Intentionalism and the Arts

                                         Intentist Poetry

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





((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....
And now, only waiting for tonight...
To wash away the lemon (traces) grinds of the night before


Vittorio Pelosi




I lay around, dazed, immune to the world.

Yet, it reaches out to me, unbending.

Choking, I sit up.


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


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. 


                                            Untitled 2


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.


                                            Untitled 3


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



                                           Untitled 4


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.



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


And it was gone