I’ve posted a video poem from the fabulous azrienoch aka Jeff Smith-Luedke before, which featured a poem titled X vs. O. This time I am posting the video of another great poem using kinetic typography. Jeff used Adobe’s After Effects to create the video.
The lyrics are below.
Minimalism by Jeff Smith-Luedke aka azrienoch
I looked at a picture painted white with a dot
White, with that black dot and I thought
Why bother painting that black dot in the middle
With the white all around it, makes it so little
Just a little black dot all surrounded by white
And I look at this painting and think that I might
Punch a hole through that painting with the fist of my hand
And show that white painting that I was a man
And it looked like it was made by a child
Who was given a paintbrush and told to go wild
But the child was retarded, only managed to poke
The canvass with the brush with the black with a stroke.
And I was going to do it when the artist walked by
Looked at my fist, the painting, asked why
I would want to destroy the black dot made of paint
Saying, “It’s so essential, an essentially quaint
Expression of essential potential in all
Of the people who have a potentially small
Dot of their own painted on their soul;
You see, in the white, there was a small hole
So I covered the hole with paint that was black.”
And then he turned away while I turned back.
I stared, stared, stared til the janitor came ‘long
He saw me, stopped mopping, stopped whistling a song
Stopped to ask me, “Hey sonny, been here long, you okay?”
“This is rubbish, this painting, just rubbish, I say!
I talked to the artist. Didn’t help in the least.
So I stared for a while but my anger increased.
This isn’t art, this white paint and black dot
Oh, it’s a picture of a dot, but art, it is not.”
The janitor nodded his head up and down
And cleared his throat and uttered a sound
That was like an agreement, but more like a laugh
And said, “Sonny, you’ve looked at this more than I have
But whenever I look, I don’t see the white
And with that he leaned over and turned off the light.
And with the light off, the dot grew and grew
Til it covered the canvass and he said, “Who knew
That in the dark every painting looks exactly the same,
Same portrait, same landscape, same romance, same shame,
Could be reddish or yellowed or purpley or blue
Or anything, ’cause, sonny, that’s what the dot turns into.”
He went off and he mopped and he whistled his tune
And I left and walked out and looked up at the moon
Which looked vaguely and oddly familiar that night,
So familiar—a black canvass with a dot that is white.
Thoughts? Leave your comment below!
Keep reading for the lyrics to the poem.
I’m a big fan of spoken word poetry and I wanted to share this one. The poet is Oscar S. Cisneros. The poem is called The Girl with Vomit Eyes. You can listen to him perform it by playing the audio file and the words are included below. Keep reading if you would like to read them along with the track.
The Girl with Vomit Eyes (written & performed by Oscar S. Cisneros)
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Photo courtesy of stock.xchng.
And tulips, children love to stretch
Their fingers down, to feel in each
Its beauty’s sweet nearer. – Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Image courtesy of Flickr
The peonies are hung-over again,
dew-drunk from loitering in the moonlight,
after taunting the crab apples and redbuds
for having bloomed too soon after the snow.
Lashing out at the daylilies for their dysfunctional
shriveling from a single day of romance with sunlight,
and castigating those whores, the crocus, for being teased
into blossom by a few warm February rays, has become a ritual.
The mornings are now beautiful sermons.
On a manger of mulch, the peonies seem
to be sleeping. Through the sip and swallow of my hot coffee
I thought I heard a hiss or whisper.
It may have been the dogwood,
perhaps the hydrangea, saying to the lilac,
“Look at those pink dumb-asses.
That’s what happens when you get a big head.”
Poem titled The Morning After ©2007 by Steve Meador.
The poem The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost is one of the greats by a wonderful poet and playwright. It’s definitely one of my favorites. It has a special place in my heart as it has helped me through some hard times. I included a beautiful photo I found on stock.xchng that I thought would compliment it beautifully.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I wrote this poem in January and it was featured on my old blog. I thought I would repost it here.
I remember the first time I saw her-
she stood out in the crowd with her delicate golden hair.
How it shined in the sunlight!
I adored watching the light pass through the strands,
glistening as she swayed to and fro.
I loved that dance.
Then one day I noticed her hair was no longer golden, but white.
Had I not noticed the change?
Had time cheated me of relishing in her beauty and scent?
Or had all the long hours
seemed diminished to a few fond memories?
Even though she was now much more fragile and her scent had changed,
she was still my girl.
Until one day as I looked out my window I saw a mere child pluck her up and blow into her luminous hair,
and I watched as it scattered into the breeze and all that was left was her lifeless body,
thrown aside like a weed.
A tear flowed down my cheek as I stood there watching her demise.
Oh, how I had loved her.
But where there is death, there is birth
and now I count the days until I can watch her beautiful children grow.
Poem titled Dandelion. Photos courtesy of Stock Xchng.
Copyright © 2008 April Nanney