Showing posts with label thepoetryman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thepoetryman. Show all posts
Breathing Art
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Photomontage by Stoff
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Breathing Art Again

By Mark Prime

Ceaselessly giving.
Art opens inward
The generous spirit of the heart.

Art widens the eyes,
The soul,
Then seeks you within it.

Rigid and hot,
It needs freedom, faith
To consider where it’s taken you,

Like dipping your mind’s brush
Into the cleansing water,
Thoughts swim, breathing like fish.

Now given to, submerged,
Bathed in the shape of it,
What wrangles your soul?

If you find your breath full...
Think not of the artist’s truth,
Think but of your own;

Spirit and the heart of hope
Weep
And question why…

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
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Thank you guys, that was
a great birthday gift! :)
We March Onward In
The Footprints Of Revolution

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© 2008 - Ben Heine
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Ode To Change
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By thepoetryman
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(This poem is for President Elect
Barack Obama... and hope.)

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How is it possible-
that, in an age of such a shredded foundation,
that, in an age of such unprecedented warring,
that, in an age of such unequaled corruption and
terrible sadness, a moment as this could come?

How is it possible-
that, after such machinations of greed and hubris,
we have the power to have witnessed this;
the moment now bending its light upon us,
directing us forward to our better selves?

How is it possible-
that we now proceed with this stunning milestone,
that we march onward in the footprints of revolution
though the course is not curved of our choosing
and the strident shriek of the dying covers our skies?

How is it possible-
that we have stumbled to our rightful place of account,
wandered in on such lustrous and cheerful promise
standing now before our grasp, yet still untaken,
unused, and ready for our hands to shape into our art?

How is it possible-
with the end written before the bright and new beginning,
with our expectations rutted in dishonest obligation,
with the world’s eyes having peered down into our shame,
that our pathway is not ruled by immeasurable detonation?

How is it possible-
that, with such divergence and fragmentary mourning,
with stained waters and sky distorting our reflection,
with our differences still hidden in the visage of ghosts,
we were able to land here without knowing what’s next?

How is it possible-
that the air that we scorch doesn’t blink or make a sound
as we push and shove our burning way through it
with sorrow at our flank speaking of others as mere fodder
for our wholly unrestrained hubristic nourishment?

How is it possible-
that this plot has begun at the end of such torturous ire,
at the back of gloom instead of the heart of illumination?
That this moment even has words like hope and change within it
is certainly the most astounding thing of all!

© 2008 mrp/tpm
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Marcel Marceau
Remembered
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Tu Vas Nous Manquer,
an Ode to Marcel Marceau

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By thepoetryman

As in silent motion
white faced petals
polish our living

nestled near, ready to rise
and outshine the sorrow
etched upon our face;
hate, that rusty nail
on the floor of hell piercing
the naked feet of our foul specter.

As in silent motion
dream’s painted face
fetches our melody…


Je dois y aller maintenant.
Adieu,

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
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* * *
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Mime Legend Marcel Marceau
passed away at 84
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Marcel Marceau, the master of mime who transformed silence into poetry with lithe gestures and pliant facial expressions that spoke to generations of young and old, has died. He was 84.

Wearing white face paint, soft shoes and a battered hat topped with a red flower, Marceau breathed new life into an art that dates to ancient Greece. He played out the human comedy through his alter-ego Bip without ever uttering a word.

Offstage, he was famously chatty. "Never get a mime talking. He won't stop," he once said.

A French Jew, Marceau escaped deportation to a Nazi death camp during World War II, unlike his father who died in Auschwitz. Marceau worked with the French Resistance to protect Jewish children, and later used the memories of his own life to feed his art.

