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The Art of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction
“What tame, memory-dependent work I was doing. How polite my poems were, how still they sat, how representational. We poets talked about craft, but what we meant were tricks and illusions.”
Poetry
Illusions
Craft
Tricks
Writing Craft
Poetry Craft
The Tyrant’s Tomb
“So,” I said, making a second attempt at nonchalance, “are you and Thalia, er…?”
Reyna raised an eyebrow. “Involved romantically?”
“Well, I just…I mean…Um…”
Oh, very smooth, Apollo. Have I mentioned I was once the god of poetry?
Reyna rolled her eyes. “If I had a denarius for every time I got that question…Aside from the fact that Thalia is in the Hunters, and thus sworn to celibacy…Why does a strong friendship always have to progress to romance? Thalia’s an excellent friend. Why would I risk messing that up?”
“Uh—”
“That was a rhetorical question,” Reyna added. “I do not need a response.”
“I know what rhetorical means.” I made a mental note to double-check the word’s definition with Socrates the next time I was in Greece.”
Friendship
Romance
Apollo
Reyna Avila Ramírez Arellano
Thalia Grace
Lester Papadopoulos
Hunters Of Artemis
Rehetoric
Senses
“Publishing a book,
Watching its ways
Force me to look
At a screen for days
"Be still, be still",
My heart screams for life
But I must check its sales,
It's reviews, its likes.
Another Instagram poet
Who's dying
And doesn't know it,
Untying an underlying
Knot of desire
To be liked and admired
For people to love what transpires
From my mind, but I'm tired
Of the social machine
Producing my insecurity
Hoping someone will follow me
And like all my poetry
From this point forth, find me nowhere,
Socially unseen,
Just on the back porch, without a care
And without a screen”
Poetry
Conversation
Instagram
Addiction
Social Media
Screens
Facebook Addiction
Finding Myself
Front Porches
Socially Unseen
The Bones of Our Existence, A Journal 2046
“Remember. Materialism is just another bullshit faith. Poetry is fucking alchemy.”
Poetry
Spirituality
Poet
Mysticism
Materialism
Minimalism
Alchemy
Incantations
Manifesto
Darklands
The Bones of Our Existence, A Journal 2046
“WRITE.
Manifest power in words.
Write poetry.
Name your own humanity.
Ponder creation thru inner meaning.
Find hidden voices in the universal consciousness of soul.
Find yourself, and then return again.
Poetry is the sacred religion
Of both time & space older than
Civilization itself.
Poetry is dead.
Poetry is living.
Poetry is everything.
Poetry is a language
Unto itself that is understood.
Poetry will never die
It will still appear in places
Long after you are dust
So write.
That’s all.
That’s it.
Write.”
Poetry
Writing
Write
Manifestation
R M Engelhardt
Automatic Writing
The Resurrection Waltz Poems R.M. Engelhardt
“Poetry Is The Language Of Mysticism &
Discourse. It Is The Whisper In The Dark,
The Shadow In The Light. Poetry Is An Incantation From The Depths Of Your Very Soul.”
Poetry
Spirituality
Mysticism
Muse
Spells
Wicca
R M Engelhardt
Poetics
Incantations
Darklands
Simple Dreams: A Musical Memoir
“The Mexicans have a fervent appreciation of poetry and make regular use of it. It occupies a high and ancient seat in the Mexican culture. The Aztecs called it “a scattering of jades,” jade being what they valued most, far more than the gold for which they were murdered in great numbers by invading Spaniards. They felt that the more profound aspects of certain concepts, whether emotional, philosophical, political, or artistic, could be expressed only in poetry.”
Poetry
Mexican Culture
The Soul House: Poetry
“Love said to me, don’t try to define me,
If you think you can put me into words,
alas, my friend, you are at loss.
I am hidden from hidden things,
secrete of secretes.
I am different in each heart,
a hundred million faces,
a hundred million languages—
without a single word.
If you think you can define me,
alas, my friend, you are at loss.”
