poem

The Monday Poem – There was in cranes.

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This week’s poem is There was in cranes. I hope you enjoy it!

Fluxus
Fluxus

 

There was in cranes. by Jay Snelling

 

Cellophaned flowers.

To look forward to it was an astonishing feeling of a high degree.

Staging each

one by hand.

Directors of gardens,

their relationship to the towering tempest in over 2000 plastic theatres

created a production by the name of

Margaret.

She sat by Neptune and they created poultry,

and dogs with names of Mars and Fire.

They were interested,

to London they flew for a

line and shine

until ending.

I use chance methods to create my poetry and I’d love to hear from others who do the same!

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The Monday Poem – Your Details of Its Release are Dead

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This week’s poem is my Your Details of Its Release are Dead.

 

Your Details of Its Release are Dead

 

The first is his if

necessary so 2000 of them could

build a wall and could realise that fame has always been tainted

even when the first female

appeared on the TV.

A place to

design and a team

was

all I was 20 years ago, younger than I am currently and seeking medical assistance.

Sexually

a very, very large 20th-century cybernetic being, and you?

Over and over, we see doctors!

Mostly bats: You’re mostly cats: You’re

bratty, deluded and the word thespian to a Lord,

or

even a glimpse of his achievement,

didn’t like the

raw with Me

and Mr Abrams’ got it all and you will

too won’t you?

Idiots.

You will you will.

Your born intensity will only become stronger in the end.

I use chance methods to write my poetry and I’d love to hear from others who do the same.

The Monday Poem – To Make a Dadist Poem

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This week’s poem is a little different – a poem instructing the reader on how to create a poem.

To Make A Dadist Poem – Poem by Tristan Tzara

Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are–an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

Tristan Tzara

Please do share if you give this technique a go!

The Monday Poem – An Extensive Look at Another Thing from That Department

The Monday Poem
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An Extensive Look at Another Thing from That Department

 

I informed HER of a general dream

a new thought was going to be formed

it would forcibly cause herself to “shatter careers”.

But it didn’t

and my actions have continued

it is safe

and immediately HER department had reportedly been heard to whisper an executive secret when

silence.

 

by Jay

 

I hope you enjoyed this week’s Monday poem! Please get in touch if you’d like to see your own work here.

The Monday Poem: Life-Saving Medal by Philippe Soupault

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Life-Saving Medal (Médaille de sauvetage)

My nose is long like a knife

And my eyes are red from laughing

At night I collect the milk and the moon

And run without looking round

If the trees are afraid behind me

I don’t care

How beautiful indifference is at midnight

Where are they going these folk

Pride of the cities

Village musicians

The crowd wildly dance

And I’m only this anonymous passer-by,

Or someone else whose name I’ve forgot

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Philippe Soupault was a writer and poet, and one of the founders of Surrealism.

The Monday Poem: Corridor

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This week’s poem is Pierre Reverdy’s Corridor (Couloir)

Corridor (Couloir)

We are two

On the one line where all’s continuous

In the meanders of night

A word’s in the middle

Two mouths not seeing each other

A sound of steps

One light body gliding towards the other

The door quivers

A hand passes

One would wish to open

The bright ray stands erect

There before me

And it’s the fire that parts us

In the shadow where your profile slips away

A moment without breathing

Your breath has burned me in passing

The Monday Poem – I’ll Reinvent the Rose for You by Louis Aragon

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This week’s poem is Louis Aragon’s I’ll Reinvent the Rose for You. I hope you enjoy it…

I’ll Reinvent the Rose for You

I’ll reinvent the rose for you
For you are that rose which cannot be described
These few words at least in the order proper to her ritual
That rose which only words distant from roses can describe
The way it is with the ecstatic cry and the terrible sadness which it translates
From the stars of pleaure above love’s deep abyss

I will reinvent for youth rose of adoring fingers
Which create a nave as they interlace but whose petals then suddenly fall away
I will reinvent for you the rose beneath the balconies
Of lovers whose only beds are their arms

The rose at the heart of sculpted stone figures dead without benefit of confession
The rose of a peasant blown to bits by a landmine in his field
The scarlet scent of a letter that has been “discovered”
In which nothing’s addressed to me neither the insult nor the compliment

Some rendezvous to which no one has come

An entire army in flight on a very windy day

A maternal footstep before prison-gates

A man’s song at siesta-time beneath the olive trees

A cock-fight in a mist-enshrouded countryside
The rose of a soldier cut off from his own home country

I’ll reinvent for you my rose as many roses
As there are diamonds in the waters of the seas
As there are past centuries adrift in the dust of the earth’s atmosphere
As there are dreams in just one childish head

As there can be reflections in one tear

The Monday Poem – The Invention by Paul Eluard

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The Invention (L’invention)

The right hand allows a trickle of sand

Every transformation is possible

Far off, on the stones the sun whets its eagerness to be gone

The description of the landscape matters little

Merely the pleasant duration of harvests

Clear to my two eyes

As water and fire.

What is the role of the root?

Despair has broken all bounds

And holds its hands to its head

A seven, a four, a two, a one

A hundred women in the street

Whom I’ll not see again.

The art of loving, liberal art, the art of dying well,

The art of thought, incoherent art, the art of the smoker,

The art of pleasure, of the Middle Ages, decorative art,

The art of reason, the art of reasoning well, the art

Poetic, mechanical art, erotic art, the art

Of being a grandfather, the art of dance, the art of seeing,

The art of being accomplished, the art of caress, Japanese art,

The art of play, the art of eating, the torturer’s art.

I have never yet found what I write in what I love.

Born: 14 December 1895, Saint-Denis, Seine-Saint-Denis, France
Died: 18 November 1952, Charenton-le-Pont, France
Spouse: Dominique Laure (m. 1951–1952), Nusch Éluard(m. 1934–1946), Gala Dalí (m. 1917–1929)