He gave life to a wide spectrum of characters, from a peevish waiter to a lion tamer to an old woman knitting, and to the best-known Bip.
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* * *
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Marcel Marceau Remembered
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Marcel Marceau, the legendary master of mime, died September 22 at age 84. Born Marcel Mangel to a Jewish family in Strasbourg, France, Marceau escaped the Nazis, joined the French Resistance and worked as a liaison to General Patton’s army. In 1946 he began studying acting in Paris, where he quickly established his career. The following excerpt was taken from a 2001 interview with Marceau by freelance journalist Jeremy Josephs:
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I was once asked about my “Jewish sensitivity,” to which I replied that I would prefer to discuss human sensitivity. Jews are sensitive, like other people, but in the modern world religion should not be so high up [in] the order of the day. I was brought up in a Jewish home, but I was brought up to be human, not fanatical, which is something that I don’t appreciate at all. I learned to become a humanist, and not to dwell on the differences between Jews and Christians.

I must be honest and tell you that I do feel slightly uncomfortable with people dwelling on this Jewish aspect of my life. I have the greatest respect for the sufferance of the Holocaust — my father died in Auschwitz — so I am perfectly well aware of what happened. But this did not make me superior to other people.

I don’t want to be part of a community. I want to be part of the world. I have never been a victim of antisemitism — if you put to one side my war-time experience. That said, I am lucky not to have been sent into a concentration camp. I produced false papers, I took Jewish children to Switzerland when I was a teenager… and [after the war] I went to drama school with Etienne Decroux. But I never denied that I was Jewish. I wanted to give my art to the people.

The memory of the Holocaust is so important though. The 20th century was the most criminal century. Despite this, it has been a great century too. There is a balance between good and evil. But I am happy that the memory of the Holocaust is kept alive, so that such a tragedy can never begin again. But I would not put a Jew who died in the Holocaust above a Catholic soldier who died in the trenches of the First World War. All wars are criminal.
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* * *
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Silence falls on Marcel Marceau,
master of the mime

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By John Lichfield

When great actors die, they are said to "fall silent". The mime artist Marcel Marceau had been delighting the world in silence for 60 years.

In Paris on Saturday, he, and his restless alter-ego "Bip", fell still. He was 84. Marceau was perhaps the most loved and internationally admired of all French people. "Bip" – a pale, elastic-limbed clown with a striped shirt and limp red flower in his battered hat – was instantly recognisable from the United States to China.

"Bip" was inspired by the work of Charlie Chaplin, Harpo Marx and other early film stars. He also drew on – and revived – older, European traditions of silent theatre, such as the Italian Commedia dell'arte.

Marceau once suggested another, darker, reason for his wordless art. He was born into a French Jewish family in 1923. His father, Charles Mangel, a butcher, was deported from France in 1944 and died in Auschwitz concentration camp.

"The people who came back from the camps were never able to talk about it," he once said. "My name is Mangel. I am Jewish. Perhaps that, unconsciously, contributed towards my choice of silence."

The French Prime Minister, François Fillon, said yesterday: "A talent for telling stories without words conferred on Marcel Marceau a rare gift: the ability to speak to everyone, with no barriers of language or culture." The Culture Minister, Christine Albanel, said Marceau's "poetry and tenderness" had inspired performers in other theatrical disciplines for more than half a century.

Marceau claimed that mime was able to convey a more profound, or at least more universal, message than words. "Pantomime is a hypnotic art," he said. "It is a universal language". Marcel Marceau was born in Strasbourg on 22 March 1923. He fled the Nazi invasion of Alsace with his family in 1940 and eventually joined a resistance movement near Limoges.

After the war, he joined Charles Dullin's School of Dramatic Art, and studied under the celebrated mime artist Etienne Decroux. Marceau first made his name with his own company in a tiny theatre on the Paris Left Bank – the Théatre de Poche, where "Bip" was born 60 years ago this year.

A tour of the United States in the mid-1950s – the first of many – turned him into an international celebrity. In 1967, he bumped into his boyhood hero, Charlie Chaplin, at Orly airport in Paris. He launched immediately into a pastiche of Chaplin's dance routine with a cane and then burst into tears and threw his arms around the ageing star.

One of Marceau's most loved sketches was "Public Garden," where "Bip" became in turn all the characters in a park, from a small boy playing football, to the park warden to an old lady knitting. At other times, he might be a bad-tempered waiter, an incompetent lion-tamer, a man chasing butterflies or a flirt at a cocktail party. In one of his later routines – he was making 250 appearance a year until the late 1990s – he mimed all the ages of mankind, from youth to death, in a couple of minutes.

