Soulless erudition:
a scalpel in his hand,
dreams of being surrounded
by perfect ticking clocks
that never skip a beat
to perpetuate time
in empty envelope
for fear of a content.
He wishes to dissect
the moments others make,
echoes inside life’s shell.
futile are his attempts:
unpredictable art
escapes beautifully:
its essence disappears
between his frozen hands.
Letters fall like oil onto canvas,
drops of sap from our severed limbs,
born again on tight fabric
of creativity's recreation.
The morgue of bitterness
hosts his sterile vision,
bigotedly claiming
his fundamental angst:
“God, have I been chosen?”
In doubt, he censors all
- illusion of balance –
a double-edged scalpel.
Words paint our thankfulness
for having a heartbeat,
an inventive metronome (that skips a beat),
allowing us to write…
imperfect music
from the heart.
Chere Axilea, Your poem is very profound for me who never set a foot in any English or American school. I realize that I have a lot to learn from you. Thank you for sharing and thank you for the word "Sensitivity". Please keep going so I can progress. Love Emile
Reviewed by Mello Anti (Reader)
Reviewed on September 18, 2008
like an Asian flower painted in the most beauty of artwork paintings i'm a fan i must say please keep writing...what can i say you impress me greatly.
The beginning and ending verses of this so wonderfully bring the images of ticking things to the mind and it is good writing that it wraps around and through this piece. Your depth is always a beautiful thing to behold.
Axilea - Enjoyed your "A censored heart." I know someone who fits this poem. As if they want to make a science out of art. The true test of an exceptional poem is if its more than the sum of its parts. Especially liked:
unpredictable art
escapes beautifully:
its essence disappears
between his frozen hands.
and especially the ending:
Words paint our thankfulness
for having a heartbeat,
an inventive metronome (that skips a beat),
allowing us to write…
imperfect music
from the heart.
I took me a while to get into this poem. But when I finally did, I loved it. There are those who dispassionately examine things to death, or at least try to. But some things, like creative expression, take on a life of their own. They will-out. I hope I'm always around to read yours.
My poem left off bleeding at his sharp-edged probe
and died.
Beedlets of blood-rhyme seeped inward,
congeled.
And when they shut the door to that refrigerated cubicle,
a song of mourning
oozed out the poem's mouth,
and bled a colorful life
of violet
on cold steel.
And when the body was removed,
they lived on.
--Charlie
Reviewed by Gianetta Ellis (Reader)
Reviewed on September 9, 2008
This deserves to be felt with the heart, soul and spirit - no intellectual analysis necessary. You're a true talent and you affect your readers.
Reviewed by E. Farrand (Reader)
Reviewed on September 8, 2008
Hi Axilea,
This line: "The morgue of bitterness hosts his sterile vision"
brings to mind the censorship that many countries still have. Many times censorship of books, art, music are begun by one person: he or she jeolous of the talent or a sociopathic person who hates simply because others enjoy. Yes, our end results may be imperfect, but the love of doing is the reward that we receive.
Reviewed by ~ Holly Harbridge (Reader)
Reviewed on September 8, 2008
A skillful writer has written this, that is what I see...but who the heck is the idiot that has nothing but evil to say? Just click on the delete botton, I believe it still works. (I love your work Axilea,) love Holly
Your poetry gives so much to think and contemplate about... there are so many facets to this piece, each varying in meaning and depth. The last stanza however, is exceptionally beautiful and made my heart skip a beat in happiness that we do have this ability...
Cryssa
The meaning within this couplet struck me. Though the action refers to the scrutiny of moments, it brought to mind the stage I reached in my early 40s when I realised many of my viewpoints were not my own. They needed to be dissected, scrutinised and then removed in order to allow the real me to unfold.
The morgue of bitterness
hosts his sterile vision,
bigotedly claiming
his fundamental angst:
These lines taken as a statement succinctly sums up the state of mind in which I worked to make the clear out. Bigotry, angst and bitterness were amongst the feelings underpinning the views that I had adopted. Thankfully they are gone - censored from my life.
