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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 10/15/2013
POETRY IN MOTION
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, Germany.jpg)
Poetry in motion.
That is what he called me.
I walked across the stage with the grace of someone much finer than me, much finer than my last reincarnation as Howard Carter, the discoverer of the Tut-Anch-Amun.
And, yes, I had been working as an artiste of sorts since thirty years.
Working, hoping, strĂving, sweating.
Poetry in motion.
Well, I had written a poem like that once and I asked him what that meant. It meant grace. That is what he said after three glasses of wine. I told him, happily I might add, that I'd had a long day and my free time was valuable to me. I was POETRY IN MOTION. Hmm, I responded.
Hmm.
Bliss. I answered. Bliss.
What is poetry?
Poetry comes in so many forms.
Poetry in the form of art. Rubens, da Vinci, Monet, Dali, Ono, Warhol, Pollock, Titian, Jordaens.
Jordaens.
I told him about that wonderful painting I had seen in Vienna's Art Museum.
The Feast of Bacchus.
I had fallen in love with that painting, maybe because it was as escessive as me. Still, the drone persisted: you are poetry in motion. Your life. Unexplainable. How would you explain a life? Is there a reason? Is there a rhyme? No, a life is poetry in motion.
And so, in sweet intoxication, I rambled on within the wonders of unusual drunkenness, filled with depth of profound culture, how I sat alone talking to my higher self pretending to be a drone. Drone? Because Star Trek Voyager ran on the DVD while I wrote this. Sort of like Beatles FLYING or a Pollock painting. Wonderfully spontaneous. Life is spontaneous, Folks. Meant to be? Yes. But wonderfully spontaneous.
Poetry in motion.
Wassail, wassail, all over the town.
Life is meant to be, every second planned.
Every second spontaneous.
That is the mystery.
We shall find out.
Poetry in motion.
Said the intoxication of Californian wine.
POETRY IN MOTION(Charles E.J. Moulton)
Poetry in motion.
That is what he called me.
I walked across the stage with the grace of someone much finer than me, much finer than my last reincarnation as Howard Carter, the discoverer of the Tut-Anch-Amun.
And, yes, I had been working as an artiste of sorts since thirty years.
Working, hoping, strĂving, sweating.
Poetry in motion.
Well, I had written a poem like that once and I asked him what that meant. It meant grace. That is what he said after three glasses of wine. I told him, happily I might add, that I'd had a long day and my free time was valuable to me. I was POETRY IN MOTION. Hmm, I responded.
Hmm.
Bliss. I answered. Bliss.
What is poetry?
Poetry comes in so many forms.
Poetry in the form of art. Rubens, da Vinci, Monet, Dali, Ono, Warhol, Pollock, Titian, Jordaens.
Jordaens.
I told him about that wonderful painting I had seen in Vienna's Art Museum.
The Feast of Bacchus.
I had fallen in love with that painting, maybe because it was as escessive as me. Still, the drone persisted: you are poetry in motion. Your life. Unexplainable. How would you explain a life? Is there a reason? Is there a rhyme? No, a life is poetry in motion.
And so, in sweet intoxication, I rambled on within the wonders of unusual drunkenness, filled with depth of profound culture, how I sat alone talking to my higher self pretending to be a drone. Drone? Because Star Trek Voyager ran on the DVD while I wrote this. Sort of like Beatles FLYING or a Pollock painting. Wonderfully spontaneous. Life is spontaneous, Folks. Meant to be? Yes. But wonderfully spontaneous.
Poetry in motion.
Wassail, wassail, all over the town.
Life is meant to be, every second planned.
Every second spontaneous.
That is the mystery.
We shall find out.
Poetry in motion.
Said the intoxication of Californian wine.
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