Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Jul 25, 2007 at 09:38 o\clock

color blind or bind

just another splash of colour on this canvas of life.......

We paint our pictures splashing on the reds yellows blues of our being

At first the blank canvas seems so big our dabs and smears isolated and vivid

Slowly it fills with more and more color

Secondary colors appear orange brown and vivid violet

The bristles harden and then the blues and blacks stroke across our picture

Neil Furby

Denser and denser overlaid the colors now till life light starts it insidious magic

Colors fade and merge till the day when our pictures blacken

White to Black Black to White till our great masterpieces are formed

Jul 25, 2007 at 09:20 o\clock

Super Shop Croatia

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Jul 25, 2007 at 09:00 o\clock

Croatian Humour

l

Jul 25, 2007 at 01:52 o\clock

IN A TWILIGHT SUBURB Croatia

IN A TWILIGHT SUBURB
I was listening to fierce sad stories
In a twilight suburb, stories
Drowned in tics and alcohol.
While the faces of those present
Were swallowed by tobacco smoke
They would show me the door,
Toss me into the street,
From the mountain into a cave,
Promise warm lodging, pleasures,
Insult me, steal my breath away.
How do you get out of your neighbour’s cupboard?
Who lost their innocence after a pasty?
How do you earn one hundred thousand nothings?
Where is Božo?
A life for the General!?
I was listening, I say, to fierce sad stories
In a twilight suburb, stories
Drowned in tics and alcohol.
Years later, the tramp’s words
And the policeman’s words, love scenes
And scenes of violence settled
In the rose of the evening
Which feeds me,
Which I cannot escape.
How do you get out of your neighbour’s cupboard?
Who lost their innocence after a pasty?
How do you earn one hundred thousand nothings?
Where is Božo?
A life for the General!?
Well, I have only one story now
Which has overtaken me entirely.
No longer can I pluck the petals, forget the face of the man
Giving a speech outside the inn windows.
Each night the rose repeats to me:
This world is a spider’s web
Into which you weave yourself
As soon as you stop fearing the spider.
Although it existed before you,
You think you were the one that began to weave it.
Yes. I listened long to fierce sad stories
In a twilight suburb, stories
Drowned in tics and alcohol.
Now they are my horizon and my border.
And native land, which I bear with me
Into the heart of the city like an identity card.
If anyone there asks me who I am
I shall tell him without hesitation
How to get out of your neighbour’s cupboard
Who lost their innocence after a pasty
How to earn one hundred thousand nothings
Where Božo is . . .
© 2006, Krešimir Bagic
© Translation: 2007, Kim Burton

Jul 20, 2007 at 12:49 o\clock

Tao Te Ching Verse 38

Tao Te Ching Verse 38

The Master doesn't try to be powerful;
thus he is truly powerful.
The ordinary man keeps reaching for power;
thus he never has enough.

The Master does nothing,
yet he leaves nothing undone.
The ordinary man is always doing things,
yet many more are left to be done.

The kind man does something,
yet something remains undone.
The just man does something.
and leaves many things to be done.
The moral man does something,
and when no one responds
he rolls up his sleeves and uses force.

When the Tao is lost, there is goodness.
When goodness is lost, there is morality.
When morality is lost, there is ritual.
Ritual is the husk of true faith,
the beginning of chaos.

Therefore the Master concerns himself
with the depths and not the surface,
with the fruit and not the flower.
He has no will of his own.
He dwells in reality,
and lets all illusions go.

Jul 17, 2007 at 04:28 o\clock

Me reading poem through a frame

b

Jul 12, 2007 at 05:27 o\clock

Do Da doggy Day

 
Went for a walk along the beach and there was all these dog signs everywhere Do not let your dog mess our pathway use paper bags at all times to remove dog poo It was mind numbing and made me think of doggy things as the poo factories walked on by and me with my beady eye watching watching for a doggy movement watching the people on the end of leads cooing and arhhing to their beloved four legged animal What lead them to this beastitude love state What was wrong with humans the two legged strutting hip a swagger types ready to knock ya socks off To tough for ya hey second best dogggy forever faithful wagging tails run for sticks Oh hell now what is this I have trod in Where is my pen or can of spray KILL ALL DOGS ON THIS PATHWAY

Jul 7, 2007 at 09:56 o\clock

Pip and Squeak My Art students

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Jul 5, 2007 at 01:35 o\clock

The First Noise

THE FIRST NOISE
 
No, it is not the intonation
It is not the rhythm
Not even the meaning.
It is the word by itself
Mouthless.
And who would ever care about
What the poet says? What matters is the ritual
The metaphor of what we've always been
The memory of the first vocal sound
"the secret language of the birds
of the first day" Today's man is out of tune
He has forgotten the words.
Someone stammers something
And everyone arrives, it's the ritual
The transition
Memory,
the substitution,
The endless metaphor
What strange analogy is man? The poet says nothing
But a living being comes out of his throat
Invisible, having only sound
And an ancient music.
We remember then the original sound
The first sound in the world
When the word became blood
And collective food. With time came verses
But the birds no longer cared about it
The poet speaks, sings or prays
And wants to name the world
In all forms.
He invokes the spirits
And calls the other
"I will people myself with voices," he says,
and turns to his metaphor which is of fire. But the word keeps silent
The word is the grandfather of the species
The word is sense
It is power and walking stick.
 
© Álvaro Marín
© Translation: 2007, Nicolás Suescún
 

Jul 4, 2007 at 10:38 o\clock

Lightning storm Vitar

dd

Jul 4, 2007 at 10:08 o\clock

near Kistullus, Borsod-Abaúj-Zemplén (Hungary) by lacitot

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