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Carl Sagan

In the fabric of space and in the nature of matter, as in a great work of art, there is, written small, the artist's signature.

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Space And Dread and The Dark

Space and dread and the dark -
Over a livid stretch of sky
Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train
Of huge, primeval presences
Stooping beneath the weight
Of some enormous, rudimentary grief;
While in the haunting loneliness
The far sea waits and wanders with a sound
As of the trailing skirts of Destiny,
Passing unseen
To some immitigable end
With her grey henchman, Death.

What larve, what spectre is this
Thrilling the wilderness to life
As with the bodily shape of Fear?
What but a desperate sense,
A strong foreboding of those dim
Interminable continents, forlorn
And many-silenced, in a dusk
Inviolable utterly, and dead
As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes
In hugger-mugger through eternity?

Life--life--let there be life!
Better a thousand times the roaring hours
When wave and wind,
Like the Arch-Murderer in flight
From the Avenger at his heel,
Storm through the desolate fastnesses
And wild waste places of the world!

Life--give me life until the end,
That at the very top of being,
The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,
Out of the reddest hell of the fight
I may be snatched and flung
Into the everlasting lull,
The immortal, incommunicable dream.

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Judgment is bound by space and time.

Miss India.
Is not superior or inferior
To Miss China
Miss India,2000
Is not superior or inferior
To Miss India,2005.
Judgment is space and time bound
And beyond the attack of those
Outside of that space and the time.
01.07.2008

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Mileva And Certainty

Mileva loved him more than the Stars,
more than Time itself.

They both were physics majors
and dreamers who
wanted to take Newton
to new ground.

Both wanted Certainty:
he had his Cosmological Constant
and tried to prove that God does
not throw dice-
that the Universe was orderly.

She wanted Certainty, too,
and some say showed him how
and this is reflected in some of the ideas
which made him famous.

He got Quantum Physics
and The Theory of Uncertainty;
both then
had only Probabilities.

He divorced her
promising
his Nobel Prize money
and he spun away
into Relativity and Gravity;

both lost threads in the fabric
of Space and Time.

Both lost Certainty,

as we all now have,

we have now
only
Probabilities
and Relativities.

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The Artist and the Alderman

'Give us gardens!' said the artist,
'Blatant brick and soulless stone,
Never built a noble city.
Man lives not by bread alone,
Beauty brings, for our enrichment,
Smiling lawn and spreading tree.'
'Bricks and mortar,' said the alderman,
'Bring in more £.s.d.'

As acid and alkali,
Water and fire,
The good and the evil,
Discension inspire;
As the cat and the dog,
And the axe and the tree,
So artists and aldermen
Never agree.

Said the artist: 'Give us gardens!
So to save the civic soul,
Draw aesthetic men about you
Ere base ideals take control.
Let artistic minds advise you,
Lest you pay a shameful price.'
'And who,' inquired the alderman,
'Needs any such advice?'

As the cop and the crook,
As the fool and the sage,
As light and the darkness,
Hot youth and old age
As the lamb and the lion,
The ant and the bee,
So artists and aldermen,
Never agree.

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The Assassin, the Artist, and the Dog

Walking across this dangerous land
In this magical but corrupted world
The assassin, the artist, and the dog travel

This world is unbalanced
It surely is a world in ruin

The assassin, the artist, and the dog travel
And they know
That to survive
They must fight
Whether they like it or not

The assassin has his dangerous swords
and sharpened throwing tools
The artist has her enchanted paintbrushes
and magical paints
The dog has his bark and bite
And that's good enough for him
Everything else is perfect for the rest of them

During the day
During the night
As they travel along
It's a world on the brink of madness
But the assassin, the artist, and the dog know
of that
They know of the choices and chances they'll
have to make and take
It's tough out there to survive
But they know what it will take
They know what the world is like
They know how the world is

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Out of space and time

When God is seemingly nowhere,
He is certainly deep within ourselves.
We search Him at that core of the core,
Out of space and time,
Where darkness and coldness cannot be
Delved into the past
We search ourselves in our wintry wretchedness.
Pure consciousness is God
In all things,
But only the human beings are conscious of
His presence,
Being with Him.
It's absolutely no way to explain why
This frozen unconsciousness of the clay
Can rise to an enlightened consciousness.
Sometimes we are sharp rocks,
Having the consciousness of a stone,
Which is so formless, inchoate and
Sometimes empty,
Waiting His flood in early spring
For washing our sinful being,
Waiting the light,
Which speeds without mass
In non-existing space and time
For lightening our inner soul of nature
And our existing sharp being,
That kind of light,
Which warms everything inside
Until we are awakened.


