Well, I think there are artists who are more or less contemporary with Hopper who are more relevant.
quote by Donald Judd
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Related quotes
Fiddle-Dee-Dee
Gather ‘round kids, I’ll tell you a riddle
About a lazy grasshopper ‘n diligent ants
They worked hard while hopper fiddled
Like some fool-hardy bug in a trance
Ants scurried about there was no time to play
Toiling all summer, storing food underground
They knew wintertime was not far away
While the vagabond fiddler couldn’t be found
First winter snowstorm came early that year
The ants tended the needs of their queen
Having plenty to eat they'd nothing to fear
For the colonies well being she’d foreseen
‘Around came the hopper hungry ‘n cold
“Can you spare a morsel or two” he cried
“I’ll play you a fine tune” he cajoled
“I’ve been so busy all summer” he lied
A soldier ant stepped up, his voice did ring
“Be off, you scandalous hopper
Or you’ll feel the pain of my poisonous sting”
“Hit the road…you worthless fopper”
Hearing the ruckus the queen summoned a drone
“Let the grasshopper in, give him something to eat
We can’t leave him outside all alone”
So in trudged poor hopper on cold frozen feet
With best manners the hopper ate his fill
Grateful to be well fed and alive
He now knew he’d survive winter’s chill
He vowed to no longer lie ‘n connive
Hopper picked up his fiddle, began to play
The most beautiful tune the ants ever did hear
From then on he played for them every day
Filling the the night air with good cheer
The story now ends with a moral you see
We must treat each other with kindness
For when we treat each other affably
We heal our judgment and blindness
(For Children/ROTMS)
poem by Ray Lucero
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Washed Away Under Work Loads
artists feel frustrated
when achieving not
when producing art not
not realizing images
in shifting vision mind
artists should
be producing art
no time for cooking
no time for cleaning
no time for hair cut
artists should not
not be able to keep up
with fermenting ideas
rain weather changes
haunting wake up calls
not creating art
is wasting artistic souls
is wasting artistic lives
in dry season droughts
withering artistic minds
work income human activities
life necessity farming for wages
dependent on salary climates
fifty sixty wage slave hours
is change devastating for artists
this drought no time for artistic activities
is crop failure starvation of artistic minds
leading to artistic suffering on massive scales
droughts are caused by lack of fertility rains
extended over long periods of wage slave times
slight brief rains slight artistic showers
is normality artistic not enough spring rains
to ground absorb artistic evaporated minds
artist is dehydrated lacking soul rejuvenations
plants animals need sustaining life waters
artists need self generated creativity waters
least art dies death of artistic dehydrations
art is main ingredient in artistic food chains
plants die from lack of water therefore animals
eating these plants will also die in drought cycles
artists true artists deprived of art wither drought dies
in mind soul lacking artistic flowering rejuvenations
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Dangerous Girl
How can I say goodbye?
When you saw underneath my skin?
Please be mine, all the time
I would halfway around the world
I used to be daddy's little girl
You were my hip-hopper
You were my heart-stopper
Yeah you're the only one that makes me feel
You make me feel like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
Your baggy jeans, you conquer me
You got my name tattooed on your thigh
So hardcore, I'm down for more
You touch me and left me in this world
You turned me back to daddy's little girl
You were my hip-hopper
You were my heart-stopper
Yeah you're the only one that makes me feel
You make me feel like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
You are my eye candy
You are my fat daddy
Yeah you are the only one who makes me feel
You make me feel like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
I was just on the plane
Next to you just to landing
Your ?car with the face turned to brown?
Cruising at speeds that the law would never allow
I know all you see is a innocent girl
Around you I'm free like a bird who has just left the ground
In a (?)
You were my hip-hopper
You were my heart-stopper
Yeah you're the only one that makes me feel
You make me feel like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
You are my eye candy
You are my fat daddy
Yeah you are the only one who makes me feel
You make me feel like a dangerous girl
You were my hip-hopper
You were my heart-stopper
Yeah you're the only one that makes me feel
You make me feel like a dangerous girl
Like a dangerous girl
song performed by Vitamin C
Added by Lucian Velea
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Contemporary Freedom
I am who I am
Because of what I am
I ask for freedom from love
I ask for freedom from slavery
I ask for freedom from hunger
I ask for freedom from desire
You know and I know
That not all seeds you sow
Will eventually grow
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
I read there was an old man
Who bade farewell to his only son
At the hands of his own gun
Where his actions contemporary?
