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We've had several poems submitted to the arts debate, so we've created this space where you can post your poetry and read the work of others.
Ideally we'd like the poems to broadly reflect the five key questions of the arts debate or deal with the subject of 'debate' itself - and please keep in mind our comments policy. We look forward to reading your poems!
Click on the image to access a PDF (990Kb) of the new summary report, What people want from the arts
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Arts Debate
Come on let's talk about art
Let's have an old fashioned debate
Argue 'til three in warm, musty bars
Gossip over tea with some mates
Just don't miss the chance to post your reviews
Because believe me, art talks about you
Sixty Not Out - Arts Council England 1946-2006
The hardest part is the start,
knowing how to proceed, justify
and develop proven justifications
into significant progress.
Matters that count
to be enjoyed and remembered
more for what they give
than the acts themselves.
This is the art that makes art.
Sixty not out is not too bad for players of class.
Taking guard straight after VE Day
there have been numerous difficulties,
periods of uncertainty, sticky wickets,
unfavourable conditions, the odd play
and miss, opportunity, mix-ups in the middle
and occasionally benefit of the doubt.
It takes some skill and effort to reach sixty not out.
Players of class look towards a century,
a big ton or more. Once set it should follow
however hard the bowlers of perfection bellow
to turn the umpires of opinion against themselves.
The art that makes art must not stand apart
from artists nor detractors, but face their deliveries
and make more of them in setting the score.
I wrote a poem when at school
of snowdrops nodding in a wood :
BadgerBrock,Welsh English master,
language lucid,lip-curled asked
from whence this poetry was stolen
and wasn't I a bandit-boyo .
With all my green-gowned maids
once adolescent wild, now tame ,
and gifted to an older drudge ,
I bore no grudge to Badger Brock:
by his words I understood
my poem was quite good ,
so years after farting iambics
and naughty limericks
I sent him a copy of my book ,
done without any help from my mum
or Lottery Fund or anyone ,
only me .
Artist or penny-a-line hack
chew the sour grape but spit it
back .
An outside game
Once again, there was an art
when I played with my heart
with my friends in my childhood
I closed my eyes, I called twoice
herb herb, corn corn-please if you are there talk, I'm alone. This was a sort of game where people don't play the same.
I turned around, I opened the eyes
I wished the Bride's white dress
who walked by
she wored in rouge even her eye. Who's cryied Who's cryied?
A baby born, her beautiful grey eyes called the ray from outside
with it I wrote a paper which burned as an ash, my friends read my death age above. I shaked my bones, the baby born, in hospital was alone, she didn't arrive at home. I was five years-old when I spoken with The Lord.
Once again there was an art that talks about ash lives in my
life.
funding bunding climate changing, pulling on fag butts makes its amazing, with a click and a clack my art is back.
Onlooker word
A basic address
No cant
Will riddle, reach or conceive
Of until the global brain
Drags to their chamber of gas
Poesy’s cold bloodied carcass
To be dissected by a top weight team
Of sermon faced sophists
Conversing a language deeply
Abstruse and
Without understanding.
Critics
Surgically swapping solid reflexive Ideas
At a post-modern thought swamp
Weave webs of conjecture
About what lies
Beyond, unknown in the moment
Yet connected to now
Bridging to inner wisdom
Chattered erect
With the full support of
Guesses tendered as
Facts
Waiting to be found
When XY and Z turns
AD to BC
And the ustopp-
able force of immediate truth boots
Reason out on its ear and wel-
Comes in Derrida, Baudrillard
Krestiva, Barthes and a Sy-
mphonic absence
Usurping 1
2 and 3 to a possible 6 that
Maybe a 4 or 9, depending
On how the colour of
Tomorrow's noon strikes the
Sound of yesterdays light
Site
Where know nots moan in
Pools of complexity
Pondering unbelief and
Why the human condition
Cannot bend time to its will
With knowledge philosophers
Make up when
Farming and fishing
The mind for proof
Being essentially moved
To reason our faith in beauty.
Participate
A new century, A new start.
Is it just a scene to fit the stage?
Speak the speeches, play the part,
But try to get the people to participate.
This site is a start, sixty years on,
A new prospect, a new idea.
Get the people to participate,
Communities to tell.,
A way forward, the future?
Make it clear.