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Farewell To The Poets And Poetesses Of Nature

Farewell to the poets and poetesses of Nature
Their beautiful rhymes are a gift of the heart
In literature they will always be remembered
For their promotion of Nature in which they played a huge part.

In their verses they captured some of the beauty of the Natural World
And their legacy in words is still with us today
In their poems one can visualize the wild birds singing
And in the warm Summer breeze get the sweet scent of hay.

Not all of them World famed or publicly acclaimed
Though a literary gem or two they created with us does remain
They played their own part in the promotion of Nature
And their likes perhaps we may not see again.

I love those old wordsmiths and their musical verses
They sung of the beauty around them they see
They had music in them their words so well written
With Nature they lived in complete harmony.

Farewell to the poets and poetesses of Nature
Their beautiful words do not have in them a use by date
To them we feel grateful for promoting Nature
And we thank them for the beauty that they did create.

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Space And Time

There ain't no space and time
To keep our love alive
We have existence and it's all we share
There ain't no real truth
There ain't no real lies
Keep on pushin' 'cause I know it's there
Oh, can you just tell me
It's all right (It's all right)
Let me sleep tonight
Oh, can you comfort me
Tonight (It's all right)
Make it all seem fine
I just can't make it alone
Oh, no, no
I just can't make it alone
Oh, no, no
There'll be no lullabies
There'll be no tears cried
We feel numb 'cause we don't see
That if we really care
And we really loved
Think of all the joy we'd feel
Oh, can you just tell me
It's all right (It's all right)
Let me sleep tonight
Oh, can you comfort me
Tonight (It's all right)
Make it all seem fine
I just can't make it alone
Oh, no, no
I just can't make it alone
Oh, no, no
I just can't make it alone
Oh, no, no
I just can't make it alone
Oh, no, no
Ain't got no lullaby, no, no
Ain't got no lullaby, oh, no
There is no space and time
Oh lord
There is no space and time
Oh lord
We have existence and it's all we share
We have existence and it's all we share
We have existence and it's all we share
We have existence and it's all we share
We have existence and it's all we share
Keep on pushing 'cause I know it's there
Keep on pushing 'cause I know it's there
Keep on pushing 'cause I know it's there
Keep on pushing 'cause I know it's there

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Lisbeth and the Artist

Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don't misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist's stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth
Poses as young girls do. Nothing
To show of interest and nothing
Hid no secret self no other you.
That's it the artist says we'll begin
The painting another day maybe
Next week if all is well. The girls
In shadow look away and resume
Their secret games. Lisbeth studies
The artist's blackened fingers as
He rolls the charcoal sketch and
Puts away. He gazes at her standing
By herself a glimpse of smile and
Glimmer in her eyes like small fires.
He closes the tired lids of eyes
And smoulders down his old desires.

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London Types: The Artist Muses At His Ease

The Artist muses at his ease,
Contented that his work is done,
And smiling-smiling!-as he sees
His crowd collecting, one by one.
Alas! his travail's but begun!
None, none can keep the years in line,
And what to Ninety-Eight is fun
May raise the gorge of Ninety-Nine!

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The Artist

The Artist and his Luckless Wife
They lead a horrid haunted life,
Surrounded by the things he's made
That are not wanted by the trade.

The world is very fair to see;
The Artist will not let it be;
He fiddles with the works of God,
And makes them look uncommon odd.

The Artist is an awful man,
He does not do the things he can;
He does the things he cannot do,
And we attend the private view.

