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Creative Mind

So gentle and warm
is the creative mind,
tender is the heart
for a creative mind.

You bring down the
love from heaven
with your creative mind
and thoughts from within.

A gift you have sharing
your inner feelings,
from your heart,
so the world can see,

the love you have
for the beauty of
things you see
through your eyes only.

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poem by Jim Foulk
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The gays like 'Project Runway' because it's a fashion, and the gays are into fashion and into design. It's a creative industry, and most of the gays are pretty creative, in general. That's just like the culture. We're not all into politics necessarily. We're more into the creative environment. I also think Heidi is a big draw. The boys love Heidi and think she's so fabulous. I just think it's a glitzy, fun show, and there are also always lots of gay boys on it, and, you know, that's fun.

quote by Christian Siriano
Added by Lucian Velea
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Something Easy to Do

I am told,
Since I enjoy writing...
I must find it easy to do!

First of all...
If someone finds something easy to do.
And they brag about it,
Not because what is done is 'liked'.
It is done because they find it easy.

Nothing is easy about writing.
In fact,
Those creative things I enjoy...
I don't find easy at all!
There are too many critiques involved.
Folks constantly expressing their judgements.
And then there are those who have jobs and drink coffee,
All day long to tell someone like me,
I should get a real job!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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You 'Feelin' Me?

Look...
For the record!
I AM a writer.
It is much more than liking it!
I AM it!

I AM this creative being.
I was born this way.
You know how some folks,
Can't make up their minds from time to time?
I don't understand that.
I don't have that problem.
The problem I'm confronted with,
Are those who believe I seek their approval...
Or acceptance.
Or 'tolerance' for my behavior.
And it has taken me years to convince them...
Even 'if' they did not exist,
I'd still be doing 'this'!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Funny Farm Frenzy

Welcome to the funny farm,
Let’s embrace in the steel embedded walls without harm,
Welcome to delusion, the land of charm,
Inside the walls is the realm of the most brilliant of men,
The schizophrenics, and the bi polars, everything torments them,
But inside the insane asylum, they escape from condemn,
The funny farm where you’re surrounded with laughter,
Through the air, the giggles are hidden beneath the rafters,
Constant delusion, from morning, afternoon and thereafter,
Manuscripts and portraits, the artistic minds inside the brilliant drafters,
The mentally ill the most creative of mind,
Inside the asylum, escaped from reality, their thoughts refined,
Inside the asylum, their life is left behind,
On the white walls where portraits and creative writing shine,
Without sunlight, they’re the creators of their own realm of divine,
Inside the white walls, in their delusion, their confined,
The funny farm where humor is their lifeline,
Welcome to delusion, the neverending dream,
Inside the asylum things are not what they seem,
To reality it’s a prison, to the patients it’s their regime,

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poem by Kurt Kacich
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Creativity Can't Make Up For Depression

Creativity cannot make up for depression
which it attempts to cure,
it can’t replace it with the kind of supersession
that made spurious lure
of Christianity when it induced some Jews
to make up for their loss
of their identity, condemned, they thought, to lose
unless they chose the cross.
No, creativity provides a transient high,
and then becomes a wraith,
for those who’re so depressed they find they cannot fly,
because they’ve lost their faith
in their ability to reproduce success,
which if it is not con-
stantly repeated is a letter whose address
appears to be, “Dear John.”

Inspired by an article (“In Praise of the Crack-U: A novelist peers through darkness to find glittering gems in writing and art”) , by the South African-born novelist Jeanette Winterson, lesbian lover of Julian Barnes’s widow, Pat Kavanagh, in the October 17,2009 WSJ (A report about her lesbian relations includes the information: Blessed with good looks that led many to compare her to Katharine Hepburn, she secured a nonspeaking part in Under Milk Wood. “I never got paid, but I did get to snog Richard Burton, ” she said) . Winterson writes:
The stories are well known; Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear and went mad. Sylvia Plath gassed herself. Anne Sexton committed suicide. Emily Dickinson was manic-depressive. Virginia Woolf worked through alternating bouts of madness and depression for most of her life. The mad, bad and dangerous wild boys of high art and popular culture make great copy—whether it's Caravaggio on the run for murder after one of his rages, or Allen Ginsberg, naked and drunk, howling through Manhattan. The women—Plath, Frida Kahlo, Maria Callas, Janis Joplin—imploding like dark stars, are the stuff of obsession…. Longing is painful. Every work of art is an attempt to bring into being the object of loss. The pictures, the music, the poems and the performances are an intense engagement with loss. While one is in the act of making, one is not in loss, and one has meaning. The fierce crashes that happen to many creative people when a piece of work is done (read Hemingway on this) come out of the sense that however good the work, it has not answered the loss. The strange thing about creative work is that it can have enormous value for others while its maker is left ravaged. The ancient Greeks understood this as the price of an encounter with a god—the divine forces enter the human and use him or her as an instrument, only to be ultimately destroyed. But I do not believe that creativity is destructive or divine. I believe it is the part of us that gives shape and voice to our innermost reality. This is frightening. Encounters with the real, in particular what we really feel, are something we generally try to avoid. Art mediates the encounter, allowing us to get nearer to our longing and our loss, to risk more, to dare more. Yet for the maker, the exposure is not mediated; it is total and terrifying. That is why so many creative people cut themselves off from their own experience, using drugs or drink or sex or shipwreck to avoid absolute exposure to the pain of creativity. When Whitman turned to face his dark angel, to wrestle with himself, he was acknowledging his own loss, his own longing, his own unstaunched wound.

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poem by Gershon Hepner
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By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By

By the light I have been given to go by,
I can see how homeless the journey truly is.
How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones
we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls
or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead
buried under fire and the numinosity of our picture music
impregnating the womb walls of a space made sacred by fear.
The darkness bears my secrets, and in the torchlight,
in carbon and red ochre, a diary of shamans
gored by defecating rhinos speared to death.

I have imagined my way into an understanding
that is a rite of passage into a space that is
a vast abyss of intelligence, a nothingness
that speaks through an intuitive grammar of things
as if a galaxy, a star, stone, tree, raindropp were each a thought,
a sign, a word, the syntax of a growing paradigm
of creative awareness that we're completely alone
and lost at sea like fish on the moon crawling out of its tides
as if nothing bound us, not even detachment,

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poem by Patrick White
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To See The Glee In Your Eyes At Eighty

To see the glee in your eyes at eighty
as if you were about to achieve something as big
as you did at three.
And you, there, shy one, freaky adolescent
day after day in the same corner of the restaurant
like a bruised mermaid
riding the clock out like a sea turtle
until it’s time to go home again and face the music;
you who drive your pen so deeply
into the fleshy paper
of your black arts journal
as if you were carving up a body
or intensely wedging the tiny bird tracks
of your hieroglyphic footnotes
like some bitter aside
into the shin of that Ramsean gigantism
you’re standing in the shadow of
waiting for it to get dark enough
the fireflies might come out.
To see you light up like a rainbow at a black mass

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poem by Patrick White
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Double Helix Abecedarian - Xylophonic Resonance He Licks Enigmatic

XYLOPHONIC RESONANCE HE LICKS ENIGMATIC
Kindly refer to notes. and see Temptations and Poetic Pizza Extravaganza below :)

Xylophonic Resonance
double helix abecedarian

The first line begins with A and ends with Z
the next line begins with Z and ends with A
The next line begins with B and ends with Y
The next line begins with Y and ends with B
The next line begins with C and ends with X
The next line begins with X and ends with C

A to Z top down A to Z bottom up

All fizzle, finish frazzled, launched with fizZ.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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