Love
Rafy Rohaan
Hidden Things
At Loss
The Soul House
Mary Ann Sate, Imbecile
“That the first time I see poetry writ down
It does all go from left to right
I see now it must
But not all the space is filld up
The words have their own pattern
Make a picture on the page
The space that is writ
Speak as loud as the space that is not
I cannot read them right but I like to see
The spaces and all that lie in them
Soon soon I will read them correct
I see the path ahead long and steep
Rising through many tight knit trees
Lit all the way with bright lanterns
So one may step on boldly
I must work and work”
Poetry
Reading
Writing
Love Of Words
The Culture of the Teutons: Volumes 1 and 2
“He [The Northman] has but one view of man; man asserting himself, maintaining his honour, as he calls it. All that moves within a man must be twisted round until it becomes
associated with honour, before he can grasp it; and all his passion is thrust back
and held, until it finds its way out in that one direction. His friendship of man and
love of woman never find expression for the sake of the feeling itself; they are
only felt consciously as a heightening of the lover's self-esteem and consequently as an increase of responsibility. This simplicity of character shows in his poetry, which is at heart nothing but lays and tales of great avengers, because revenge is the supreme act that concentrates his inner life and forces it
out in the light. His poems of vengeance are always intensely human, because
revenge to him is not an empty repetition of a wrong done, but a spiritual self-assertion, a manifestation of strength and value; and thus the anguish of an affront or the triumph of victory is able to open up the sealed depths of his mind and suffuse his words with passion and tenderness. But the limitation which creates the beauty and strength of Teuton poetry is revealed in the fact that only
those feelings and thoughts which make man an avenger and furthers the
attainment of revenge, are expressed; all else is overshadowed. Woman finds a
place in poetry only as a valkyrie or as inciting to strife; for the rest, she is
included among the ordinary inventory of life. Friendship, the highest thing on
earth among the Teutons, is only mentioned when friend joins hands with friend
in the strife for honour and restitution.”
Religion
Honor
Vengance
Northman
“He [The Northman] has but one view of man; man asserting himself, maintaining his honour, as he calls it. All that moves within a man must be twisted round until it becomes
associated with honour, before he can grasp it; and all his passion is thrust back
and held, until it finds its way out in that one direction. His friendship of man and
love of woman never find expression for the sake of the feeling itself; they are
only felt consciously as a heightening of the lover's self-esteem and consequently as an increase of responsibility. This simplicity of character shows in his poetry, which is at heart nothing but lays and tales of great avengers, because revenge is the supreme act that concentrates his inner life and forces it
out in the light. His poems of vengeance are always intensely human, because
revenge to him is not an empty repetition of a wrong done, but a spiritual self-assertion, a manifestation of strength and value; and thus the anguish of an affront or the triumph of victory is able to open up the sealed depths of his mind and suffuse his words with passion and tenderness. But the limitation which creates the beauty and strength of Teuton poetry is revealed in the fact that only
those feelings and thoughts which make man an avenger and furthers the
attainment of revenge, are expressed; all else is overshadowed. Woman finds a
place in poetry only as a valkyrie or as inciting to strife; for the rest, she is
included among the ordinary inventory of life. Friendship, the highest thing on
earth among the Teutons, is only mentioned when friend joins hands with friend
in the strife for honour and restitution.”
Honor
Vengance
Northman
“Compared with the Celt, the Northman is heavy, reserved, a child of earth, yet
seemingly but half awakened. He cannot say what he feels save by vague
indication, in a long, roundabout fashion. He is deeply attached to the country
that surrounds him, its meadows and rivers fill him with a latent tenderness; but
his home sense has not emancipated itself into love. The feeling for nature rings
in muffled tones through his speech and through his myths, but he does not
burst into song of the loveliness of the world. Of his relations with women he
feels no need to speak, save when there is something of a practical nature to be
stated; only when it becomes tragic does the subject enter into his poetry. In
other words, his feelings are never revealed until they have brought about an
event; and they tell us nothing of themselves save by the weight and bitterness
they give to the conflicts that arise. Uneventfulness does not throw him back
upon his inner resources, and never opens up a flood of musings or lyricism – it
merely dulls him. The Celt meets life with open arms; ready for every
impression, he is loth to let anything fall dead before him. The Teuton is not
lacking in passionate feeling, but he cannot, he will not help himself so lavishly
to life.”
Nature
Honor
Northman
The Complete Poetry and Prose
“To create a little flower is the labor of ages.”
Flower
Ages
Labor
Proverbs
Sayings
Proverbs Of Hell
“Thus, in The Lion they become monarchs under sovereign Jove; in Prince Caspian they harden under strong Mars; in The Dawn Treader they drink light under searching Sol; in The Silver Chair they learn obedience under subordinate Luna; in The Horse and His Boy they come to love poetry under eloquent Mercury; in the Magicians Nephew they gain life-giving fruit under fertile Venus; and in the Last Battle they suffer and die under chilling Saturn.”
Narnia
Cs Lewis
Planet Narnia
“The Goddess of poetry,who loves to unveil the mystic truth of transparent life,never resembles a woman who hides to keep her secrets behind the false veil.”
Life Quotes
Truth Quotes
Book Lovers
Nithin Purple
Author Support
Poetic Quotes
Help Me
Creative Quotes
Nithin Purple Quotes
Godess Quotes
“Poetry is impervious to bullets.”