Was his anger or concern temporary?
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
Vivid imagination leads to frustration
It could trigger a chain-reaction
Hence the concept of mass-killing
Is born out of an over-reacted feeling
There is no cure or process of healing
Once death is the meal we are dealing
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
We drink with intention to forget
We drink but later on regret
And the people are walking
And the people are talking
Talking about freedom, freedom
Talking about a heavenly kingdom
Talking about their great grandfathers and their moms
Talking about freedom in any shape or form
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
And it does not make any sense
Why we always speak first in defense
And it does not make any sense
[...] Read more
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The Endearment Past
I have tried to endeavour
Some endurable facts.
But never forgot a relevant
Laud of the endearment past
The tendency of some glee moments
Of such cruel bars, but never forgot
A relevant of endearment past!
The paroxysm of the cruel newt
And the wasted time of waster,
A scrawl book of school,
Like I was companionless as a
New comer of different birth.
But never forgot a relevant
Brunt of the endearment past.
I've had a group of some human beings
Without battered souls,
The bond of changing of those;
Battered situations……………
Has killed me at once.
It is my hard bitten promise!
I never forgot the relevant of
The endearment past.
poem by Jayanta Banerjee
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Am I Relevant?
Am I relevant?
I am not afraid to keep current.
I am not worrying about any egos to massage.
Or pretenses to keep hidden.
Am I relevant?
Well...
I am not trying to keep reality,
From intoxicated surburbanites!
Doing their best to smile through their agonies!
Am I relevant?
Should I care to be?
And who's life would change if I wasn't?
If I should stop being topical...
Would that mean I would prefer cartoons,
Over current events?
Would that mean I would ignore,
The time I've spent...
Watching others pollute minds,
As I sat on my behind...
Complaining 'why' someone can't find,
A way to restrict
Those with loose lips...
From preventing ignorance,
The freedom of contaminating truths...
By the soothing use,
Of complete and total censorship!
Am I relevant?
I like to think of myself as not being constipated!
Or overdone with fantasies outdated,
To bait disappointments!
I like to keep fresh...
And controversial!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Relevant It Isn't
The cost of living
Getting out of reach.
The English language,
Taught in schools...
Becoming overruled,
As not the only language to be used.
Outsourcing now is an acronym for loss.
While those on foreign shores,
Rule as the new boss.
Relevant it isn't!
Not to those blind to this.
Values once upheld and shared.
Standards of life disrespected and bared.
Crime and corruption now seduces like a treat.
And welcomed like a lost friend,
Eager to meet on urban streets.
Relevant it isn't.
Not to those blind to this.
Trapped in racist sentiments.
Mindlessness connecting this.
A consciousness limited to selfishness!
Self examinations go dismissed.
A finger pointing is quick to lift.
Relevant it isn't.
Not to those blind to this!
Politics dropping lives like flies.
Using alibis to deny a truth that hides.
And whose interests are left in the banks to dry?
Relevant it isn't.
Not to those blind to this!
But to those demystisfied...
Can not cry enough teardrops,
From their swollen eyes!
It's the pitifulness of it,
They wish can be admitted with this weeping!
Dripping like rain...
But gaining little attention,
From those drugged and entertained
By their own self importance.
And 'that' to them,
Is the only relevance that makes sense.
And even that has weakened in priority.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Bestowers Of Transformative Vision
pathos suffering passion
ripe within bodily experience
pathos of culture artistic expression
artists the 'I give birth to'
shape shifters people creators
bestowers of transformative vision
sentence seen is life vibration alteration
passionate in artistic creation expression
enrichers of web strand seekers beholders
artists hung upon vision quests
artists hung upon life beat heart beats
artists hung upon eyes burning in soul flame
artists historical now you see them now you don’t
poem by Terence George Craddock
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What Is Relevant?
What is relevant?
Only that which is deemed important,
By those who arrive 'first'...
At an event.
And establish the atmosphere,
Those who come later...
Condone and consent.
And...
Based upon the influence they have,
With the host...
The ones looking through windows,
And gossiping amongst themselves...
As to what's going on inside,
While they observe those gliding from side to side...
With a reading of their lips.
Makes not a bit of a difference,
To those within the inner circle.
Snobbing their noses as if to smell adversing scents.
And whatever is going on inside and with them invited,
Is relevant.
