Intentist poets are all interested in demonstrating the significance of intentions in a poem.
Intentist poets encounter unique issues.
Poetry, compared with the static arts is linear. Some Intentist fine artists have portrayed the creative trail through palimpsestism, others through anarrativism. Neither are as easily possible with text for different reasons: A poem with different layers of text becomes primarily a piece of visual art; secondly, text, if it is to be understood at all needs to a lesser or greater degree to be narratorial.
The first two images show Intentist poet Gideon Parry's creational trail in re-working a poem.
Then, Parry's 'Grind' leaves rejected phrases in parenthesis.
Vittorio Pelosi's 'Park' combines the final version with the work-in-process inverted underneath.
Finally, Luciano Pelosi's 'Homeward' retains unnecessary parts enclosed in commas, in a similar way to non-defining relative clauses.
Gideon Parry
Grind
((Sitting on a train.
Weakened by the weather, (it's) gormless, overshadowed by snippets from last night's dream,
Of love rejected.))
Slumped on a tube seat,
My head rattling against the casement window,
My stomach in knots,
(The power of 8,000 atoms)
(Still dreaming)
Having dreamt about a (girl) vision who left me six years ago....
(Again).
And now, only waiting for tonight...
To wash away the lemon (traces) grinds of the night before.
2009
Vittorio Pelosi
Park
I lay around, dazed, immune to the world.
Yet, it reaches out to me, unbending.
Choking, I sit up.
Heavenward.
Which way to the world?
Bright eyes? She teases. I turn – I must.
A discarded note.
I choke.
I turn, I must. A discarded note. I choke.
She plays, she teases. I turn – I must.
I look towards my watch, counting.
Bright eyes? She plays, she jumps, she
Choking, I sit up, heavenward.
Which way to the world?
Bright eyes?
I supplant my attention on the girl in the park
I lay around, dazed, immune to the world.
Yet it reaches out to me. Unbending. I choke
2009
Luciano Pelosi
Untitled 1
Man was made to fear,
To love, to hate, to breathe, to hear,
Hear now:
Man was made for
He who made Man breathe,
And we abuse our fear on all but Him,
And we misuse our hate on all but sin,
For we all know begins,
All wisdom in the heart within,
Begins here -
Where Man has learnt to fear.
2010
Two trees came and carved their names upon my belly:
They were very much in love.
I know because they cut me with that cold indifference.
The kind that lovers keep
To greet the world outside
Their twisted arms and knotted fingers.
I let my fingers stroke me where the wound has healed -
I stoke my fire
and nothing but their ashes lingers.
2010
When weeks were framed
With painted flowers,
My hours were tinted pink with joy.
When speaking seemed too dim a power
A towering beacon beaming coy.
When she would rest
Young head on older
Nestling hot and upward sneak,
Her playful hair would share our shoulders
Then turn and whip my titian cheek
Till little petal lips
Pursued their pleasure
Softly printing love
While screaming silken coverings
Would gently make their rise above
Her knees to ease
Her breathing skin
And in be drown beneath
Her chin
And more of this I shan't begin
It pains my recollection
2010
I am the true historian:
I hope you're taking notes -
I'll teach you how your selfish pride
Has torn my humble heart inside
With scorn, like some forocious tide
Which shipwrecked all my boats.
I am the true Historian:
I'll guide you through your past -
How I've been wronged,
When always right
Yet saved you from your sorry plight
Befriending you in others' sight
As if you never asked.
I am the true Historian:
Reminding you of dates -
That day your gossip made me frown
"What can I do?" I told the town,
"I forgive her when she lets me down,
And when she's always late."
I am the true Historian
Professional to the end -
I hang your sins up on my wall
You say they shouldn't be there at all
But they're forgiven and forgotten fool
Aren't you lucky I'm your friend.
2010
I took my broken shadow home
It held tight to my, feet, ankles
As I dragged it through the dusk
It looked like, leaking, seeping
,Oil, Rather
The coils of midnight's serpent
It stretched and how it grew
So, great, long
But as we neared my house
The evening's darkness swallowed
Once
And it was gone
2009