Poetry
Bullets
What Is Poetry
Censorship Quotes
Wrong Planet - Searching for your Tribe
“The Gypsies are living poetry”
Gypsy Soul
Gypsy Quotes
Gypsies
Gypsy Spirit
Gypsy Life
Living Poetry
The Hungryalists
“Now as the train moved towards Calcutta, Malay felt as if his life was coming full circle. It had been a strange decision to visit the city at a time when post-Partition vomit and excreta was splattered on Calcutta streets. Marked by communal violence, anger and unemployment, the streets smelled of hunger and disillusionment. Riots were still going on. The wound of a land divided lingered, refugees from East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) continued to arrive in droves. And since they did not know where to go, they occupied the pavements, laced the streets with their questions, frustrations and a deep need to be recognised as more than an inconvenient presence on tree-lined avenues.
The feeling of being uprooted was everywhere. Political leaders decided that the second phase of the five-year planning needed to see the growth of heavy industries. The land required for such industries necessitated the evacuation of farmers. Devoid of their ancestral land and in the absence of a proper rehabilitation plan, those evicted wandered aimlessly around the cities—refugees by another name.
Calcutta had assumed different dimensions in Malay’s mind. The smell of the Hooghly wafted across Victoria Memorial and settled like an unwanted cow on its lawns. Unsung symphonies spilled out of St Paul’s Cathedral on lonely nights; white gulls swooped in on grey afternoons and looked startling against the backdrop of the rain-swept edifice. In a few years, Naxalbari would become a reality, but not yet. Like an infant Kali with bohemian fantasies, Calcutta and its literature sprouted a new tongue – that of the Hungry Generation. Malay, like Samir and many others, found himself at the helm of this madness, and poetry seemed to lick his body and soul in strange colours. As a reassurance of such a huge leap of faith, Shakti had written to Samir:
Bondhu Samir,
We had begun by speaking of an undying love for literature, when we suddenly found ourselves in a dream. A dream that is bigger than us, and one that will exist in its capacity of right and wrong and beyond that of our small worlds.
Bhalobasha juriye
Shakti”
Beats
Calcutta
Shakti
Samir
Ginsberg
Malay
Chaibasa
The Hungryalists
“The Hungryalist or the hungry generation movement was a literary movement in Bengali that was launched in 1961, by a group of young Bengali poets. It was spearheaded by the famous Hungryalist quartet — Malay Roychoudhury, Samir Roychoudhury, Shakti Chattopadhyay and Debi Roy. They had coined Hungryalism from the word ‘Hungry’ used by Geoffrey Chaucer in his poetic line “in the sowre hungry tyme”. The central theme of the movement was Oswald Spengler’s idea of History, that an ailing culture feeds on cultural elements brought from outside. These writers felt that Bengali culture had reached its zenith and was now living on alien food. . . . The movement was joined by other young poets like Utpal Kumar Basu, Binoy Majumdar, Sandipan Chattopadhyay, Basudeb Dasgupta, Falguni Roy, Tridib Mitra and many more. Their poetry spoke the displaced people and also contained huge resentment towards the government as well as profanity. … On September 2, 1964, arrest warrants were issued against 11 of the Hungry poets. The charges included obscenity in literature and subversive conspiracy against the state. The court case went on for years, which drew attention worldwide. Poets like Octavio Paz, Ernesto Cardenal and Beat poets like Allen Ginsberg visited Malay Roychoudhury. The Hungryalist movement also influenced Hindi, Marathi, Assamese, Telugu & Urdu literature.”
Poetry
Sixties
Revolution
Protest
Counterculture
Hungryalism
অর্ধেক জীবন
“Sandipan, why have you not written much of late? What is this thing about occasional prose pieces? This habit of yours has attracted you to the Hungry Hangama—this latest fad. I did forbid you. And you did not trust me. And then you simply distanced yourself gradually. I never stopped Shakti. Shakti is greedy. Utpal too has taken that route. But I knew that you were not greedy. I have often shared a bed with you, stood in the same shadow while walking in the sun. I know very well the contours of my own greed. And therefore, I could instinctively feel that your greed is less than mine. I became deeply uncomfortable, generated some strong aversion to this new phenomenon. I had always felt that to compose in the English language in order to earn cheap accolades in the West is the worst possible form of greed and narcissism. This feeling has deepened this time here, at Iowa. Would you ever like to be an object of curiosity and pity to the outsider? I have met some Hungry wallahs here—it is these that drive them at the bedrock. Every single day I receive some invitation or the other to write in English. I have refused. Steadfastly. There are 7 crores of potential Bangla readers for me. Much more than French and Italian. I am just doing fine. I write poetry and have no intention to translate my sensibilities. If you wish to access my thoughts in English—do translate me. Happily. I had officially come here to do this kind of mutual back-patting. So far I have resisted that lure.”
Samir
Malay
Krittibas
Hungryalists
Sandipan
Chhotoloker Kobita
“He asked you not to like me,
So why did you, Neera?
