Inverted Interrobang

Inverted Interrobang
December 14
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MARCH 10, 2011 8:14PM

Art James ~ A Sacred Muse Left Them

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Recently OS blogger Art James left this extraordinary comment, this poemmentary on my March 7th blog. A gift I wish to share for those who may not have chanced to read it. Exemplary for its wide range of references, poetic dialectic, and beautiful fragments.
Saludos ~ I.I.

I think all politicians think we are stupider than we look. I try to comprehend.
Then - I discovered.
We can't understand.
Because - They gibber.
They are void of hearts.
A sacred Muse left them.
A same-same as deadened.
Dead letter. Linear follies.
A insulting. Shame Shame.
If these ill-ilk were not killing?
It be entertaining. But serious?
It's dull, lacks the real sprightly.
It's the proverbial tangles webs.
Greedy people turn brute beast.
They think we no know de' _oop!
Kings, queens, birds, politico too.
Everybody -oops. They foul earth.
We people have a right to preserve`
sanity, constructive critique, truth,
a moral scrutiny, innocent gossipy,
an artistic milieu, stimulating hope,
honest discussions, sincere intellect,
a child get bored if someone lacks truth.
a animation/Spirit is what flutters forth.
Homer mentions LIES are so nasty clear.
A child see through frauds. They are ruin.
Adults get that old time sad ill-condition `
as in`
That a old classic maxim. It's lost.
The wastrel/wasted human lifestyle.
Then what?
Ask Nemo
Fish Nemo
Now what?
I not wagers
Life is brief
Great thinker post.
Linda S. always hugs.
Hug thy neighbors wife.
But, honesty. Poor critters.
I get sad seeing the miserable.
No Miss Tess as in Thomas Hardy.
She reddemed herself and saw fakes.

From "From The Maddening Crowd."
Today. Politicos serve the Evil Beast.
by Art Jamescomment March 8, 2011

Yes Art, "Spirit is what flutters forth..."
~ Mahmoud Darwish

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Very nice II. I keep his comments in my saved box and read them when I am down sometimes. he always cheers me. Thanks for this. Thanks for you, Art.
Gorgeous, I missed it so thank you. Art is brilliant and not just as a poet, he has incredible wisdom, common sense and a vast amount of knowledge.

I noticed he reference the Latin word for nobody or no one which is "Nemo". I had no idea he spoke Latin too. Excellent, I went back to see the post again and Art has left another gift. This is present day on OS.

I tried to write a poem Interrobang, now I'm trying to be brave and post it (but it's not about whipping bulls) I think it's not even a poem. It's hard to follow all these poets.
I remember once, in some past life of mine, I was paddling an old rubber (inflatable) dinghy alone across the harbour in Saint Martin FWI's at night fall. I was sitting up on the bow stirring the water with my paddle---the way, in another past life as a candy maker, I'd learned to stir fudge in a huge copper kettle---and moving along pretty good. I could see the lights along the stone jetty of Marigot but still a way off. I was losing light. There was a gentle surge that came into the harbour from the outer sea that brought with it the smell of the night tide. I could see about in the center of the jetty stood a tall rastaman. He watched me paddle all that way, his dark unstirring figure cut stoically into the noisy backdrop of colorful french bistros and flicker of car headlights. He watched me pull my small boat up the steep slope of the rock jetty and thread the chain around a utility pole, lock the lock and hide my paddle underneath. At last I looked at him and he was clearly not from that time or place, yet he could have been standing there forever. He said to me "You must be from the river ". And I knew exactly what he meant.

From Ion Caraion (one of my favorite poets, found asleep between the covers of a book in Galway)

(Translated from the Romanian by Marguerite Dorian and Elliot B. Urdang)

When are you going to drop
by, you eyesore?

Sometime time is the size of

Trees of lava Frying pan rams
And like a scarf, the cloud round the neck---

Never mind,
we'll have lots, lots of time
to die and to live again

every poem
is a beautiful mummy.

Ion Caraion (The Error of Being, pg. 121)
Bienvenida anna1liese ~ So notable in Arts poem above and also his comment here, apart from the qualities I've already mentioned, are the inclusion and importance---the shared consequence and essential perspective---of both children and adults, people of all ages, in a just and benevolent vision of the world.

I think you would like this by Gabriela Mistral ( a doña Isaura Dinator ).

Piececitos de niño,
azulosos de frío,
¡cómo os ven y no os cubren,
Dios mío!

¡Piececitos heridos
por los guijarros todos,
ultrajados de nieves
y lodos!

El hombre ciego ignora
que por donde pasáis,
una flor de luz viva

Que allí donde ponéis
la plantita sangrante,
el nardo nace más

Sed, puesto que marcháis
por los caminos rectos,
heroicos como sois

Piececitos de niño,
dos joyitas sufrientes,
¡cómo pasan sin veros
las gentes!

Gabriela Mistral ( antología poética de Gabriela Mistral, Editorial Universitaria, SA, pg. 127 )

Little Feet
A child's little feet
blue with cold
My god, how can one see them
and not cover them!

Little feet
wounded by all
the little stones, savaged
by snow and mire!

Men, blind, ignore
that where you step,
you leave a bloom
of living light;

That there, where you
plant your bloodied sole
a spikenard blooms

Being, that you march
a straight path,
heroic as you are

Little feet,
two suffering little jewels,
How can we pass
without seeing you!

(translation: W. Gentieu 11-3-2011)
every poem
is a beautiful mummy~

Thank you, Art James and I.I. for your open eyes.
Thank you all for visiting and for allowing me to share with you, and thank Art James. It was worth taking a moment to contemplate the uniqueness and quality, as well as the risk inherent in what you do. I am well aware that posting comments on anothers blog space is a little like flying without a parachute in that once the thing has been launched, we cannot edit it or take it back. This one single aspect, along with what other attributes I have previously mentioned, give cause for me to tip my hat in appreciation for your singular and most unusual art of poemmentary .
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