is that he didn't tend to his own creation when it didn't turn out to be what he had in mind and then abandoned it without giving the creation a chance to realize itself in the outside world. But it's better to execute a bad idea and tend to it than to wait for a great idea to magically manifest itself.
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