Anything else,
Is regarded as a nuisance that is tolerated to exist.
With an agitated annoyance expressed.
And this message is clearly sent.
If you are not amongst those invited to be inside,
Guess what...?
You are not relevant!
That's it!
Wake up, make it and taste the coffee.
From your own cup.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Please Stop Teasing Poppa
I ain't no bed hopper,
But poppa knows what to do,
In the bed.
I may be older but I smoulder,
And I'll rock your pretty head!
Don't you test me!
When I get turned on,
It wont be for long to feel the heat!
I know you're teasing poppa,
But poppa is the one to please your need!
I ain't no bed hopper,
But poppa knows what to do,
In the bed.
I may be older but I smoulder,
And I'll rock your pretty head!
Don't you test me!
When I get turned on,
It wont be for long to feel the heat!
I know you're teasing poppa,
But poppa is the one to please your need!
I know you're teasing poppa,
But please stop teasing poppa...
When he sleeps!
That heated furnace needs a bit of peace!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Marlowe Between the Lions
Imagine reading between the lions?
I mean the two standing stony vigil outside
the Art Institute of Chicago on Michigan Avenue.
A novel by Raymond Chandler and paintings by
Edward Hopper are celebrated within -
laconic detective and barren cityscapes
set the theme of big city angst and anomie
I checked through The Big Sleep -
*He sat behind a desk, a middle-aged plump
man with clear blue eyes
He puffed evenly and stared at me level-eyed,
a funny little hard guy
His neat well-kept face looked as if it had been shaved
within the hour
A small man in a big man's world
He looked ready for a fight*
Look closely at Hopper's oils-
*Night Shadows* *Nighthawks*
*Night Windows* *Empty Room*
Then I lit a cigarette and downed a good slug
of booze. The 38 Special nested snugly in its
holster. That night I felt like a big tough guy
ready for a fight within the hour.
Sure, I got big baby blues
and a swinging dick
like Marlowe!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Manifesto Of Contemporary Poetry(2012)
Contemporary poetry is a junction zone of distilled sky and earth of
(1) .psychology
(2) .philosophy
(3) .ethics
(4) .new aesthetics
(5) .contemporary socio-cultural-economic-moral-political-technolog ical issues reflecting power and knowledge
(6) .initiated knowledeg and creative wisdom of contemporaneity6.moment-to-moment decision making process
(7) .Alchemy between existing contemporary literary theory and working definitions of a practising and operational poet after modernist's literature and poetry
(8) .the end of literary genre concept
(9) .the concept of the continuum-chance, change, revisiting and reconceptualization
and
(10) .Contemplating on quotidian mental and physical experiences.
POET NYEIN WAY
1: 25 pm February 21,2012
poem by Nyein Way
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Marriage
This institution,
perhaps one should say enterprise
out of respect for which
one says one need not change one's mind
about a thing one has believed in,
requiring public promises
of one's intention
to fulfill a private obligation:
I wonder what Adam and Eve
think of it by this time,
this firegilt steel
alive with goldenness;
how bright it shows --
"of circular traditions and impostures,
committing many spoils,"
requiring all one's criminal ingenuity
to avoid!
Psychology which explains everything
explains nothing
and we are still in doubt.
Eve: beautiful woman --
I have seen her
when she was so handsome
she gave me a start,
able to write simultaneously
in three languages --
English, German and French
and talk in the meantime;
equally positive in demanding a commotion
and in stipulating quiet:
"I should like to be alone;"
to which the visitor replies,
"I should like to be alone;
why not be alone together?"
Below the incandescent stars
below the incandescent fruit,
the strange experience of beauty;
its existence is too much;
it tears one to pieces
and each fresh wave of consciousness
is poison.
"See her, see her in this common world,"
the central flaw
in that first crystal-fine experiment,
this amalgamation which can never be more
than an interesting possibility,
describing it
as "that strange paradise
unlike flesh, gold, or stately buildings,
the choicest piece of my life:
[...] Read more
poem by Marianne Moore
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Essay on Psychiatrists
I. Invocation
It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more
Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,
And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens
Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.
II. Some Terms
“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents
And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop
Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient
Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.
