This may be a little late, but CONGRATS Petrarch, and great picture selection!
Thanks for the kind comments, Symphony.
Printable View
This may be a little late, but CONGRATS Petrarch, and great picture selection!
Thanks for the kind comments, Symphony.
Thanks, Amp. It's all I have ever tried to do is hope that others catch meaning in the poem, for I don't write for myself. http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1.../Four/Worm.gifQuote:
Originally Posted by ampoule
Bravo Pen!
An-
An-
Anura!
Thus spoke atlas from the peak.
Thou raised the bust
and I the lot,
Retorted cuckoo's beak.
An-
Sartre's scarlet.
An-
Maternal dews.
Anura!
Minor starlets
Under evening hues.
Rivet, rivet, saltare!
Rivet, rivet, saltare!
Pour-trait
He sees curves,
the roundness of shoulders,
soft arms muscle-bulged,
lips arched, complicit.
Captures it
with one deft stroke;
the brush goes where hands won’t.
He takes time over
her skirts, exploring each
dip and fold;
hints at the
suggestion of breasts,
untouched.
Her eyes he keeps to himself,
they might expose
the knowledge they both hold.
He hides it in sepia tones,
husks of bread,
the thin line of milk
slipping into the bowl.
Nice Nick and Fifth! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...s/Appaluse.gif
Dappling Light
When he painted light they thought it was brilliant.
Look at the sun, they said, see how intensely it shines
upon the crooked wall. See how gold flickers across
tattered faces; see how silken glimmers fall; rising
only to capture the eyes and calm the senses.
It is almost as if you could feel the warmth
Descending down, down, down to your soles.
When he painted light we thought it was brilliant.
And our eyes reached out to bask in the tranquility
Of three centuries ago: when maids glowed in the
afternoons- when we accepted life with a quiet dignity
that we once thought we possessed. We think that
the sun no longer transforms our walls into gold;
and believing this we shamelessly wail; quailing
from the light in case it exposes our feared disgrace.
We deny and we distress and we despair- and then
we grow old. Perhaps if we realized that we only
yearned for grace in our memories, we would’ve seen
that even complaisant maids may be transformed into
resilient soldiers by brushing a fine layer of light.
But we exist in a dream and live dreaming:
wandering blindly in this tedious turmoil.
When Vermeer carefully dappled sunlight
onto that coarse landscape, did he already know
that he would evoke a nostalgia for an illusory past?
Still, the maid smiles- the epitome of endurance-
while her eyes look down towards the dusty floor.
Hunger
The master comes riding into the courtyard, clip-clopping,
the dogs running ahead barking and nipping and he sees
his breath as he dismounts, his servant taking the reins,
this cold, brisk, early morning ride has been exhilirating, and
he pats him on the shoulder, thanking him, what a glorious
day, I'm starving, and with a swirl of his winter cape,
heads for warmth and nourishment.
In the house now, he hangs his cape and strides toward
his library where words and a fire beg to comfort him, but
he stops short at the sound of humming, what is that
lovely tune and the voice from which it comes?
A golden glow is ahead and the word heaven is on his mind
as he approaches and the voice is louder, making him stop,
peering secretively around the corner.
There she stands, glowing in the gambogian sunlight, fog lifting,
a goddess humming a siren's tune and he watches quietly
as she pours the morning's milk, wondering what thoughts
lie behind the eyes of that gentle face and he sees the buttons
rise and fall upon her breast as she breathes the common
breath that brings the haunting melody that fills the room
like the smell of the freshly baked bread.
He longs to speak and ask, what tune is this, and yet
he does not, for he does not want to break the spell
of the scene before him, but it is broken soon enough as she
goes round the table to lift the basket of bread, and he
rushes like some prankish school boy to his room, to his desk,
just in time to rise from his chair as she enters the room
with his morning refection.
He stands there in a pitiful state, staring, not wanting her,
but wishing he could gently touch the warm moist skin of
her face or feel the warmth of the sun-filled sleeve of her
golden blouse or kiss her hand or ask her thoughts on the
weather or the price of horse feed or if she has read this or
that particular volume of poems, but she curtseys, anything
more for you sir?
No. Yes. I mean, no. Thank you so much. This is perfect,
and as she leaves through the door he longs to call out,
but won't you stay and sing for me?
amp, November Fifteenth, TwoThousandSeven
.
There is something about being the last one to post that makes me very nervous, as if the party ended and I have to turn out the lights. :(
I wouldn't worry Amp. I've yet to get any inspiration. Nothing is coming to me on this one. :(Quote:
Originally Posted by ampoule
Again congratulations are in order Amp and Schadenfreude ( would you mind the nickname "Shades"? Easier to keep up with.) http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...ies/Shades.gif
Yes, looks like another interesting round - all great poems so far :D
Pen, I would really prefer to be known as 'The Astonishing Magician in the Technicolour Raincoat'- it has more ring to it, don't you think? ;) Nah, you are welcome to call me whatever you like.
Now that is a great title for a painting! I hope to see it posted in the art thread.;)Quote:
Originally Posted by schadenfreude
December 8th deadline...anyone else?Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love