Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Words of Wisdom – “The Crime of Abstract Art being the Cause for World Division” – Philosophy on Art – 11/6/2019

November 6, 2019

“The mirror is a semblance to wholeness. The fragmented mirror is without semblance to truth. In division, that surrounds the world over, here we have ‘abstract art’, that in most cases, appears exactly like a broken mirror. Its shards have been placed carefully against the canvas.

Because of abstract art, we can no longer seek expression through unity. Because of abstract art, we can no longer identify ourselves with someone else. ‘Our own identity’ is what we pathetically and continually repeat. Though, what person, in today’s time, has ever dared to identify themselves with another? To be the same as another, would most certainly mean to feel the pain of another. And, if we are unable to identify with such things, then our humanity is lost.

From Transgenders, to gender division, to every other division, each of these things has been born around a corrupted art world, where no one may identify with a broken mirror, without seeing a million faces. Among those million or so faces, there is not one to see for its wholeness.”


Poem – “The Beauty of Her” – Romance

July 21, 2019

In admiration of your form,
Upon the pedestal where you stand,
The base to make you a statue,
Raised high enough for viewing eyes.
In loving you, I have made art,
I have made a woman of marble.

I love thee, with all thy famous beauty.
Console me, dear one, with all the infamous tragedy.
The fallen tears, down from your cheeks,
Will come to my tongue,
Love and Heaven are twins,
In this rising moment.

I look, and I see,
All the famous beauty.
Behold, before me is a woman of stone,
Of greenish and blueish marble,
Cast by hands that trembled,
Formed by a mind within rivers of fear.

Come find me, if you can,
Shell of a man, that I am.
I speak to me,
Above golden seas,
To see if I can,
See all that I am.

What a man, who cannot even comprehend,
That his sanity has fled,
Far from him.

I see beauty made from stone,
Lips turned from a softness,
To an utter solid.

Life cannot ever stem from her womb.
Life cannot ever make something of itself,
From her bosom,
To gorge itself upon the milk,
That will flow like nectar or honey,
From breasts concealed in thread.

Allow me to realize,
The final graces, of my madness,
My gladness must cease,
All the faiths to this lost world,
For I am one with only my brush;

My hammer;
My pick;
And my brain,
That throbs with echoes so like Poe,
Or Bulwer,
Famed in the agonies of delusion.

Oh, ye famous beauty.
Love has never been of us,
I see no flesh of warmth,
But cold from stone!
Though, I shall form thy hands,
To make you blow a farewell kiss.