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Value Fever Pitch: An Artist’s Time

Bhoman F Jamhari said

'I am an artist - This does not
mean I will work for free.
I have bills just like you.
Thank you for understanding.'

Polite and to the problematic point.

Anyone who thinks believes
an artist’s time is worthless,
is definitely a person an artist
should avoid; such individuals

cannot comprehend
or remotely understand
aesthetic value of art.

Art takes time to produce.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Life is an Allusion

Life is an allusion.
She’s a wicked witch. He’s a nasty Grinch.
We can’t be placed into a genre.
We’re as unchanging as the seasons.
A basic simile.
The inference that we all make on a daily basis is not intelligent at all.
Completely different.
Everything we do is somehow a complete satire.
The opposite; almost like irony which we’re surrounded by everyday.
An incoherent, figurative language is spoken,
We never know what to say or do.
Is it literal or not.
Life is alliteration in the making.
Anxiously awaiting another annihilation announcing another abomination.
Life is assonance going on and on.
Slowly suppressing something sliding sullenly, sickeningly into our hearts.
The metaphors by which we live are incredulous.
She is the light in my sky.
He is the heart inside of me.
The idioms are even more surprising.

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poem by Vanessa Kingsley
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Mysteries

All last night I kept speaking in this
archaic language, because I had been reading
Poe and thinking about him. I read 'The Murders
in the Rue Morgue' which is supposedly the first
detective story. Who dun it? I wondered.
It turns out an orangutan was the murderer.
It looks to me like the detective story genre got off
to a pretty ridiculous start. I used to visit
Poe's house in the Bronx. I used to think,
God, Poe must have been a midget. Everything
is so small. Poe died in Baltimore and I can see why.
In Baltimore, all the people are very big and sincere.
During dinner last night, I told Doug and Susan
about 'Murders in the Rue Morgue.' I said I hadn't
finished it yet, but it looked like the murderer
was going to turn out to be an orangutan, unless
the plot took a surprising new twist. Then Doug
suggested that he and I collaborate
on a series of detective stories in which
the murderer is always an orangutan.

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poem by Terence Winch
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C'est à coups de canon qu'on rend le peuple heureux

C'est à coups de canon qu'on rend le peuple heureux.
Nous sommes revenus de tous ces grands mots creux :
- Progrès, fraternité, mission de la France,
Droits de l'homme, raison, liberté, tolérance. -
Socrate est fou ; lisez Lélut qui le confond ;
Christ, fort socialiste et démagogue au fond,
Est une renommée en somme très surfaite.
Terre ! l'obus est Dieu, Paixhans est son prophète.
Vrai but du genre humain : tuer correctement.
Les hommes, dont le sabre est l'unique calmant,
Ont le boulet rayé pour chef-d'oeuvre ; leur astre,
C'est la clarté qui sort d'une bombe Lancastre,
Et l'admiration de tout peuple poli
Va du mortier Armstrong au canon Cavalli.
Dieu s'est trompé ; César plus haut que lui s'élance ;
Jéhovah fit le verbe et César le silence.
Parler, c'est abuser ; penser, c'est usurper.
La voix sert à se taire et l'esprit à ramper.
Le monde est à plat ventre, et l'homme, altier naguère,
Doux et souple aujourd'hui, tremble. - Paix ! dit la guerre.

poem by Victor Hugo
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When Remembered For What It Is And Missed

Knowing the business of one's talent helps,
After establishing a recognition.
It is not the fact that one gains attention,
That a gift is remembered when it is presented.
It is the timelessness of content.
And one's ability to perceive,
From where that talent comes...
To one who has received it from a birth given.

To acknowledge a tree and admire its leaves,
To then disregard its roots...
Is a foolish position one should never take.

People become curious when one's talent is exposed.
But only those who are about the genuineness,
Of their talents from a business sense...
Continue to work on it all their lives.
And the growth and blooming of it shows to others,
Who enjoy the taste of it over and over again.
Since the quality of it never diminishes,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Undefined Beauty

amazing brilliance transmitted
through her sprouting tombs
guarded by obedient strict straps

never seen such warm built
between pillar and the plank
she stands her gazing grabs a far

waiting to graft any desert
to ratify with solitude where wind
never feathered its cooling thirst

brilliance to be defined when realised
a palate without any color touch
asked her to sit beside fortune

she looked with a variant look
glittering spelled out with splash
to hold the burden she possessed

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poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Ah! c'est un rêve! non! nous n'y consentons point

Ah ! c'est un rêve ! non ! nous n'y consentons point.
Dresse-toi, la colère au coeur, l'épée au poing,
France ! prends ton bâton, prends ta fourche, ramasse
Les pierres du chemin, debout, levée en masse !
France ! qu'est-ce que c'est que cette guerre-là ?
Nous refusons Mandrin, Dieu nous doit Attila.
Toujours, quand il lui plaît d'abattre un grand empire,
Un noble peuple, en qui le genre humain respire,
Rome ou Thèbes, le sort respectueux se sert
De quelque monstre auguste et fauve du désert.
Pourquoi donc cet affront ? c'est trop. Tu t'y résignes,
Toi, France ? non, jamais. Certes, nous étions dignes
D'être dévorés, peuple, et nous sommes mangés !
C'est trop de s'être dit : - Nous serons égorgés
Comme Athène et Memphis, comme Troie et Solime,
Grandement, dans l'éclair d'une lutte sublime ! -
Et de se sentir mordre, en bas, obscurément,
Dans l'ombre, et d'être en proie à ce fourmillement,
Les pillages, les vols, les pestes, les famines
D'espérer les lions, et d'avoir les vermines !

poem by Victor Hugo
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The Heart Beat

the heartbeat is the snare
and the drum beat within the flare
it is percussioned on the strings
of the sensory nerves, sometimes it rings
like a bell
to tell
the actor when the body cell
and muscles rebel
against a situation

the heartbeat is the music
that diffuses from within
correlatively, the heart
elevates the tempo of the music
thus, the heartbeat propels the music of the soul
condenses the rhythm and maintains the tempo

when confronted by fright
the heart becomes the stimuli
to which we respond to fright

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poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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Putting the past behind

would anyone believed that all have gone
into the limbo of the past, where the flame of fire
lives in the light of memories

what a trust that shakes the wound that
never failed, a realistic of the present of
the past struggle to the blindness of everything
of pain and suffering have gone

tie me into the day where i could hide my
emotional depression hold me where every
stings of fang sweeten my thirst, push my
being of every sweat flows from my half
naked body, where you can feel the sweetness
of my tears of blood

what a wonderful genre, where every past,
healed in your shadowing day, what then is the
prize where i say to myself that you come to
capture my pain; of nowhere i can stand my own

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poem by Antonio Liao
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Purple

I lived here.
Ten years maybe two.
I did the decor.
I was miserable here.
I wonder why.
This was the most beautiful room I ever had.
My thoughts bounced off the walls a lot. Mainly resounding that I was 'useless' to my hearing.
Things you'll never know.
I've always hated myself.
Tried to change it all and love myself. Waste of time.
Apathy suits me well.
I don't care anymore.
About God, family, love, life.
I've taken a hard look at me.
And the reflection isn't flattering.
When at first I learned to talk.
I used all my words to write.
To him and her and you and me.
One more tear could dropp in spite of my apathetic state
But I'm dead inside.

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poem by Jenim Dibie
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