Central Questions:

Central Questions:                              Artists Among Poets                                    E. Dannielle Slaughter

~Do period terms, such as "Surrealists" or "Modernism," mean the same thing in literature and the visual arts?

The surrealists and modernist poets were dealing with the same variables culturally as the visual artists were during those time periods. Therefore there were many over lapping processes and conceptual ideas when making the visual and written artwork. For my understanding, I look at it as the time period as provoking a certain response rather than the mediums that were chosen to realize those concepts.

~Can one usefully apply terms developed to describe technique, such as "texture," "structure," or "narrative," in one art to another art form or medium?

Of course, for example texture in a painting refers to the surface quality, the texture can be rough or handled delicately and everywhere in between. In the written medium, texture refers to the language and the pauses that happen during the structure of the work. Breaks in the page, lines and words that make you pause awkwardly or hesitate when reading could be considered rough. It could refer to the visual image that the words are building. And the same works for structure and narrative. Structure refers to the craft and rules set up for the final piece, its functionality. Narratives can happen visually or with symbols as letters that create words; narrative is really just a structure that acknowledges the linear within the work, whether accepting or dismissing it.

~How do images, symbols, and motifs work differently in visual and verbal arts?

I don’t believe that they do work differently. I think that poets are artists who are defined by a medium: language.  I think that if you were to verbally describe a poem and a sculpture without talking about medium, and solely talking about content, mood, point of view, texture, structure, rhythm, intent, motivation, etc. then you would not know whether it were a poem or a sculpture.

For example, try this while comparing (verbally and without mention of medium) “A Girl” by Ezra Pound and “Clothespin, Philadelphia” by Claes Oldenburg.

       ~How do twentieth century multimedia art forms differ from twenty-first-century ones?

The collective definition of art from my generation: Art is the product or process of deliberately arranging items in a way that influences and affects one or more of the senses, emotions, and intellect. It encompasses a diverse range of human activities, creations, and modes of expression, including music, literature, film, photography, sculpture, and paintings. The meaning of art is explored in a branch of philosophy known as aesthetics, and even disciplines such as history and psychology analyze its relationship with humans and generations.

Traditionally, the term art was used to refer to any skill or mastery. This conception changed during the Romantic period, when art came to be seen as "a special faculty of the human mind to be classified with religion and science". Generally, art is made with the intention of stimulating thoughts and emotions. The possibilities are endless with advancements in technology but a structure and intent still defines. 

The evolution of him, she and them

Some hearts, I put in the safe
in their steel walls at the first meeting.
Biting their fingers at the bone,
if they cried with that harp
and followed them into the great vast well

All afternoon they look up,
the sweet rays in the light's edge
the butter in the wooden troff
hardening against always cries

But other couples, she asked the
doorman with his brow
is easy up by the moon then
walk into bay's surf of a whim
to be with the other at the night's feet

Very likely,
but how would you like my well
if they never knew from one stone to the next
if they were going to fight currents
splashing around like an owned child
who breathes in the water or lays
there amidst the breasts
dancing on ahead with your hard worked feet.

Window Shopping

I could never be
with a man who wears tennis shoes and socks to the beach, Well I already have but that was long before I knew his preferences in beach attire.

I could never have
children the way she did, Well not have them in the physical sense but they would never have to live that way.

I could never teach
the way they do, Well I could purpose the same line of words but not in that space or time.

I could never work
the way she does, Well I could spend the same hours but would have to be more productive.

I could never talk
the way he does, Well, I could pretend but it wouldn't be sincere.

I could never be
the judge at the Pearly Gates the way he does, Well I could but it would be an empty lot.

jealousy and paranoia

The flesh that makes up my face is smooth
like Russian dolls that stack inside themselves
The hair on my head standing straight
like a needle that defies gravity
My heart pounds through my body
like a swinging mace
The tension in my mouth snaps
like a rubber band being pulled by opposing trucks

The volume overwhelms my mind
like the flooding of tides after 40 days of rain
My stomach turns
like the churning of the milk mades hands
My feet move from this place
like they are treading through quick sand in the Indian jungle

My eyes tighten away from the wet filling
like the barrel that is soaked in the stock's sacrifice
The quiet room falls on my scream
in the same tone as the closed fire place blankets the floor with its breath
This fever consume and holds me as I drink the wine of jealousy and paranoia

Purgatory

Waking up in this place.

 Standing. Crowded,

pushing and shoving.

Screaming. Darkness. Confusion.

Flesh is forceful behind

but nothing in comparison to

the force of the concrete wall pushing back.

Coming in it was wider

but everything has narrowed now.

There is nowhere to go.

Coming to this place because

there was no option in another.
A lack of freedom for what was thought

to be security here:

here in this tunnel

 that has no way to move forward

and no possibility of going back.

So many of the people surrounding are children,

 they should not be here.

The rest of the others are seemingly

on their way out but it still feels wrong:

the elderly and the injured.

The floor is rising up and moving around.

It is very cold and comes

forcing in a way the flesh and the wall

could not have prepared for.

Every few minutes this place

fills with water completely

and almost to the top.

Where is it coming from

and how to make it stop are not questions

 that can be indulged upon.

Grabbing onto these sharp grates

towards the top of the hard wall

is the only option,

just trying to hold on.

Without hope. 

