Best Botticelli Poems
Sandro
Mastering his skill of painting, diligent to detail, color, and Frescos (Sistine Chapel)
Born in Florence, Italy, apprenticed as a goldsmith, then later with a master painter
By 1472, he had his own workshop where he created most of his works
Painting his Early Renaissance and Gothic Realism art plus doing church Frescos
He feared marriage saying it gave him nightmares, so he never married or had children
However he did love a married noblewoman and asked to be buried at her feet and was
In his later life, he was accused of "keeping a boy" but he was dismissed of charges
Yet he died in disgrace. His art remains in churches and galleries forever beloved
Botticelli
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April 3, 2016
Poetry/Bio/Sandro Botticello
Copyright Protected, ID 16-774-483-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
(Real name - Alessandro di Mariano Filipepe)
"Suddenly you remember an old Chinese tale in which cats once ran
the world until they decided it was too much bother. That's when you
stepped in, another story. Say you get up now and go back to work"
Dian Duchin Reed
I once had a Lilac Point Siamese of royal lineage
who entered our commoner family as a small
ball of silky fur, home-schooled in the basement
until he discovered the joys of the climb.
In time, he grew beautiful, sleek, and mischievous,
loved the warmth of sunshine and stovetop,
delighted in rearranging the coffee table flowers
in front of my egg yolk yellow plastic couch,
(it WAS the seventies, after all). One shout,
and he was out, knowing the rules
of the house, knowing too, noblesse oblige,
that pardon followed hard on the paws of beauty,
intelligence, and a feline sense of humor.
At bath time, cats and water at polar ends
of the tub, I was a Botticelli nude, awash in suds,
cat at breast, his blue eyes black with dread,
and though love prevailed between the species,
when toweled dry, cat fled, taking his righteous,
royal rage to simmer beneath the bed.
We named him "Charlie Chan" for the serial
father of forties' movie fame, Charlie when in grace,
C Chan, shouted out when in the cathouse
with his mom, Super Cat by any name. Daily
reveille was his, crouching bedside each dawn,
minutes to spare by cat time until the alarm clock
triggered a leap into our bed, and a practiced
tread over recalcitrant bodies.
If, as it is said, animals have no sense
of future tense, then Chan, a blessed Buddha
of the interminable now, could not foresee "NO pets"
unwelcomed in our path. Into the arms
of another woman who pledged to love him, I
placed one confused and frightened cat. Now
years past, absence making missing stronger,
I cannot part with the broken heart
I ask this poem to mend.
lost words are wolves hunting
heat from the herd, raw desire
one day less alone
American prom night
youth-swept hair moussed down in place
cigarettes light, poof
there goes Mary's lamb
water pail swings from her jaw
blind to the boil ahead
it begins like a bath
soft as the sun's seduction
quiet as a rack
back window fogs up
fingers paint shapes on car's cave
condensing moments
it was kilning day
he, my substitute art teacher
ersatz guardian
photos of his kids
near the hearth of his grandma's
basement fireplace
I was a student
thirteen is an innocence
despite the heated clay
Sandro knew his kind,
let's call him Terry Carter
because that's his name
A lover of female form,one, Sandro Botticelli
so Roman goddesses we often do see
Painting so decorative,but,never rude
though he did like females standing, nude