Although Marceau never spoke on stage, he did once famously speak in a film. He appeared in Mel Brooks' Silent Movie in 1976 and said the only word: "non". Off stage, like one of his heroes, Harpo Marx, he was a very talkative man. "Never get a mime talking," he once said. "He won't stop." Marcel Marceau was a modest man, except when describing his own achievements. "I have a feeling that I did for mime what Segovia did for the guitar, what Casals did for the cello," he once said.

In the 1950s and 1960s, his company was the only troupe of mime artists in the world. He founded the Ecole Internationale de Mimodrame in Paris in 1978, which is still the only school of its kind. The pop star Michael Jackson based his moonwalk routine on Marceau's sketch of a man walking against the wind.

Marceau is survived by his four children.

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* * *
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Obituary
Marcel Marceau,
Mime artist and teacher

Marcel Mangel (Marcel Marceau), mime: born Strasbourg, France 22 March 1923; Director, Compagnie de Mime Marcel Marceau 1949-64; Director, Ecole Internationale de Mimodrame de Paris Marcel Marceau 1978-2005; three times married (two sons, two daughters); died Paris 22 September 2007.

Wearing white trousers, a crumpled top hat adorned with a bedraggled red artificial flower and a striped vest with big buttons, and with a mask of a face that was able to suggest a thousand different impressions, the celebrated mime Marcel Marceau produced an astonishing variety of brief dramatic scenes and comical encounters with himself – The Cage, Walking Against the Wind, The Maskmaker, The Park, among others – and a gallery of unforgettable characters – head waiters, mad sculptors, matadors, dictators and ballet dancers. Of Marceau's moving depiction of the four ages of man, Youth, Maturity, Old Age and Death, one critic said, "He accomplishes in less than two minutes what most novelists cannot do in volumes."

He was born Marcel Mangel, the son of a butcher, in Strasbourg in 1923. He attended schools in Strasbourg and Lille and even as a child was a gifted mimic of animals and human beings. He enjoyed the silent movies of the 1920s, in which his favourite stars were Buster Keaton, Harry Langdon, Stan Laurel and above all Charlie Chaplin ("To us, he was a god"), whom he was to meet later in life. Their films were silent, so they had to express their feelings through mime.

When Marcel was 16, the Second World War began and in September 1939, Strasbourg had to be evacuated. For a while he took courses in painting and enamelling at the Ecole des Arts Décoratifs in Limoges, and he was to become a gifted illustrator of his own works. His father was deported to Auschwitz, where he later died, and Marcel joined the Resistance, moving to Paris. On one occasion, in 1944, as he was coming out of the Métro, he was stopped by two plain-clothes policemen who asked to see his papers. They were perfect fakes, for Marcel Mangel, as both a Resistance spy and a Jew, was on the wanted list. The narks kept examining his papers and looking at his face, while he stared back at them without batting an eyelid, showing no trace of fear. The men were baffled, and let him go. It was an early demonstration of the powers of mime.

In 1945, he began attending Charles Dullin's famous school of dramatic art in the Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt, where he also followed classes given by Etienne Decroux, who had invented the system of "mime corporel" – corporeal mime. It became the basis for Mangel's own art of facial and bodily control. One of his fellow students was Jean-Louis Barrault, who appreciated his exceptional talents as both actor and mime. Mangel became a member of Barrault's own company and was cast in the role of Arlequin in the "mimodrama" Baptiste, a role Barrault had made famous in the 1945 film Les Enfants du Paradis.

Mangel was such a success that Barrault encouraged him to present his own mimodrama, "Praxiteles and the Golden Fish" (1946), at the Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt. Its popularity made Mangel decide to embark upon the career of a mime. The stage name he chose was Marcel Marceau, taken from a line in a poem by Victor Hugo about a great general, Marceau-Desgraviers. But the character he created was "Bip".

Marceau borrowed Bip's name from the character of Pip in Charles Dickens's Great Expectations and indeed Bip resembled the wan-faced waifs of Dotheboys Hall in Nicholas Nickleby. He had the woebegone orphan look of children in early silent movies, like Jackie Coogan in The Kid or Oliver Twist.