1, 2, 3, 12

1, 2, 3, 12...
a mechanical device
for measuring time
an electrical device
for measuring time
indicating hours
minutes, seconds
typically by hands
on a round dial

against the clock
with the clock
time still counts

counts down moments
the increasing of time
the indefinite continued
progress of existence
and events
past, present, future

reckoning of time
time allotted
appropriate time
an instance of something happening
the clock talks loud of time
today, tomorrow, yesterday

Don't be afraid of the clocks he has said
they are our time
time has been so generous to us
He said we imprinted time with the sweet taste of victory
We conquered time by meeting at a certain time and in a certain space
We are a product of the time
Therefore, we gave back credit where it is due: Time
We are synchronized

datada poem....

Moaning Doves

shoes in a dryer

silk in a blender

a can opening

your god singing

pop of a toaster

heals on a hard wood floor

dice falling

start of an siren

water boiling

the orchestra plays

keys searching

the rustling of sheets

You do remember the sounds,

for I can hear them in your voice

An exercise...

I took 'A Mounted Umbrella' by Gertrude Stein and translated it into Ebonics... Translated Version and then the original poem..

What and shit wuz da use o' not leaving it dere where it would hang what wuz da use if dere wuz nahh chance o' ever seeing it come dere an' show dat it wuz handsome an' right in da way it showed it. The lesson iz ta learn dat it do show it, dat it shows it an' dat nuttin' , dat dere iz nuttin' , dat dere iz nahh mo' ta do about it an' just so much mo' iz dere plenty o' reason fo' making an exchange. what the fuck sup now? HAT was the use of not leaving it there where it would hang what was the use if there was no chance of ever seeing it come there and show that it was handsome and right in the way it showed it. The lesson is to learn that it does show it, that it shows it and that nothing, that there is nothing, that there is no more to do about it and just so much more is there plenty of reason for making an exchange.

With Gandhi in Mind

 Could my vagina be as powerful as your penis

Or will you always dominate me?

Or could power be the soft yellow in your newborn’s room

Or could it be as meek as a mouse?

when the elephant is present, is power red

or does a Jedi mind trick fall under power's umbrella?

is it a demanding presence

or a subtle authority?

Does power call for the use of words?

Before you say yes, keep in mind

who cares when we all face

that same loaded gun

Revised from   VVV

Power is

Is power a demanding presence
Or can it be a subtle authority
Does power call for the use of words like demanding and authority
Before you say yes, keep in mind the power Gandhi held
Is power always forthcoming
Or does a Jedi mind trick fall under power's umbrella
Do the powerful always take hold of that adjective
Or could they have the muscles but be week of mind
Could my vagina be as powerful as your penis
Or will you always dominate me
Is power red
Or could power be the soft yellow in your newborn daughter's room
Is intensity associated with power
Or could power be as meek as a mouse
And does that change for you when the elephant is present
Is power a fault or a virtue
And who cares when we are all faces with that same loaded gun

I don't, But I

I don't care about your shoe size
But I crave the sound of your steps coming into the room
I don't care about the way you wear your hair
But I long to run my hand from the creases in your forehead back and down to the nape of your neck
I don't care about the color of your eyes
But I need them looking at me
I don't care about the strength of your hands
But I want them to lead the small of my back
I don't care about the fit of your jeans
But I am enticed by the the idea of them laying on my floor
I don't care about your beard or if you shave
But I don't mind the small scratches on my inner thighs that they make
I don't care about your friends and the way they look at the idea of us
But I don't like the women on their arms
I don't care about the amount of time you devote
But I would like it to be on my calendar each day
I don't care about your demons
But I pray you don't see all of mine

The Onlooker

He, Him, His
and all the other pronoun possibilities for that man
That man makes eye contact too loooooong
What is processing or generating behind that stare?

That forever glance
That for always ogle
That never ending glare
That consistant gawk
That timeless gape
That eternal gaze
That
That
That

Stop looking looking looking at me
with that tick tick ticking watch.

Silk in China

For all the silk in China
For all the bee's honey
For all the tea in England
For all the baker's flower
For you I'd give it all

For all the tears in the ocean
For all the child's dreams
For all the curry in India
For all the streets in Rome
For you I'd give it all

But for me I kept the breaths.
Steady and sure low inside
I would need them
For you took it all in stride.

All the silk in China
All the honey from the bees
England's tea and the bakers flower
That's what you took from me.

Fully knowing and with ease
You took the tears from the ocean and
the children's dreams
You took the curry from India
and the streets from Rome.

But I still have my breath.
No
I could not give it all
and that was the death of you and me.

Break

It cums twice a day
or three times, or four
Realistically its probably
eleven or thirteen
But never more than twenty
maybe It cums more than twenty
but only when I'm
drinking and that doesn't
happen much anymore
It cums more when I'm
working, when I ned that
moment of release
That nice shaft between
your lips
Slow burning
and getting smaller over time
The warm taste on
your tongue
A deep inhale and
holding
Letting it out
slowly and each breath
having an exact purpose
Your body trembling
in ecstasy from this moment
It doesn't last long
but you can always
lite another one
It cums.
Smoke breaks are my
favorite part of the day.

Shellie

Her sheer skin seems frail
with their transparent blue tint
But her Palms, her palms
are steady for they
they have seen work
Moving and bending
Sliding in smooth waves
across the grain of
wood her hands have chosen
Friction creating a tactile smell
Her endangered wet lands that she
slaves so hard to save
is like that still moment in the morning
interrupted by broken china
Will your hands bleed for endangered tress
or will their splinters consume you
She tells me that the first aid kit
is in the bottom drawer