Even now, I perform breaststrokes in caterpillar-stuffed north eastern clouds
He didn’t ask me for any poems for 50 years,
So why are you asking now, Neera?
Even now, standing in 10-foot-deep water, I wield icy rods
He wrote an editorial on my sub-judice case,
Turning an editor, why are you asking for my writing, Neera?
Even now, I love flatbreads stuffed with smoked penguin fat
He did not confess to being my anthology’s publisher
Why did you confess, Neera?
Even now, I have family-pack yawns in the face of families,
He didn’t like pronouncing my name
So why are you telling it to youths, Neera?
Even now, in bloody waters, I join the Bollywood chorus of tiger sharks
He had said I have nothing of a true writer
So why do you think I do, Neera?
At Imlitala, I knew rat roasts don’t taste too good without charcoal smoke
He said I have nothing creative in me
So why do you think I do, Neera?
Having burnt bank notes worth Rs 5,000 crore, I smelt death
He said I’ll never write poetry
So why do you think I have, Neera?
On the banks of Amsterdam’s canals I have heard doddering old men sing limericks
He transcended from sorrow to anger and anger to hate
Why are you so generous Neera?
Please don’t tell my grandmother.”
Poetry
Jealousy
Grandmother
Malayquotes
Hungryalism
Neera
Sunil
ফালগুনী রায় সমগ্র
“nonchalant charminar
ma, i can’t smile well-scrubbed twisted-smirks in your noble society anymore
in the godly dense ocean of kindness with krishna’s duffed up white teeth with studious eyes of the devil i can’t
anymore in a ramakrishnian posture use my wife according to the matriarchal customs
substitute sugar for saccharine and dread diabetes no more i can’t no more with my unhappy
organ do a devdas again in khalashitola on the registry day of a former fling.
my liver is getting rancid by the day my grandfather had cirrhosis don’t understand
heredity i drink alcohol read poetry my father for the sake of puja etc used to fast venerable dadas in our para
swearing by dharma gently press ripe breasts of sisters-born-of-the-locality on holi
on the day ma left for trips abroad many in your noble society had vodka i will
nonchalantly from your funeral pyre light up a charminar thinking of your death my eyes tear
up then i don’t think of earthquakes by the banks or of floodwater didn’t put my hand on the string of the petticoat of an unmarried lover and didn’t think of baishnab padavali ma, even i’ll die one day.
at belur mandir on seeing foreign woman pray with her international python-bum veiled in a skirt
my limitless libido rose up ma because your libido will be tied up to father’s memories even beyond death i this fucked up drunk am
envying you carrying dirt of the humblest kind looking at my organ
i feel as if i’m an organism from another planet now the rays of the setting sun is touching my face on a tangent
and after mixing the colour of the setting sun on their wings a flock of non-family-planning birds is going back towards bonolata sen’s
eyes peaceful as a nest – it’s time for them to warm the eggs –”
Love
Poetry
Loneliness
Calcutta
Hungryalism
The Social History of Art, Volume 1: From Prehistoric Times to the Middle Ages
“Only when poetry is read can it become a hobby, a habit, a daily necessity. Only so can it become ‘literature’, enjoyment of which is no longer confined to the solemn moments of life or to special festivities, but which may be drawn upon as desired merely to pass the time of day. Poetry thus loses the last remnant of its numinous character and becomes mere ‘fiction’, mere invention which can arouse aesthetic interest without claiming any element of conviction”
Poetry
Reading
Fiction
Aura
Walter Benjamin
“Only when poetry is read can it become a hobby, a habit, a daily necessity. Only so can it become ‘literature’, enjoyment of which is no longer confined to the solemn moments of life or to special festivities, but which may be drawn upon as desired merely to pass the time of day. Poetry thus loses the last remnant of its numinous character and becomes mere ‘fiction’, mere invention which can arouse aesthetic interest without claiming any element of conviction.”
Poetry
Fiction
Aura
Walter Benjamin
The Social History of Art, Volume 1: From Prehistoric Times to the Middle Ages
“The courteous and chivalric attitude is one of endless patience and utter selflessness in the man, involving the extinction of his own will and the sacrifice of his own being to the will of the woman as a superior being. Courtesy demands of the man complete acceptance of the fact that the object of his worship is wholly unattainable; self-indulgence in the pains of love, an emotional exhibitionism and masochism—all features of modern love-romanticism which here occur for the first time. The lover as longing and renouncing, love as something to which attainment and fulfilment are irrelevant and which is even enhanced by its negative character, a ‘love of the remote’ without any tangible or even any clearly defined object—all this ushers in the history of modern poetry.”
Chivalry
Courtly Love
Unattainable Love
Cold Woman
Woman Behavior
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