"Born in the imagination of my childhood," Marceau once wrote of his greatest success, "Bip is a romantic and burlesque hero of our time. His gaze is turned not only towards heaven, but into the hearts of men."

Marceau's scenarios for his sketches were minimal, given body by his weird physical agility and an acute sense of "scenic time". In 1949 he started his own mime company at the tiny Théâtre de Poche in Montparnasse. Its first performance, in 1951, was a mime drama based on Gogol's tale The Overcoat. It was such a popular success that Marceau enlarged the company and produced classic period mime dramas including Pierrot de Montmartre (1952) and the more ambitious Le Mont de Piété ("The Pawn Shop", 1956).

But unlike the "straight" theatre, mime in France has never enjoyed official financial sponsorship, so Marceau had on occasion to abandon his company and start to make a living on tour as Bip in celebrated solo turns.

He toured Europe for eight years. His big break in America came in 1955-56 and Marcel Marceau and mime became inextricably linked in the public mind across the world.

"Americans are like big children – they never lose their sense of amazement and wonder," he once said of his transatlantic fans. "I show them something they have never seen before."

Marceau's beautiful Bip Hunts Butterflies had obviously influenced the great ballet dancer Jean Babilée when in the 1950s I saw him dancing in London in the ballet Le Papillon. Bip toured the whole world, to universal acclaim. He enchanted the Japanese, who after the war were still trying to learn foreign languages. They adored Bip because he was able to express every human feeling without words, and when I arrived in Japan in 1959 the Japanese were still under his spell.

By the end of his life, by Marceau's reckoning he had toured in 65 countries. He gave a rare touch of originality to television shows and appeared in several films, including the cult sci-fi adventure Barbarella (1968), starring Jane Fonda (with Marceau in the role of Professor Ping) and Mel Brooks's Silent Movie (1976), in which Marceau spoke the only line (in fact the only audible word), "Non!"

The list of Marceau's prizes and academic honours is enormous. He was an Officier de la Légion d'honneur, Grand Officier de l'Ordre nationale du Mérite, Commandeur des Arts et des Lettres de la Republique Française, and received honorary doctorates from American universities including Princeton, Michigan and Columbia. Bip received a "Molière d'honneur" in Paris in 1999. And the city of Paris finally endowed the art of mime and Marcel Marceau with enough money to run a permanent school there.

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(--> The article and obituary appeared on belfasttelegraph.co.uk)

"Deadly Chemicals
And Mushroom Cloud"

.(Ben Heine © Cartoons)
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Weapon
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By thepoetryman
They didn't warn us of this growing up.
How could they?
They too had been sold deceit painted to look like gold.

We shall continue to wander off into the dark,
Lumbering through the sludge,
Leaving the whole thing as it was;
We’ll not be the last to ingest it.

We’ll stay kneeled behind the world,
Behind authorities stench,
Our noses filling with it-
For we are an obedient creature
Watching everything we’re here for disappear
And everything we should fear being painted gold!

We’re too busy warring-
We’re too busy dreaming-
We’re too busy scheming-
We’re too busy competing-
We’re too goddamned busy!

O never have we seen such indifference!
Never have we stared so eyeless,
Breathing in the stink of depravity,
Howling that our things are being confiscated,
Agape at the murder and rape of mankind,
Screeching of powers rush forward,
Of our being strapped to the slab of want,
Our freedoms turning nose skyward
As they plunge from the precipice we made,
Screaming of deadly chemicals and mushroom cloud!

Christ!
Can we not make our existence fit for love,
Not submissive to these spineless, lousy rogues
Hell-bent on ruin?
Not the way we’ve existed-
Not the way we’re now living
And will go on living until they say we’re not.
We’ve known all this time who's had the weapons
But we’ve no sense that we’re the filthy trigger…

copyright 2007 tpm
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Thepoetryman's Newsletter
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A RANT (Newsletter)

(In association with A Poetic Justice (Don’t burn the flag. Wash it!)