III. Proposition
These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations
Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means
Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Pinsky
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The Windmill
'The Windmills of Your Mind' ('Les moulins de mon cœur') is a song performed by Noel Harrison, with music by Michel Legrand and English lyrics by Alan Bergman and Marilyn Bergman, from the 1968 film, The Thomas Crown Affair.[1] The French lyrics were penned by Eddy Marnay.Noel Harrison took the song to #8 in the UK Singles Chart, and it won the Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1968.[1] Remarkably, Harrison's father, the British actor Rex Harrison, had performed the previous year's Oscar winning 'Talk to the Animals'.[1]The opening two melodic sentences were borrowed from Mozart's second movement from his Sinfonia Concertante for Violin, Viola and Orchestra.Dusty Springfield's version of the song from her album Dusty in Memphis is also well known; this version reached #31 on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart and #3 on the Billboard adult contemporary chart in 1969.[2] This recording also appeared on the soundtrack to Breakfast on Pluto (2006) .Other artists who have covered the song include Tina Arena, Petula Clark, Barbara Lewis, Alison Moyet, The Colourfield, Swing Out Sister, Edward Woodward, Parenthetical Girls, Esthero, Anne Clark, Sting (whose version was used in the 1999 remake of The Thomas Crown Affair) and Sharleen Spiteri on her The Movie Songbook album. The French rendering: 'Les moulins de mon couer', has been recorded by a number of artists including Richard Anthony, Johnny Mathis (with Toots Thielemans) , Patricia Kaas, Vicky Leandros, Nana Mouskouri, Jessye Norman and Caterina Valente. The song has also been rendered in Finnish as 'Samamlainen onni' recorded by Petri Salminen and also by Marita Taavitsainen; in German as 'Wie sich Mühlen dreh'n im Wind' recorded by Katja Ebstein and also by Vicky Leandros, and in Swedish as 'Vinden I Min Själ' recorded by Lill-Babs.
Under the Windmill a country lassie with a cane basket
She picks wild flowers hurriedly in the thicket
And a willet flies towards the marsh for her nest.
Far away cattle along the meadow
And a Red fox hoots on a hilltop willow.
Flock of cranes in the twilight sky.
It's getting darker and if I come to the Windmill
With my book of poetry,
Is it possible to get permission from your parents
To borrow a lantern for me,
Then I could have finished my reading early in the morning
And I promise you to return the Aladdin's wonderful lamp at your threshold
With a small chit saying thanks and my whereabouts before I leave?
for ShakespearesWaste Bin in gratitude!
*[First comment from my beloved; 'Hey! My old boy are you trying to be the Pied Piper of Hamelin? ']
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Barnyard Chorus
Poets in performance
various readings
bring your own... poems
waged four dollars
students unwaged
three dollars... participatory theatre
avant-garde
Aucklandisms
intellectuals artists
in feeding frenzy
Bohemianism
Ponsonby style
like-minded people
care to manicure
nail literary pursuits
urban artistic acceptable
Bullerite from sticks
wanderer adventurer vagabond
would not beg a bone
rejecting provincial
aucklandisms
contemporary herd mentality
no time
for provincial
kiwi poetry...
what’s happening
in Ponsonby
on exclusive marae
Maori models
therapeutic environment
inverted fables
popularism
promoted
guruism
pardon me
while I leave
farmyard mentality
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Pleasure. Book II.
The Argument
Solomon, again seeking happiness, inquires if wealth and greatness can produce it: begins with the magnificence of gardens and buildings; the luxury of music and feasting; and proceeds to the hopes and desires of love. In two episodes are shown the follies and troubles of that passion. Solomon, still disappointed, falls under the temptations of libertinism and idolatry; recovers his thought; reasons aright; and concludes that, as to the pursuit of pleasure and sensual delight, All Is Vanity and Vexation of Spirit.
Try then, O man, the moments to deceive
That from the womb attend thee to the grave:
For wearied Nature find some apter scheme;
Health be thy hope, and pleasure be thy theme;
From the perplexing and unequal ways
Where Study brings thee from the endless maze
Which Doubt persuades o run, forewarn'd, recede
To the gay field, and flowery path, that lead
To jocund mirth, soft joy, and careless ease:
Forsake what my instruct for what may please:
Essay amusing art and proud expense,
And make thy reason subject to thy sense.
I communed thus: the power of wealth I tried,
And all the various luxe of costly pride;
Artists and plans relieved my solemn hours:
I founded palaces and planted bowers,
Birds, fishes, beasts, of exotic kind
I to the limits of my court confined,
To trees transferr'd I gave a second birth,
And bade a foreign shade grace Judah's earth.
