Notes on “Unique Forms of Continuity in Space by Umberto Boccioni” by Gonzalinho da Costa

Format is an essential attribute of the poem, “Unique Forms of Continuity in Space by Umberto Boccioni.” The poem is at this link:

https://poetryofgonzalinhodacosta.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-scream-by-edvard-munch.html

 

Unique Forms of Continuity in Space (1913) by Umberto Boccioni

 

The original version of the poem is formatted in Century Schoolbook 12 points. If the font type or size is changed, the formatting should be adjusted to maintain the following defining attributes.

 

 

 

The last line of “Unique Forms of Continuity in Space by Umberto Boccioni” should always end with a single word, “now.” This attribute can be achieved by adjusting the width of the poem, which is always formatted ragged right.

 

This procedure is illustrated in the third version of the poem formatted in Georgia 12 points in the attached file. The width of this version of the poem has been adjusted from 6.5 inches to 6 inches. 

 

 

If necessary, a line break should be inserted at the end of the poem so that the ending word “now” begins the last line. This procedure is illustrated in the second version of the poem formatted in Times New Roman 12 points. The width of the poem has been adjusted from 6.5 inches to 6.75 inches.

 

Unique Forms of Continuity in Space by Umberto Boccioni

 

Reveille

BREAKFAST

Dark-headed coffee is a keen companion

Of depth and wit,

Finely calibrated scientific instrument.

Swinging his censer just below my nostrils,

He slays my logic with perfume.

“What crow has stolen your words?”

He asks. “Has your eloquence

Turned into baubles in his nest?”

I pay no attention to the ribbing.

He is too valuable a vizier.

I mine gold every morning.

I take my breakfast like a king—

To my right salted fish,

To my left steaming rice,

Fresh egg is the jester.

Butter, a bird, is eyeing the bread.

Milk dives smoothly into coffee.

Sugar disappears, memory of a dream.

A cock crosses swords with the day.

Things to do arrange themselves,

Tallest to shortest.

Digesting a bolus,

I rise ready to run the next marathon,

Wakeful as a bat, electric as a hawk.

 

Morning steps forward…

Morning steps forward, freshly washed, newly fed, tautly wound, a limber bow,

Ready to spring, tumble, wheel, pull at oars, throw the hammer, leap the long jump,

High kick, vault, cartwheel forward, lunge, Superman punch, elbow strike, grapple,

Throw, bound, mount a motorcycle, zip, zap, round and round the block,

Water ski, slicing the surface—fine fillets—smoothly, upswept, propelled by a parachute of air,

Sling saucers aloft, spinning pizza dough, snare them whirling on sticks, bob, bobble,

Hop, flip bowls from foot to head, head to foot, right to left, left, right, back again.

 

Hot fresh bread…

Hot fresh bread, breakfast time:

Fragrant, not a flower,

Warming, not a fire,

Lively, not a flame,

Soothing, not a salve,

Kindly, not a caress;

Dark honey wheat,

Black oat barley,

Sweet cinnamon raisin,

Savory apple walnut,

Ciabatta, Foccacia, Pita,

Bublik, Chapati, Pandesal—

Parmesan, Romano—two-cheese,

Sunflower, sesame, fennel—three-seed,

Every type of loaf

Bundled in brown wrapper,

Crackling in your embrace,

Steaming scented clouds,

Breathe deeply

Atop a mountain;

Billowing, fluffy blanket,

Pull it up,

Tuck it snug

Beneath your chin;

Bracing, poppy fireside,

Cross your arms,

Hold it to your heart.

Fed in deepest winter,

Bathed at height of summer,

Refreshed when day is dry,

Sheltered when life is wet,

Healed when you are pierced,

Becalmed…even after you are violently shaken,

Remade in hope,

Transformed in joy,

Nourished, uplifted…blessed:

Every good thing comes to you 

As a loaf of bread.

 

WORK

Work springs from bed, time ringing,

Switches off alarm, not clock, world,

Ticking, spinning, running, rushing—

Undresses, showers, splashes—

Sun, birds, window—towels, fluffy, dry—

Dresses, belt, tie, mirror, brushes hair,

Bounds for egg, rice, coffee—

Brushes teeth, brushes hair again,

Hops in car, drives, slows down, traffic—

Rain, wipers, left, right, metronome—

Signals, turns, parks, jumps out—at last!—

Guard, elevator button, fourth floor,

Hello, good morning, sits down, breathless,

Switches on computer, types—tik, tak,

Tikkity-tak—gets up, coffee maker—almost

No one here, checks calendar—holiday.

What gets you out of bed in the morning?

Three River Poems

 

THE RIVER

Yesterday the river was lapping at my feet like an old man tapping out a message about time flowing downward from hills remote as hawks.

Today he rises slowly, a momentous pulse pushing seaward, fed by faraway pistons.

At the waterside where air is fresh as a pear, a sweet mist glides forward like a perfumed wrist.

Islands of floating plants drift, joining into continents, rearranging in serpentine tattoos.

Beneath the surface glittery like so many exploding firecrackers, fish swirl, shadowy limbs of an athlete smoothly cutting back and forth.

Denizens gather at the riverbanks in spoonfuls, sprinkling laughter farther than droplets shot from spinning umbrellas.

Distantly a lizard pokes its head into the sun, jerking left and right, vainly divining a future obscured by brightness.

 

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence,

Traveler along a shadowy forest floor—

I drink deep draughts, lasting,

Of your overflowing stillness!

Tipping your goblet,

I taste your brightness

As floral wine

Swirling inside a crystal

And breathe in perfume.

Fingers of a spellbound existence

Stop my ears.

Awe, a thief, steals my voice.

Bereft of noise, I am

Transfixed as the moon

Hovering, windless night,

Balanced on the sword tip of time.

The world is motionless

As my spirit moves

And my stumbling heart is filled

By a presence…and quiet…

A quiet presence.

 

THE MOON AND RIVER AND SILENCE

                                       

Guided by the moon,

Traveling downriver,

I am enraptured by silence.

All I hear is, delicate, song of my oar

As it dips gently, emerges,

Streamlets, bright notes running down the edge

Of the blade, silver spoon, glistening.

I listen to the moon…

River, warbling bird…

Illumined by silence.

Crickets dare not crack their knuckles.

 

 

Mekong River, Cambodia

Two Sea Poems

 

THE SEA

Down the road a short distance the sea is crashing breakers.

I hear the soft rhythmic roar telling of a distant menace.

We live close enough to the beach to feel the breeze and smell it.

On a hot night it cools the house like a ghostly visitor.

Dark beams exude the odor of sand, old wood a salt fragrance.

Fish and shrimp, squid and snails are the gifts of our brooding neighbor.

We toss them in garlic and soy sauce, shaking them inside the pan.

We serve them steaming, feasting until our stomachs smile.

But in the blackness I cannot be safe enough to call the ocean friend.

He harbors in his belly gigantic aliens and swallows sailors alive.

I hold a match to a kerosene lamp to illumine scroll columns and chairs.

I gaze at the flickering yellow flame, warming within myself.

No one can control this behemoth, this restless surging animal.

If only I could capture this water and leash it to a post.

 

The ocean is a desert…

The ocean is a desert:

No water to drink,

No trees to rest,

No animals to ride.

The gull that glides

Above the waves

Is the faraway condor

Surveying the sand;

They are in their element.

We find no home

In the sea any more than

We sleep in the clouds.

 

 

...no home in the sea...