By Thepoetryman

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Wow! It has been a good while since last you saw one of these! No! Not the photomontage above, you’ve never seen that, I was talking about The APJ Newsletter! It’s been what, six, seven, eight weeks? My only excuse is that I have none. But here we are, eh? You reading and I'm jabbering on about my inconsistent behavior.

Let’s get to the business of useful information before you hit the dreaded delete button, shall we?

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The header of this email is actually the latest addition to my copious blogs. It is rather self-explanatory don’t you think? RANT! I mean the idea is right there in the word! RANT! Of course one can rant about anything under the sun given the inclination to do so, but since most of you are familiar with my works of poetry, plays, short-short stories and photomontage you probably know what the subject of my rants would be, and you’d be correct.

Most people that know me personally might find the word “rant” rather appropriate, but some of you who are only privy to my work online might find it a bit hard to believe that I can string more than two sentences, let alone paragraphs together without breaking into verse. Some of you may find me to be more like a Broadway musical than a ranter and some of you may find me more a ranter than a Broadway triple threat, so I do hope this new site RANT settles the rumors of my iampentameterous tongue or my otherwise eversible utterances.

(What the hell does that mean?)

Well, iampentameterous is a new word I just made up based on iambic pentameter- a line of poetry that is made up of five units of rhythm, for example, five pairs of stressed and unstressed syllables- which I can hardly lay claim to, and eversible is a condition of being turned outward which I can certainly lay claim to!

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Need a taste before you enter the land of RANT? Okay.


Here’s a nibble:

“This man is not to be made fun, he is to be pitied. He is a product of people like Ted Nugent, and Ted Nugent is a product of other Ted Nugent’s, and they are all the byproduct of years and years of the (1) dumbing down of the American education system, particularly K through 12, (2) which includes the educators. They are a product as well of (3) the lack of any worthy historical perspectives and of (4) the growing divide and disconnect between the rich and the middleclass/poor.

And here’s a snack:

“I’d like to take this opportunity to express my thoughts and with all due respect, speak bluntly, Mr. President.

Nothing in particular really, just a random chain of cognitive ideas wrought by your blundering half-cocked-swagger-accented-“heh”-times three-strut that tumbles out your Milli Vanilli cowboy giddy-up spittoon wet with nothing coherent, or true, or resembling good English, or honor, trust, strength, anything at all respectable, or even within an nth of godliness, just a haphazard chain of disingenuous spaghetti westernized one-liners of insidious claptrap-twaddle-rubbish gurgling and splattering projectile spittle out down and on your never-been-man-enough-to-do-anything-on-your-own-without-daddy-or-mommy-or-your-team-of-sycophant-whispering-sweet-nukular-nothings-in-your-ear-of-never-had-any-real-character-to- speak-of existence only to reflect on your heroes- Larry Curly Moe and the oft ignored Shemp-“ Again…what are you waiting for? Contribute your own rant! I will create a photomontage to match it!

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Hey, poetryman?

Yes, voice in my head?

Why don’t you can the get-rich quick scheme and give these dear readers something they can sink their teeth into?

Good idea, voice in my cranium.

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Thepoetryman’s My Space profile

Thepoetryman’s live digital profile

Thepoetryman’s Hi5 profile

Thepoetryman’s YouTube profile

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That’s better…but is that it?

Oh. Right. Sorry, voice in my cranium.

Do you thing that’s funny?

You asked me not to call you “the voice in my head”.

And you think substituting “cranium” for “head” is the way to appease me, your muse?

Just trying to be funny. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of my head this morning…

First; you’re not funny. Second; from my vantage point it matters not which side of your head I awake from; they’re both humorless.

That’s an odd way to put.

It was a perfectly legitimate way to put it. With utter honesty.

Fine!

Stop talking to me and give these people something of substance!

Okay. Aaaaaah… Dab a dab…Dat’s all folks!

Why me? Of all the writers in the world, why did I get “muse duty” with a humorless twit?

Careful there, sweetcheeks, I could run for president someday…


*

A Small Hand

The new light was lean;
crawling
like a horrid serpent
it made its nest.

It slipped over the eyes of the children
certain not to rouse them of their sleep.

