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Kingsport Autism Support Group

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Andrew Campbell
Andrew Campbell

Artist Vs Poet Sake Of Love Rar

The oldest surviving epic poem, the Epic of Gilgamesh, dates from the 3rd millennium BCE in Sumer (in Mesopotamia, present-day Iraq), and was written in cuneiform script on clay tablets and, later, on papyrus.[12] The Istanbul tablet #2461, dating to c. 2000 BCE, describes an annual rite in which the king symbolically married and mated with the goddess Inanna to ensure fertility and prosperity; some have labelled it the world's oldest love poem.[13][14] An example of Egyptian epic poetry is The Story of Sinuhe (c. 1800 BCE).[15]

Artist Vs Poet Sake Of Love Rar

Sonnets are particularly associated with high poetic diction, vivid imagery, and romantic love, largely due to the influence of Petrarch as well as of early English practitioners such as Edmund Spenser (who gave his name to the Spenserian sonnet), Michael Drayton, and Shakespeare, whose sonnets are among the most famous in English poetry, with twenty being included in the Oxford Book of English Verse.[113] However, the twists and turns associated with the volta allow for a logical flexibility applicable to many subjects.[114] Poets from the earliest centuries of the sonnet to the present have used the form to address topics related to politics (John Milton, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Claude McKay), theology (John Donne, Gerard Manley Hopkins), war (Wilfred Owen, e.e. cummings), and gender and sexuality (Carol Ann Duffy). Further, postmodern authors such as Ted Berrigan and John Berryman have challenged the traditional definitions of the sonnet form, rendering entire sequences of "sonnets" that often lack rhyme, a clear logical progression, or even a consistent count of fourteen lines.

The ghazal (also ghazel, gazel, gazal, or gozol) is a form of poetry common in Arabic, Bengali, Persian and Urdu. In classic form, the ghazal has from five to fifteen rhyming couplets that share a refrain at the end of the second line. This refrain may be of one or several syllables and is preceded by a rhyme. Each line has an identical meter. The ghazal often reflects on a theme of unattainable love or divinity.[136]

"You are a chess player! Pass not by this check-mate of Caravaggio's.What undisguised triumph in one countenance! What a struggle to repressnature's feelings in the other! Here is a Guido! sweet, as his ever are!He may justly be styled the female laureat. What artist can compete withhim in delineating the blooming expression, or the tender, but lighter,shades of female loveliness? who can pause between even the Fornarina,and that divine effort, the Beatrice Cenci of the Barberini?"

By this time, the latter, quite fascinated by her beauty andsimplicity, and deeming, as was indeed the fact, that his love wasreturned, needed not other inquietudes than those his attachment gavehim. The pride of ancestry and station on the one hand--on the other,a deep affection, and a wish to act nobly by Acmé--caused an internalstruggle which made him open to any excitement, nervously alive to anywrong. He sought his friend, and used reproaches, which rendered itimperative that they should meet as foes. Delancey was wounded; andas he thought--and it was long doubtful whether it wereso--mortally. He beckoned George Delmé to his bedside--begged him toforgive him--told him that his friendship had been the greatest sourceof delight to him--a friendship which in his dying moments he beggedto renew--that far from feeling pain at his approaching dissolution,he conceived that he had merited all, and only waited his full andentire forgiveness to die happy. George Delmé wrung his hands in thebitterness of despair--prayed him to live for his sake--told him, thatdid he not, his own life hereafter would be one of the deepestmisery,--that the horrors of remorse would weigh him down to hisgrave. The surgeon was the first to terminate a scene, which heassured Delmé was one of the most painful it had ever been his lot towitness. This meeting, though of so agitating a nature, seemed to havea beneficial effect on the wounded man. He sunk into a sweet sleep;and on awaking, his pulse was lower, and his symptoms less critical.He improved gradually, and was now convalescent. But it was otherwisewith George Delmé. He sought the solitude of his chamber, a prey tothe agonies of a self-reproaching spirit. He considered himselfinstrumental in taking the life of his best friend--of one, richlyendowed with the loftiest feelings humanity can boast. His nervespreviously had been unstrung; body and mind sank under the picture hisimagination had conjured up. His servant was alarmed by startlingscreams, entered his room, and found his master in fearfulconvulsions. A fever ensued, during which George's life hung by athread. To this succeeded a long state of unconsciousness,occasionally broken by wild delirium.

