LLama's Artsy Corner
- dollabillz
- Disinterested Hipster
- Posts: 1578
- Joined: Tue Feb 03, 2009 3:34 am
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
SOME TREES
These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance
To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what the trees try
To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.
And glad not to have invented
Such comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges
A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Placed in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
- John Ashbery
These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance
To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what the trees try
To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.
And glad not to have invented
Such comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges
A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Placed in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
- John Ashbery
- The Silken Knot
- Lux Tiki Drinker
- Posts: 5656
- Joined: Sun Jun 22, 2008 1:29 pm
- The Silken Knot
- Lux Tiki Drinker
- Posts: 5656
- Joined: Sun Jun 22, 2008 1:29 pm
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
AlsoThe King wrote:LLama
Recently visited Hakone Shrine close to Tokyo as I was amazed by this pic that I found online.
Its magic. And in my humble opinion very artistic.
First time posting a picture so not sure this will actually work....
Just in case it doesnt here is the link as well
http://stuckincustoms.smugmug.com/Portfolio/i-MFzLngb/A
- dollabillz
- Disinterested Hipster
- Posts: 1578
- Joined: Tue Feb 03, 2009 3:34 am
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
HEAD WOUND
On the day that my life span matched my mother's life span,
on the day when I had come to live as long as my mother lived--
she died in 1975, of cancer, three days after her fifty-second birthday--
on the day when I had lived as many days as she got to live
(though for her there were hundreds and hundreds of days of
miserable pain, which has not at all been my fate)--
on that day
I went to the gym to play basketball with some friends.
The game was fun, intense, chaotic--
trying to steal a rebound from big Patrick
I got my head in a wrong conjunction of time and space
and his big elbow hit me hard--I staggered
and muttered "I'm okay I'm okay" but everyone said "No you're not"
and my hand came scarlet from my head.
They made me sit down, and someone ran for towels and ice.
There was a silence in the universe for perhaps ten seconds
and it seemed to clang with meaning.
To see if I had a concussion one guy asked me questions
like today's date and my age and I told him.
Minutes later, when it was clear the cut on my head was superficial,
everybody spoke knowingly about head wounds
like a staff of doctors who can't be fazed--
"Heads wounds, man, yeah, they bleed like a river" . . .
But I remember their eyes in that ten-second silence:
human beings in the presence of something--fate
their eyes all remarkably sober and focused and interested
watching my eyes as I mopped ineffectually at the bright red stream
crossing my forehead and dripping to darken my blue teeshirt
with strange implication.
Driving to the Emergency Room I had seven thoughts:
1. It's a reminder.
2. It's a warning.
3. Let's not get carried away.
4. No wonder it is necessary and has always been necessary
to read poems and write them, to read novels and write them,
because the world is this enormous haunted cavern or enchanted gynasium
filled, too filled with symbolic meanings ready at any moment
to spring forth like goblins and make anything significant.
5. I'm lucky, she wasn't lucky;
she wasn't lucky, I'm lucky, it doesn't mean
ANYTHING--
6. But even if it doesn't, I can still say
her bad luck was bad;
7. And if that's true, doesn't it follow
that my good luck is good?
- Mark Halliday
On the day that my life span matched my mother's life span,
on the day when I had come to live as long as my mother lived--
she died in 1975, of cancer, three days after her fifty-second birthday--
on the day when I had lived as many days as she got to live
(though for her there were hundreds and hundreds of days of
miserable pain, which has not at all been my fate)--
on that day
I went to the gym to play basketball with some friends.
The game was fun, intense, chaotic--
trying to steal a rebound from big Patrick
I got my head in a wrong conjunction of time and space
and his big elbow hit me hard--I staggered
and muttered "I'm okay I'm okay" but everyone said "No you're not"
and my hand came scarlet from my head.
They made me sit down, and someone ran for towels and ice.
There was a silence in the universe for perhaps ten seconds
and it seemed to clang with meaning.
To see if I had a concussion one guy asked me questions
like today's date and my age and I told him.
Minutes later, when it was clear the cut on my head was superficial,
everybody spoke knowingly about head wounds
like a staff of doctors who can't be fazed--
"Heads wounds, man, yeah, they bleed like a river" . . .
But I remember their eyes in that ten-second silence:
human beings in the presence of something--fate
their eyes all remarkably sober and focused and interested
watching my eyes as I mopped ineffectually at the bright red stream
crossing my forehead and dripping to darken my blue teeshirt
with strange implication.
Driving to the Emergency Room I had seven thoughts:
1. It's a reminder.
2. It's a warning.
3. Let's not get carried away.
4. No wonder it is necessary and has always been necessary
to read poems and write them, to read novels and write them,
because the world is this enormous haunted cavern or enchanted gynasium
filled, too filled with symbolic meanings ready at any moment
to spring forth like goblins and make anything significant.
5. I'm lucky, she wasn't lucky;
she wasn't lucky, I'm lucky, it doesn't mean
ANYTHING--
6. But even if it doesn't, I can still say
her bad luck was bad;
7. And if that's true, doesn't it follow
that my good luck is good?
- Mark Halliday
- imapickle
- is a pickle
- Posts: 817
- Joined: Mon Aug 10, 2009 2:21 am
- Location: in the jar next to the marmalade
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
Thanks for sharing this dolla.
Best wishes.
pickle
Best wishes.
pickle
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
Is this art?
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
ISIS would open a museum for such art.Symbiosis wrote:Is this art?
not sure what they would call it though.
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
I would categorize it as entertainment.
(but hey i could use a warhole as firewood)
- dollabillz
- Disinterested Hipster
- Posts: 1578
- Joined: Tue Feb 03, 2009 3:34 am
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- Llux Lliaison
- Posts: 5821
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Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
Give her a few minutes to her into it.
-
- Llux Lliaison
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- Joined: Sat Oct 06, 2007 1:23 pm
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Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
Happy almost Passover!
This song is about one little goat. It gets eaten by a cat, that gets eaten by a dog, that gets hit with a stick, which burns up in fire......
Is this where the song "I know an old lady who swallowed a fly" comes from? We don't know. So we end our Seder (story telling ritualistic dinner ) in my family with the actual "I know an old lady who swallowed a fly. " Mostly we do this to torture the people who wanted to go home 6 songs ago.
This song is about one little goat. It gets eaten by a cat, that gets eaten by a dog, that gets hit with a stick, which burns up in fire......
Is this where the song "I know an old lady who swallowed a fly" comes from? We don't know. So we end our Seder (story telling ritualistic dinner ) in my family with the actual "I know an old lady who swallowed a fly. " Mostly we do this to torture the people who wanted to go home 6 songs ago.
Re: LLama's Artsy Corner
Thanks Para for that!paranoiarodeo wrote:
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