they say you must be mad
gone out of your mind
seeing things, hearing voices
to create extraordinary art
it will not be real art unless
you cut off your ear
talk to invisible friends
or howl to the moon
You cannot write a poem
or paint or otherwise create
magnificent real art
in a nice suburban home
art worthy of its name
is born in pain and madness
nurtured by the midwives
rage, fury, and paranoia
real art creeps into existence
in foam-lined sanatorium cells
or cold drafty lofts with no
running water or electricity
being comfortable and
likely considered sane
I must remain content as a
creator of ordinary art
- Author: Alfred Peyer (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: December 18th, 2020 20:20
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 46
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Dan, arobot
Comments6
Art comes in many guises and from all senses within ourselves and it depends which sense or experiences come to mind when that creation is made.
Can I have my ear back please?
Andy
Thanks Andy, but what for? You are doing your own thing and not listening to others anyway.
'Ear, ear', good write Fred. Oops, I mean 'here, here' - or is it 'hear, hear'?
Thanks orchi, you are a true artist, even your comment rhyms.
Loved this!
Thanks so much P D, appreciate your comment!
Very clever indeed!
Thanks Clara, just trying to have a little fun. If I learned one thing in all my years, it is not to take myself too seriously!
If there are still any mad poets about, they lack access to publication. When I Google a poet published in the New Yorker, or read the notes on Poem a Day, all I ever see is "She teaches Creative Writing in The English Department at Placename University". Where are the insurance executives (Wallace Stevens), pediatricians (William Carlos Williams), journalists (W.B. Yeats), bank clerks and blurb writers (T.S. Eliot)?
You are right, Robert. The published poets all seem to be teaching. I am starting to wonder if this is a pre-requisite for getting published.
It certainly looks that way. As mannered as the Meistersänger of Nürnberg of old, but a lot less technically proficient.
For mad?? I am full of WRATH, !!!
The purity of thy art
That not even in year's will it pass
For all is done, all is made, all is created
Humans cremated, secrets and sins hidden in a dark heart.
My mad comment hope you like, and liked this poem a lot cause we all mad and that's what makes art and poetry so original and alluring to see. Good job hun 🤗
Thanks Nancy, I do like your comment! I don't think we are all totally nuts, but sometimes we do dance on the edge.
You welcome and yes true we all have a lil bit of Alice in wonderland ha ha...
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