The Artist uses honest paint
To represent things as they ain't,
He then asks money for the time
It took to perpetrate the crime.

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Heavens Playground...

The night sky is sprinkled with the jewels of angels,
Magically they hang there for all eternity,
I gaze upon those bright beacons of shimmereing crystal,
I connect the dots across the fabric of space and time,
Through a silky black sequined sky to heavens playground,
A dream world where our souls can dance upon starlight,
In dreams we ride the celestial skies until the morning light,
For dawn shall arrive and pierce through the heart of night,
Bleeding soft sunlight onto our beautiful horizon,
With the birth of another day dreams fade to memory,
And we must realise our place in this wonderous plan,
We are what happens to this brand new day...

Spread the love... The peace will follow...

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The Red Strokes

Moonlight on canvas, midnight and wine
Two shadows starting to softly combine
The picture theyre painting
Is one of the heart
And to those who have seen it
Its a true work of art.
(chorus)
Oh, the red strokes
Passions uncaged
Thundering moments of tenderness rage
Oh, the red strokes
Tempered and strong (fearlessly drawn)
Burning the night like the dawn
Steam on the window, salt in a kiss
Two hearts have never pounded like this
Inspired by a vision
That they cant command
Erasing the borders
With each brush of a hand
*chorus*
Oh, the blues will be blue and the jealousies green
But when love picks its shade it demands to be seen
*chorus*
Oh, the red strokes
Passions uncaged
Thundering moments of tenderness rage
Oh, the red strokes
Tempered and strong (fearlessly drawn)
Burning the night like the dawn.
Steam on the window, salt in a kiss
Two hearts have never pounded like this.

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The artist in Sowmya

The Artist in Sowmya

On the scene there arrived a cover,
Where beautiful flowers did hover,
In an ecstatic profuse shower,
As a wonderful collage'bower.

Many a drawing the cover closeted,
And on each my eyes got rivetted;
The designs were intricately matted,
And the etched drawings astounded.

The bigger charts—true -a feat,
To view the lovely paintings neat,
The aghast heart missed a beat;
It was to the eyes a bounteous treat.

Bound I'm to specially mention,
About the remarkable two, sections;
The distant snow-capped mountains,
With the green shrubbery in confrontation.

And the exquisite bird of Paradise,
With its colourful plumage, did entice;
The young artist's skill—singularly nice,
Could be honed to secure a prize.

May God bless you, Sowmya dear,
With a long healthy life to steer;
May you be perched high in many a sphere,
And be filled with happiness clear
.
.
.
.

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The Artist's Canvas

the artist's canvas
it is similar as the world
we all strive to paint
with the redness of our blood,
the heat of our passions
and the brushes of our life

how floored we are at times
in the face of things,
how petrified when things
turn out to be red rather
than the blue of our thought

Love which I have always
perceived to be pink is
actually a warm glow of
your fair skin and veins
under the morning sun and
the translucent brown of your eyes
and also beige and
forest green so splendid
they charm the emptiness
of the grey of day away

the freshness of your breath
is a consuming white and
your touch, a trimming of the
brown of muslin for us to anchor
our ecstacy as we lock eyes

in between all these are
the wave and wave of frenzied strokes,
blobs, globs, fuzzy angles
cubes and circles that never
fail to carry us over to the rainbow,
our feet to tango, our heart to sing
and our voice to soar
of love, of sweet dates, of angels
flying over to our paths

the artist's canvas
it is inviting as life where
our imagination can cruise
beyond the ends of earth
free as a bird and rich
as all the colours on the palette

