Third Paradoxist Manifesto by Florentin Smarandache
Therefore, don't enforce any literary rules on me! Or, if you do, I'll certainly encroach upon them. I'm not a poet, that's why I write poetry.
I'm an anti-poet or non-poet.
I thus came to America to re-build the Statue of Liberty of the Verse, delivered from the tyranny of the classic and its dogma.
I allowed any boldness:
- anti-literature and its literature;
- flexible forms fixed, or the alive face of the death!
- style of the non-style;
- poems without verse
(because poems don't mean words)- dumb poems with loud voice;
- poems without poems (because the notion of "poem" doesn't match any definition found in dictionaries or encyclopedias) - poems which exist by their absence;
- after-war literature: pages and pages bombed by filthiness, triteness, and non-poeticality;
- paralinguistic verse (only!): graphics, lyrical portraits, drawings, drafts...
- non-words and non-sentence poems;
- very upset free verse and trivial hermetic verse;
- intelligible unintelligible language;
- unsolved and open problems of mathematics like very nice poems of the spirit - we must scientificize the art in this technical century;
- impersonal texts personalized;
- electrical shock;
- translation from the impossible into the possible, or transformation of the abnormal to the normal;
- pro Non-Art Art;
- make literature from everything, make literature from nothing!
The poet is not a prince of ducks! The notion of "poetry" and its derivatives have become old-fashioned in this century, and people laugh at them in disregard. I'm ashamed to affirm that I create lyrical texts, I hide them. People neither read nor listen to lyrical texts anymore, but they will read this volume because it's nothing to read!
However, the Paradoxist Movement is neither nihilism, nor disparity.
The book of the non-poems is a protest against art's marketing.
Do you writers sell your feelings? Do you create only for money??
Only books about crimes, sex, horror are published. Where is the true Art?
In begging... .
You may find in this book of uncollected poems everything you don't need and don't like: poems not to be read, not to be heard, not to be written at all!
Enjoy them. Only after nuisance you really know what pleasure means.
They provide a mirror of everybody's infinite soul. Art, generally speaking, is pushed up to its last possible frontiers toward non-art, and even more...
Better a book of blanc pages, than one which says nothing.
A very abstract and symbolic language is further used, but very concrete at the same time: non-restrictive verse from any form or content. It takes advantage of cliche against itself.
EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE, THEREFORE: THE IMPOSSIBLE TOO! Hence don't wonder about this anti-book! If you don't understand it, that means you understand all. That is the goal of the manifesto. Because Art is not for the mind, but for feelings. Because Art is also for the mind.
Try to interpret the un-interpretable! Your imagination may flourish as a cactus in a desert.
But, The American Manifesto of the PARADOXISM is especially a revolt of the emigrant to the United States who doesn't speak English, against the language - an anti-language book written in more than a broken English (the American speech of Tomorrow?)...
[From the book: NonPoems, by Florentin Smarandache, Xiquan Publishing House, Phoenix, Chicago, 1991, 1992, 1993;
the volume contains very experimental so called , such as:
- poems without verse;
- poems without poems;
- poem-drafts;
- drawn-poems;
- poems in Pirissanorench (language spoken in the South-West of the United States by a single person);
- super-poems;
- graphic poems;
- upset-poems.]
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Third Paradoxist Manifesto by Florentin Smarandache
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"She"
She held on her the life struggle with grace
Time to time and over, breaks made haste
Tears wet ran down her face
But she prevailed and found her way
Loving herself and letting her dark thoughts stay
In the moments the task at hand, she has nothing to worry and believes she can
In the end after time has passed
She will look back and have a laugh and remember the times tough and true
We are not our thoughts ----------- we are what we do
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"She"
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"Perfect Mistakes"
You cannot make mistakes
They are perfect moments to the art of your life
You cannot have perfection
Because it's the flaws that make you the most beautiful
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"The Ones"
We crave “the ones” that need salvation
We crave “the ones” that face starvation
Not for saving or comforting our souls
The wall “the ones” they climb, brings them to us
We are the rope, the strong rope they need.