Thought provoking - and sensorially therapuetic - work as ever.
On first reading, I felt like this was a statement of life - "hanging in balance." We create [or attempt] to create an illusion for all the world to see. Yet, realizing that to keep this 'balance' we must continue to perpetuate a lie - the "imperfect music from the heart."
My second reading, reviews of artistic and literary works.
In all, this poem has given me an awful lot to contemplate.
Fascinating!! I can see the heartless automaton determinedly attempting to stamp out all signs of creativity. Stop making a mess! it says in its robotic voice. You are getting paint on everything! Spilling words on my nice, neat universe and breaking rules right and left!! Very creative, Axilea. Thank you so much for this thought-provoking and marvelously 'messy' creation. Encore!
ENCORE!! xOx 'Pea' xOx
an engagingly pensive write, axilea. the quest for creativity,
no matter the mode, is our only hope for a glimmer of that elusive
"illusion of balance"... censorers be damned.
excellent write,
cgbm
Your work is always challenging, many layered and an intellectual and spiritual pleasure. This is really special though. Here I hear the echoes of a spiritually dead world, yet a world that is permeated by those who can see beyond its think skein of rules into a creation of unbounded beauty.
There's a lot more I could write about this - it's a rare work of sensitivity and depth. Well done.
The controlled heart feels little but pretends and imagines it does, and essences do indeed disappear in frozen hands. Fine writing, Axilea, a deep pleasure.
John
Mary Angela Nangini's poems celebrate the richness of life and love. From the city to cottage-country and the roads in between, Nangini explores the changing seasons of her varied region. (This book will soon be reprinted in hard cover.)
Share
Print
Save
Follow
enjoy your day.
Sandie Angel :o)
unpredictable art
escapes beautifully:
its essence disappears
between his frozen hands.
and especially the ending:
Words paint our thankfulness
for having a heartbeat,
an inventive metronome (that skips a beat),
allowing us to write…
imperfect music
from the heart.
- David
for being you.
My poem left off bleeding at his sharp-edged probe
and died.
Beedlets of blood-rhyme seeped inward,
congeled.
And when they shut the door to that refrigerated cubicle,
a song of mourning
oozed out the poem's mouth,
and bled a colorful life
of violet
on cold steel.
And when the body was removed,
they lived on.
--Charlie
This line: "The morgue of bitterness hosts his sterile vision"
brings to mind the censorship that many countries still have. Many times censorship of books, art, music are begun by one person: he or she jeolous of the talent or a sociopathic person who hates simply because others enjoy. Yes, our end results may be imperfect, but the love of doing is the reward that we receive.
Cryssa
the moments others make,
The meaning within this couplet struck me. Though the action refers to the scrutiny of moments, it brought to mind the stage I reached in my early 40s when I realised many of my viewpoints were not my own. They needed to be dissected, scrutinised and then removed in order to allow the real me to unfold.
The morgue of bitterness
hosts his sterile vision,
bigotedly claiming
his fundamental angst:
These lines taken as a statement succinctly sums up the state of mind in which I worked to make the clear out. Bigotry, angst and bitterness were amongst the feelings underpinning the views that I had adopted. Thankfully they are gone - censored from my life.
Thought provoking - and sensorially therapuetic - work as ever.
Regards
David
My second reading, reviews of artistic and literary works.
In all, this poem has given me an awful lot to contemplate.
God bless you. Kathy
ENCORE!! xOx 'Pea' xOx
no matter the mode, is our only hope for a glimmer of that elusive
"illusion of balance"... censorers be damned.
excellent write,
cgbm
escapes beautifully...
one must trust the freedom of the pen. -gene.
Fee
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
Your work is always challenging, many layered and an intellectual and spiritual pleasure. This is really special though. Here I hear the echoes of a spiritually dead world, yet a world that is permeated by those who can see beyond its think skein of rules into a creation of unbounded beauty.
There's a lot more I could write about this - it's a rare work of sensitivity and depth. Well done.
Keith
and must copy to read this again...Superb depth
Thanks for sharing...
ET
John
Regis