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Pete the Artist

Pete the artist is a bipolar
Schizophrenic in remission,
Who gets supplemental
Security income and money
From his well-off parents
In Cheshire, Connecticut,
Who sent him to Choate
And to Harvard Extension school
So that he could boast of
A Harvard degree in English,
While his parents pay for his
Art studio, art supplies and strokes
Of genius, as he walks around
In his cowboy hat with Native
American feathers, earrings
And numerous rings on his
Fingers, telling everyone
That he works for living-
Pete the artist is really some
Caricature of what art has become,
As he shares his muddled
Abstractions and poetic views
Of the divine transcendence,
Zen, dolphin telepathy, pearls
And the ecstatic revelation
Of the Mayas and the Incas,
With some Gaelic bullshit
Thrown in for good measure,
Where all is majestic and pristine,
Like the Palmolive hands of
Jesus-Pete is a painter, poet,
Photographer, songwriter and
Storyteller, and an ego maniac,
Drunk on Stonehenge and pints
Of Guinness, Irish cliffs and
California surfing, Yeats, Neruda,
Borges, and the superficial
Waitresses at Delaney's,
Who care more about their tips
Than anything poetic-
But his bullshit is convincing
Enough to fit in with other
Hack writers and unrecognized
Picassos and Jackson Pollocks,
Going through the daily motion
Of creating really bad
Artwork.


June 18,2010

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The Artist's Duty

So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame
To extend all boundaries
To fog them in right over the plate
To kill only what is ridiculous
To establish problem
To ignore solutions
To listen to no one
To omit nothing
To contradict everything
To generate the free brain
To bear no cross
To take part in no crucifixion
To tinkle a warning when mankind strays
To explode upon all parties
To wound deeper than the soldier
To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all

To verify the irrational
To exaggerate all things
To inhibit everyone
To lubricate each proportion
To experience only experience

To set a flame in the high air
To exclaim at the commonplace alone
To cause the unseen eyes to open

To admire only the abrsurd
To be concerned with every profession save his own
To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty
To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator
To lift the flesh above the suffering
To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit

To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss

To HAPPEN

It is the artists duty to be alive
To drag people into glittering occupations

To blush perpetually in gaping innocence
To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence
To burrow beneath the subconscious
To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason
To obey each outrageous inpulse
To commit his company to all enchantments.

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But The Artist...

But the artist sat the nude model on the table and moved her legs apart. The girl hardly resisted and merely covered her face with her hands.

Amonova and Strakhova said that first the girl should have been taken off to the bathroom and washed between her legs, as any whiff of such an aroma was simply repulsive.
The girl wanted to jump up but the artist held her back and asked her to take no notice and sit there, just as he had placed her. The girl, not knowing what she was supposed to do, sat back down again.

The artist and his female colleagues took their respective seats and began sketching the nude model. Petrova said that the nude model was a very seductive woman, but Strakhova and Amonova said that she was rather plump and indecent.

Zolotogromov said that this was what made her seductive, but Strakhova said that this was simply repulsive, and not at all seductive.

-- Look -- said Strakhova -- ugh! It's pouring out of her on to the table cloth. What is there seductive about that, when I can sniff the smell off her from here.

Petrova said that this only showed her feminine strength. Abel'far blushed and agreed. Amonova said she had seen nothing like it, that you get to the highest point of arousal and it still wouldn't secrete like this girl did. Petrova said that, faced with that, one could get aroused oneself and that Zolotogromov must already be aroused.

Zolotogromov agreed that the girl was having quite an effect on him. Abel'far sat there red in the face and she was breathing heavily.

-- However, the air in this room is becoming unbearable -- said Strakhova. Abel'far fidgeted on her chair and then leapt up and went out of the room.

-- There -- said Petrova -- you see the result of female seductiveness. It even acts on the ladies. Abel'far has gone off to put herself to rights. I can feel that I will soon have to do the same thing.

-- That -- said Amonova -- only shows the advantage we thin women possess. Everything with us is always as it should be. But both you and Abel'far are splendiferous ladies and you have to keep yourselves very much in check.

-- Yet -- said Zolotogromov -- splendiferousness and a certain lack of bodily hygiene are what is to be particularly valued in a woman.

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The Artist's Dilemma

The wind blew in and the wind blew out
And it surged around the eaves,
The door out to the patio slammed
And the yard filled up with leaves,
Then Susan sighed, ‘There's goes my ride,
I was going to take the mare,
Now what can we do on a Sunday when
The wind's so wild out there? '

Her aunt lay back on the couch and stared
At me, with her doe-black eyes,
Not much older than Susan, she
Was Venus, in disguise,
Her fingers ran through her coal-black hair
And her hand smoothed down her thigh,
‘Why don't you ask the artist, dear,
Before his paints run dry.'

