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Thanks, Symphony! And thanks to everyone else for your congrats, but even more for your wonderful entries. I am especially honored to be chosen in a round that had an unusually high number of really top notch poems. If everyone keeps up the way they have I shall have a truly hard time judging the coming round. O.K., I'm off to find a new pic. Will post again shortly.
Here's the next picture. I'll set the deadline for December 8th, which should give everyone plenty of time to knock my socks off with their entries. Happy writing!
http://i43.photobucket.com/albums/e3...D/vermeer2.jpg
Congratularions, PL. I loved all the poems, but yours touched me the most.
Symphony, kudos to you for such a tough decision.
Congratulations, Petrarch's Love!
Oh, what a painting to choose...
Congradulations are in order, I think, Petra! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...ur/Whistle.gif
And thanks to Sy for my making the final four. You had a tough choice, and talent runs high around LitNet these days! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...e/Four/DDM.gif
I'll think on this one for a while, Petra. Getting in the first poem just gives a mark for someone else to shoot at! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...Four/Float.gif
Couldnt agree more!Quote:
You had a tough choice, and talent runs high around LitNet these days!
Well deserved Petrarch.:nod:
What the heck, Petra. They won't fire without a target. Might as well be that target. http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...our/Tarzan.gif
Vermeer’s The Milkmaid
She has not had a life that’s been easy,
See how the work has leant strength to that arm.
Her features are strong but perhaps not really pretty,
Still she hasn’t lost all of her womanly charm.
See how carefully she pays attention to detail,
Pouring milk from the pitcher to go with the bread.
These days milk provides both drink and something to sell,
If she earns no money, how will she and her mother be feed?
She places the things on the tray for her Master and Mistress,
Time for breakfast is swiftly drawing nigh.
She double-checks the coins in the pocket of her dress,
For Master will want the money for the milk sold to Bligh
The tinkle of the bell calls her and she picks up the loaded tray:
The household has awakened and she curtsies “Good Day!”
Dale Harris
© 11/5/07
Thanks Pen! Great entry, and clearly people need the benefit of your prolific example to motivate them to pick up their pens. O.K. folks, we've got our first wonderful entry and I'm looking to see more just as good follow. :)
Pen...beautiful. I love the way you paint with words.
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
Since I've emerged from the exam period blur, thought I'd just remind everyone that they still have a week or so to submit a wonderful poem on this picture before the 8th. :)
Don't know what on earth I'm doing here. The deadline looms, 12 hours to go, and I have about 2/3 of a chapter left to write to meet it. Argh!
there's always time and not enough....
the quiet morning looms large
approaching the front gate of labor
early the light stirs commencing the day
dressed in robes rich in color
silently pouring the soup of devotion
catering to nurturing and love
thoughtful and focused
breakfast comes too soon
O.K., since the deadline I set passed yesterday, I'm declaring this round of the contest closed barring any last minute appeals within the next couple of hours. I'll read over the entries and see about posting a winner either tonight or Tuesday morning after I'm back in California, depending on how busy things get today.
O.K., folks. I've finally had the time to give these a thorough read through and determine a winner. I must say, that as usual it was a pleasure to read all the excellent submissions and a torment to have to select only one. It was interesting to see the variety of ways everyone chose to interpret this painting, and impressive to see the nuance with which everyone did so. Anyhoo, first the comments:
Pendragon—The quiet, thoughtful description in this poem really suits the mood of the painting well. I especially like the details of your physical description of her: the strength of the arm; the way “her features are strong but perhaps not really pretty.” It really brings out the things that make this such a beautiful painting.
NickAdams—First I should say that as a poem this one was great. I love the sounds in your diction and the way the words play on the page. An interesting read. I didn’t see how it fit with the picture for this round though. Either I’m just missing the tie in with the Vermeer or perhaps you didn’t realize that was the picture for this round? Still, a good poem that just didn’t obviously tie in with the picture.
TheFifthElement—This is beautifully done. I love the tension you have here between the intimacy of the act of painting her in every detail while leaving her still “untouched,” and the point that “Her eyes he keeps to himself” nicely opens things to speculation. Good job of evoking the merging of art and life. Love the way it ends.
Schadenfreude—I like this meditation of the way we receive art into our own lives: the ability to believe on some level that this sort of light must have existed sometime, somewhere, but the resistance to being able to believe it could ever exist in our own world. I like the end best: “a nostalgia for an illusory past”; “the epitome of endurance.” A pleasure to read.
ampoule—Always, of course, a delight to read a poem that finds a good way to utilize a marvelous word like “gambogian.” :) I enjoyed the way you explored the possible story behind the painting: the way you place the vision depicted on the canvas into a moment’s glimpse of the singing maid, and the way you describe what happens once the spell of that vision is broken. It gives a human back story about these two people separated by class and custom. It also hints at one of the things that is so attractive about this painting, which is that it encapsulates one of those glowing and pure quotidian moments that pass all too quickly in real life and that leave us yearning to recapture them.
littlewing53—I like the seeming sparseness of this poem. The lines give the effect of simplicity, while at the same time conveying a sense that each word has been selected with great care. The opening line is a real winner, and opens up a rich variety of ways to think and rethink what follows, and the end line circles back to the beginning sentiment, but with the feeling that something significant has transpired in the description of the day break and the morning’s tasks that comes in the middle. Nicely suggestive poem with some subtle word choice.
It was a very hard choice, but the winner is.....
TheFifthElement for the beautifully composed entry below. Congratulations, Fifth, and have fun picking the next image. :)
Quote:
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.
Congratulations Fifth!
Congratulations Fifth. Yes, very beautiful.
Congrats Fifth! :thumbs_up
Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
Thank you. I thought it might have been too abstract, or vague.;)
After seeing the painting, I wanted to incorporate two themes. The first, was the hierarchy of class. The second, was the empowerment of women. I saw the Vermeer as a classic Rosie the Riveter. I used latin to combine the themes. The first half is social commentary. The second is more intimate and is a portrait of the woman, so I try to paint her in the colors and meaning I find in what she was wearing.
I'm still learning to connect with the reader and leave better clues to strengthen the meaning. This is a great way to improve though.
Thanks Petrarch :D
I'm off to hunt for a picture. I'll post one in the next few days.
Congratulations on your well deserved success, Fifth! And thanks to Petrach for all your time and effort in reading and assessing our poems.
Very nice poem Fifth. Lovely texture. Sorry I've been tied up and couldn't participate. Perhaps the next one.
Thats a marvelous poem, fifth. Congrats!
Good going Fifth! :thumbs_up
congrats 5th...your poem is so very beautiful
thank you, PL for your time, efforts and comments...very much appreciated!