Love! Heavenly love! by Plato's mind conceived, and Sicyon's artistchiselled! not thou! night's offspring, springing on golden wing fromthe dark bosom of Erebus! the first created, and the first creating: butthou! immaculate deity; effluence of unspotted thought, and child of achaster age! where, oh where is now thy resting place?

There was something extremely witching in her precocious charms. Sheresembled some beauteous bud, just ready to burst into light and bloom.It is not yet the rose,--but a moment more may make it such. Herbeauties were thus ripe for maturity. It seemed as if the sunshine oflove were already upon them--they were basking in its rays. A briefspace--and the girl shall no longer be such. What was promise shall bebeauty. She shall meet the charmed eye a woman; rich in grace andloveliness. As Delmé marked her sympathising glance at George--herbeaming features--her innocent simplicity;--as he thought of all she hadlost, all she had suffered for his brother's sake,--as he thought of thescorn of the many--the pity of the few--the unwearied watching--thesleepless nights--the day of sorrow passed by the bed of sickness--allso cheerfully encountered for him--he could not reproach her. No! hetook her hand, and the brothers whispered consolation to her, and toeach other.

The same day, Delmé went to his brother's bed-side. "George," said he,"let me take the present opportunity of Acmé's absence, to tell you whatI had only deferred till you were somewhat stronger. She is a good girl,George, a very good girl. I wish she had been English--it would havebeen better!--but this we cannot help. You must marry her, George! Iwill be a kind brother-in-law, and Emily shall love her for your sake."

If--as Eastern poets tell us--these snowy flowers bathe their charms,when the sun is absent, but lift up their virgin heads, when he looksdown approvingly:--but that, sometimes deceived, on some peerlessdamsel's approaching, they mistake her eye for their loved luminary, andpay to her beauty an abrupt and involuntary homage:--now might theyindeed gaze upward, to greet as fair a face as ever looked down on thewater they bedecked.

The inimitable Perseus, too! the idol of that versatile genius, BenvenutoCellini:--an author! a goldsmith! a cunning artificer in jewels! a founderin bronze! a sculptor in marble! the prince of good fellows! the favoredof princes! the warm friend and daring lover! as we gaze on his gloriousperformance, and see beside it the Hercules, and Cacus of his rival BaccioBandanelli,--we seem to live again in those days, with which Cellini hasmade us so familiar:--and almost naturally regard the back of the bendingfigure, to note if its muscles warrant the stinging sarcasm of Cellini,which we are told at once dispelled the pride of the aspiringartist--"that they resembled cucumbers!"

I\u2019d always just really loved longer poems, like John Ashbery\u2019s Three Poems and Flow Chart. I\u2019ve never really wrapped my head around writing the individual poem, I think because I have written song lyrics for so long. Song lyrics more than satisfied any desire that I would have for writing poetry. I felt like there were people ready to engage with it. Moving from songwriting to writing for the page, I\u2019m sure I had a fear that suddenly I would be consigning all of this writing to the void.

I think it\u2019s really helpful for people not to identify too strongly with one particular mode. I really think of Marcel Broodthaers moving from being a poet to a visual artist at age 40. He gives a speech at his 40th birthday announcing that he\u2019s becoming an artist. If I\u2019m a musician, it\u2019s not because I have any particular musical talent, but rather because I picked up a guitar at age 13 or 14 and started playing in new wave and punk bands. It shouldn\u2019t be like being ejected into outer space where your exit trajectory, leaving the atmosphere, is the trajectory that you always continue on.


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