Tattered, frayed and a little torn but able to hold giants
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Supernova
One of those sunless nights
My feet planted firmly in the sky
I will call your name
Meandering through the stars
See if gravity pulls us apart
You might forget my soul
An event without horizon
Drink the poison of my hope
I will swallow my reason
He who wanted to elope
In a supernova
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Supernova
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The adventures of Billy (part 1)
Billy liked driving his car
To see his friends who lived afar
Billy's driving wasn't intricate
He never forgot to indicate
Except sometimes at roundabouts
His indicator would mess about
And so did Billy wonder
Was it for worse or for better
That he should think less
But to endure the stress
Of never knowing which
Turn would make it glitch
And so did billy wonder
And so did billy wonder
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The adventures of Billy (part 1)
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Rock Lined Pockets
See the alarm in the shark’s cadence,
Hear the sharp seagull’s cry:
The merling king has come! The merling king has come!
Jellyfish floating around his cloudy crystal crown
Like translucent passive thoughts of aggression.
Will he forgive your primate indiscretion?
In his court of slime and rock sublime
He beckons you with open tentacles
to join his circle of hedonistic companions.
The mermaid is a murderous creature.
The dolphins are wanton and wild.
What’s that in your pockets? The inquisitive mollusk asks.
Rocks.
Of the precious kind?
No.
His soft limbs curl back in plain disappointment.
From under a shell a faint voice cautioned,
Do not trust in the soft bodied rogue’s trade.
Down here the written word is as fleeting as the spoken one.
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Rock Lined Pockets
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"Violently in Love"
It was written on her, the poetry of beauty, prose holding struggle and experience
Buried in night, wrapped in warm arms
Empty space gone and air escapes two sunken bodies
An embrace lost in time, I am yours and you are mine
The warmth of your skin burns, turns me to ash
The sight of you makes my thoughts bleed
Your hands dissolve me slowly
The taste of you poisons my senses.
You have made me bare-boned and raw, I am endless
Your existence creates standing water that runs deep in my soul
Will you come to me? I will wait. How soon is now?
With you is a place where time does not exist.
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"Just Be"
Lovers love the faint blue sea, bluer than blue, like the aftermath of a bended knee
Readers read the words that paint you through my eyes, the words they whisper, all of them lies
Doers do, the deeds that have proper morals and wronged righteousness, the priest and politicians, never are missed
Kissers kiss the lips of lovers and poets, creating fire in ones own heart, the more you kiss the hotter it starts
Killers kill the authenticity of life and art with their normalized judgments for what they cannot do
So, please remember to love, read, do, and kiss as your life will be almost through
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"Just Be"
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"The hard truth of loving"
I am this love to you
I’ll pick you up all the times you are blue
I’ll shelter you from the rain, wipe you tears and absorb your pain— never waiving in front of you- conquering, ambitious, risky, poetic, passionate, sexy and raw, I’ll ask you to enter but then you crawl
But I say for these ideals and truths of us to last, what is your love to me when you take off that mask?
What is your love, you offer to me? For the days and nights to set me free.
What is your love that takes me from this place?
What is your love that opens up me?
What is it you have to offer, average love will not due because we are not the love common for two
I ask you again, what is your love that is my end?
What is your love that cannot bend?
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"You"
Angry, lost, and afraid- in world I never made
Raging, sadness, and rotten- I, in a world, time has forgotten
Until her
She gave peace, mind, and strength
She holds me tight and gives my darkness the kindest light- to be happy with such happiness
You are the good that goodness gets to be
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"You"
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"Dancing in the Rain"
She reminded him of no one
He was trapped in a dream he wanted
He had demons that danced with perfect vulgar in her night that never ended
Je suis es noir- he is the black
Je suis es blanc- she is the white
She needed him like she needs the light
She hides from him in the shadows, but he owns the night
He was all she never wanted, emotionally complex, and couldn’t understand
He was barbed wire on a bloody heart
She was all he never wanted, complex emotionally, and understands couldn't
She was an anvil made of glass
It wasn’t anything but everything, like beautiful demolition
The life that breaths life
The good that makes bad feel good
These words that could not be said, only seen in stares with my eyes
Dancing in perfect laughter until we see the sun rise
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