The wailing came next,
its throat
with its lament
a woeful tide of loss.

Faint at first
then
to shattering pale prayers
with its great howl.

Have we not enough
madness, destruction,
man’s angry shell
over children's throats?

Are there now
other rifles to aim,
bombs to plunge
like God’s will?

Her small hand motions to us
from the mists of tomorrow,
pleading, come forward
out war’s great sorrow.

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

*

Until next time…let’s liberate the peace…

Mark (thepoetryman)
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Something Howls
.(Ben Heine © Cartoons)
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Pastor says the decision wasn't based on hatred,
but on principle...


ARLINGTON, TEXAS — a mega-church canceled a memorial service for a Navy veteran 24 hours before it was to start because the deceased was gay. Officials at the nondenominational High Point Church knew that Cecil Howard Sinclair was gay when they offered to host his service, said his sister, Kathleen Wright. But after his obituary listed his life partner as one of his survivors, she said, it was called off. "It's a slap in the face. It's like, 'Oh, we're sorry he died, but he's gay so we can't help you,' " she said Friday.
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Is it that you suffer not for this soldier’s fading?
The landscape of your thinking is littered,
Tufts of lifeless matter dark as death fall away-
You’ve this behind you; furrows of measured evil
Snaking across the damp gorge of your being.
You are not sacred in time, not humane, righteous.
You crawl upon your knees, grovel of your creation,
Yet it’s not your author and no one bends for you.

Something is howling. Something is howling now.
Something wicked this way screams…It shrieks.
It shrieks at your shadow, “You’re already dead!”
Its talons scrape the ground at your feet- you fail to see.

Come. Follow its marks upon the dust.
Come! It beckons!
Follow its howling through your darkness.
Let it show you the place where bombs descend,
Let it show you your god.
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The Artist's Little Boy
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(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)
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Teach Me To Paint
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By The Poetryman
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"There are painters who transform the sun into a yellow spot,
but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence,
transform a yellow spot into the sun." (Pablo Piccaso)

Teach me to paint!
Teach me to paint the sun like you, daddy!
It’s better that your life be painted first, my child,
And from its color you might then paint the sun.

You mean like you?

No… I mean like you.


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
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Thank you dear Mark for creating such beautiful
and unexpected poem and photomontage for my birthday!
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Breathing Art
.(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)
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Ceaselessly giving.

Art opens inward
The generous spirit of the heart.

Art widens the eyes,
The soul,
Then seeks you within it.

Rigid and hot,
It needs freedom, faith
To consider where it’s taken you,

Like dipping your mind’s brush
Into the cleansing water,
Thoughts swim, breathing like fish.

Now given to, submerged,
Bathed in the shape of it,
What wrangles your soul?

If you find your breath full...
Think not of the artist’s truth,
Think but of your own;

Spirit and the heart of hope
Weep
And question why…


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
.

Mark, thank you, Associate in Peace...
.

Your Lips Smack of
Devout Hypocrisy!
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Pale Saintliness

By thepoetryman

O! Deceitfulness!

O! Pale saintliness!
Must you eradicate all sound reason?
Must you tread upon all of the globe
With your loose-lipped godlessness
While the red droplets of heaven
Are collapsing on the meek and tired,
And the empire’s bombs plummet
Upon the offspring of hearts and souls?

What gains have you in this; your delusion?
Surely the path to heaven is not covered
In falsehoods and charlatans handing out flowers.
Your lips smack of devout hypocrisy!
Your reasoning, a blunt object upon the head!
Your god smacking lips quiver in vagueness!
Your words refuse to venture out with humanity,
Instead they lounge upon uncomfortable faith
Cracking hope with the weight of your coffers!

It is immense within mankind.
It is yielding and graceful.
Dampness and the soil congregate there
While we set out to destroy the living;
Words as bullets ripping through
Piercing the downtrodden and weak!

We need take these hateful terms,
This small, narrow-minded language
And rip them all to shreds
Then, with the hand of humanity open,
We must unlearn our gradated wants and needs.
We must unlearn these ugly traditions
Of lies, murder, war, and greed.

We must open our hands.