Fish-ponds were made where former forests grew
And hills were levell'd to extend the view.
Rivers, diverted from their native course,
And bound with chains of artificial force,
From large cascades in pleasing tumult roll'd,
Or rose through figured stone or breathing gold.
From furthest Africa's tormented womb
The marble brought, erects the spacious dome,
Or forms the pillars' long-extended rows,
On which the planted grove and pensile garden grows.
The workmen here obey the master's call,
To gild the turret and to paint the wall;
To mark the pavement there with various stone,
And on the jasper steps to rear the throne:
The spreading cedar, that an age had stood,
Supreme of trees, and mistress of the wood,
Cut down and carved, my shining roof adorns,
And Lebanon his ruin'd honour mourns.
A thousand artists show their cunning powers
To raise the wonders of the ivory towers:
A thousand maidens ply the purple loom
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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Flowers Are The Clocks Of The Light
Flowers are the clocks of the light.
Spring grey. Clouds. Half smoke, half crocus.
The rivulets are carrying last November's leaves away
like long lines of ants bearing the gnostic gospels
of the snow thawing into a spiritual life of water
back to the shrine of their colony
to be chewed over by the divines
masticating the mystery into something
like an edible orthodoxy of mystic impiety.
My heart is a bruised apple with purple blood today.
Neither passionate, nor aloof, clinging
nor unwilling to let go if that's what I must do.
One foot on shore. One in a lifeboat.
O what funny bridges we make as if
we were trying to balance the axis
of heaven and earth upon our nose
like the calves of giraffes learning to walk on stilts.
But there you go. What are you going to do?
That's the way it seems.
You've got to look up and stick your neck out
if you want to graze on the stars.
Same way with dreams. You've got to
risk waking up if you don't want to lose them.
I've wandered off from the carnage
of my doomed holy war of one with my heart
into a peaceful valley where I can sit
on a glacial skull of prophetic rock
and sheathe my sword in the wound I drew it from
like fire from the ore of a crippled dragon
that walked with a limp out of the war
weary of winning these honourable surrenders
like Jacob wrestling with the angel in the way.
Soft here. Easy on the eyes. A gentle touch.
The air on the verge of tears and the trees
about to see who's a skeleton and who's a survivor.
Who made it through the winter, and who
dreamed they died in their sleep and did,
and who, the ghost amputee of the limbs they lost.
I have a mindful heart and a warrior's compassion
for lost lovers, friends, suicides, martyrs, heretics,
neglected gods, defrocked saints, those
who fell half crazy on the broken panes
of their own clarity, committing hara kiri
on the splintered plinths of their own love-crossed stars.
One-eyed artists riding a pair of red bicycle glasses
in a high-wire act without safety nets
like a dropp of dew on a spider's thread
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
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Creative Perceptions
Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.
(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)
Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.
Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Images accompany
free originality.
(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Artists of Descriptive Depictions
Picking words with syllables heard,
To sound a beat or create a mental feast.
Artists of descriptive depictions...
Choosing from within and behind,
In minds with canvassed eyes they select.
And do their best when under some kind of duress,
It seems.
To perfect,
What is envisioned with more meaning!
Like a daydream scene internally screened,
To project upon our vision.
Is a snowflake etched,
And falling to a catching ground
As fetching?
Or as profound...
As the galloping hoofs of horses,
Pulling sleighs of joyful smiles around?
When holidays are welcomed...
Dripping with seasoned sights and sounds!
Orange with yellow brightening with hints of brown,
Introducing colors of Fall on trees standing tall.
Winter mint green,
And red adorning silver streams
Of Christmas dreams...
Soon in hearts will be found!
Decorating our imaginations.
Gifted wrapped to avoid the slightest frown.
Picking words with syllables heard,
To sound a beat or create a mental feast.
Artists of descriptive depictions...
Release an increased merriment to treat.
And our minds receive them,
To dance upon memories reminisced!
In anticipation...
Impatiently waiting,
For descriptive depictions...
To come alive before our eyes
Beholding the reality of their visits!
Capturing wonder and surprise.
Dedicated:
Writers. Poets especially.
There are quite a few 'Artists of Descriptive Depictions'
that come to mind. A few like Duncan Wyllie, Ms Theo Onken
Ms Marci Made, Herbert Nehrlich...these are just a few! So
please forgive me 'IF' I did not mention you by name.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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