I'd finished painting the background in
Of the leaves that swirled in the air,
But put my palette aside and turned
To look for her meaning there,
Then Susan laughed, as she always did:
‘Do you mean that you'd be game?
I've only modelled alone before
But two? It would be insane! '

Imelda slowly uncurled herself
Rose steadily to her feet,
‘I'll be the older matron, while
You shall be young, and sweet.'
I shrugged, effecting a nonchalance
That I didn't really care,
But said, ‘Okay, I can paint you,
Put your clothes on the old armchair.'

I played about with my palette, mixed
The tones in a kind of blush,
Squeezed the Titanium White, and mixed
It in with the tip of my brush,
And when I finally turned around
They were stood, stark naked there,
I said, ‘Clasp hands, then back to back,
And Sue, let down your hair.'

I'd painted my wife a thousand times
So I knew each curve and line,
But Imelda, this was the first I'd seen
And I caught my breath in time,
Her black hair over her shoulders and
Her breasts, so firm and white,
Her hips the marvel of womanhood
And her thighs - a man's delight!

I turned on back to the easel, tried
To steady my shaking hand,
I thought of myself as an artist,
Underneath it, I was a man!
And Imelda caught a glimpse of that
As her lips curled in a smile,
She knew that my heart was pounding,
But my lust would wait for a while.

That painting hangs on the passage wall
And visitors stare in awe,
At the vision of womanly beauty
That the eyes of the artist saw,
And Imelda bridles at compliments
Then gives me the evil eye,
She's often said, there's a place in bed,
But I shake my head, with a sigh!

1 October 2012

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Space & Time

There aint no space and time
There aint no space and time
To keep our love alive
To keep our love alive
We have existence and its all we share
We have existense and its all we share
There aint no real truth
There aint no real truth
There aint no real lies
There aint no real lies
Keep on pushin cause I know its there
Keep on pushin cause I know its there
Oh, can you just tell me
Its all right (its all right)
Oh, can you just tell me
Let me sleep tonight
Its all right (its all right)
Oh, can you comfort me
Let me sleep tonight
Tonight (its all right)
Oh, can you comfort me
Make it all seem fine
Tonight (its all right)
Make it all seem fine
I just cant make it alone
Oh, no, no
I just cant make it alone
I just cant make it alone
Oh, no, no
Oh, no, no
I just cant make it alone
Therell be no lullabies
Oh, no, no
Therell be no tears cried
We feel numb cause we dont see
That if we really care
Therell be no lullabies
And we really loved
Therell be no tears cried
Think of all the joy wed feel
We feel numb cause we dont see
That if we really care
Oh, can you just tell me
And we really loved
Its all right (its all right)
Think of all the joy wed feel
Let me sleep tonight
Oh, can you comfort me
Tonight (its all right)
Oh, can you just tell me
Make it all seem fine
Its all right (its all right)
Let me sleep tonight
I just cant make it alone
Oh, can you comfort me
Oh, no, no
Tonight (its all right)
I just cant make it alone
Make it all seem fine
Oh, no, no
I just cant make it alone
Oh, no, no
I just cant make it alone
I just cant make it alone
Oh, no, no
Oh, no, no
I just cant make it alone
Oh, no, no
Aint got no lullaby, no, no
I just cant make it alone
Aint got no lullaby, oh, no
Oh, no, no
There is no space and time
I just cant make it alone
Oh lord
Oh, no, no
There is no space and time
Oh lord
Aint got no lullaby, no, no
We have existence and its all we share
Aint got no lullaby, oh, no
We have existence and its all we share
There is no space and time
We have existence and its all we share
Oh lord
We have existence and its all we share
There is no space and time
We have existence and its all we share
Oh lord
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
We have existense and its all we share
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
We have existense and its all we share
We have existense and its all we share
We have existense and its all we share
We have existense and its all we share
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
Keep on pushing cause I know its there
Keep on pushing cause I know its there

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