Category Archives: The Artist

How to Write Part 1 (edited)

Some people write from their brain

Some people write from their heart

Some people write from their social

Some people tear them apart.

 

Some of those take from the city

Some of those take from the woods

Some of those take from friends

Some of those don’t say what they should.

 

A few write what they see

A few write what they touch

A few write what they feel

A few separate not so much.

 

Some say it’s the fame

When rhyming’s their form

And even if not

Others prefer to be torn.

 

For the capabilities shouldn’t be dictated

By what is already read or said

Based upon past experiences of yesterday

Instead of what is presently in front of them.

-Seth Tyler Black Jan. 2011

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Filed under Poetry, The Artist, The Philosopher

My Ideas Keep Me Alive: a poem from “Light”

Inspiration being a stitch in the head,
nagging and nagging
the pragmatic everyday life I try to exist in.
I just give up.

I sell myself, in whole,
to my ideas that bring me life.
My ideas bring me life.
My ideas are the oxygen, water, and protein
keeping me alive.

Unpragmatic, purely platonic.
Don’t ask how I am today,
I am working.
Yes, perhaps alone,
but working,
so not alone live I.
My ideas keep me alive

-Seth Tyler Black Dec. 2010

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Filed under Light, Poetry, Screenplays, The Artist, The Philosopher

Phenomenology of Passion


A view off mainstream,
about four thousand miles down,
lies a truth that could remain unseen,
yet purest in its form comes to town.

When heard above all, no one could drown
this heart, these eyes, this brain.
A passion so driven, and unique above any crown,
it would stop any existence of Leucosia, Veles, and Cain.

Imagine taking your body outside the book
where the parts hold more than bone and muscle,
but inspirations, aspirations, not just look
pretty reassurance, but freedom, desire, hustle.

This is the body of the genius, the philosopher, the poet,
a writer of his own book, maker of machines, and unstoppable to show it.

-Seth Tyler Black Oct. 2010

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Filed under Poetry, The Artist

The Process

Twelve a.m.

Blank wall

Try three mugs of dark-roasted joy

Maybe a cup or two of some leaves.

Open the book to see

An idea in bold red

A direction with an arrow in green

A list of bullets in black

And some references to the side in blue.

One a.m.

Blank wall

Slightly covered.

Start with bullet one

And take him in the green direction

And add a few blue sides.

Dead end,

Erase and start over.

Two a.m.

Blank wall

Slightly covered.

Start with bullet two

And take her in the green direction

And add a few blue sides.

Dead end,

Erase and start over.

Three a.m.

Blank wall

Slightly covered.

Start with bullet three and four

And take them in the green direction

And add a few blue sides.

Perfect,

Part one completed

Rinse and repeat.

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Filed under Poetry, The Artist

The Condition

Middle school

Ten minus three is seven.

High school

Seven plus one

Minus one

Minus four

Plus one again

Minus one

Plus one half

Subtract that off

Minus one

Minus one.

College

Two plus four

Minus two

Plus one

Plus two

Minus one

Minus one

Minus one

Minus one

Minus one

Minus one.

One

or

None…plus…

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Filed under Poetry, The Artist

Dreamer

A vision,

a thought,

something that you devote your whole life to,

and sticking with it through thick and thin,

no matter what anyone else says,

in happiness and sadness,

anger and distress,

and not changing it in times of war,

and in times of peace.

Staying true to yourself no matter the circumstances,

and rising in your dream with ever growing confidence.

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Filed under Poetry, The Artist, The Philosopher

John’s Lullaby: A Poem from “A Portrait of a Young Artist”

I love you,

but you are not what you seem.

A rock on the road will not be the end.

You are my one and only,

and I have put everything behind me

in order to pursue you.

I made an apostasy in order to be with you.

I gave up too much to leave.

I am here for you,

nothing that anyone can say will separate us.

I finally feel like I have a place,

and no one can take that away.

I stand by you,

and no one can change,

no one can end.

No one can strangle this but myself.

You took my heart,

and I do not want it back.

Vindictive or pleasant you may seem,

you are mine.

Successful you may not be to them,

but to me, oh yeah.

Ostensible pretentious views that make you,

make you,

and you would be an empty bottle without it.

Don’t change for them.

I am happy with you the way you are,

and I won’t let them get to you.

Don’t let them strangle you.

Since you are me,

and I am you,

we are one.

And if we go down,

we go down together.

But I’ll keep fighting for you.

My love,

my voice,

my art.

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Filed under A Portrait of a Young Artist, Poetry, The Artist