Best Pablo Poems
Four legs quiver
like clumsy cabrioles
striking smooth gray rivers
of zig-zag sidewalk barrios
in rhythm with happy shivers
syncopated on a muffled drum
as we talk and stroll
On our way
hand-in-hand
we persuade and pretend
this day away
taunting and cajoling to demand
laughing “hide and seeking”
chasing and skedaddling
poking and peeking
like cuddly pandas
or canoodling otters
splashing and clambering
We roll and meander
impetuously twiddling all the way
atop gregarious green promenades
we pause in slight delay
as we prattle and prance
as we dance to the Crickets singing
nodding to their fiddling
frolicking with all the jiggling
Serendipitous stalks
of snickering flowers pop
to dazzle and razzle our wits
we glide in stripes of candy bits
of rainbows bright
Purple painted paisley
fragrantly flairs in pairs
of scented lavender sweetness
among black-eyed daisies
dusting the woozy air
in a meadow’s billowing bloom
sunflowers sunbathe in costume
We giddily tarry
as we carry
a feast of fancies and treats
artsy bits of charmed delicacies
filled with a peck of upcoming kisses
enticing fantasies that wink
Snuggling shenanigans lead us astray
as we find our rootie-tootie hideaway
hugs as we shy away
from tomfoolery jesting
to lay down and swoon
looking up at the soon to be stars
lingering for the coming of the moon
Murmurs of Starlings
gaggle their harmonies
of chirps
in cheeks and broadened beaks
thrumming tiny melodies.
Swallows sweep and woo
fixated on this unabashed swain
through songbird strains
announcing a shrilling review
broadening in sweet refrains
“I love you…I love you”
Fingerpainting the Monet sky
puffy white cotton words appear
from clouds passing by
while tiny violins spin in the air
piccolos peep
pigeon-toed Doves coo and weep
their contentedness to appease
trailing off the pleasant breeze
I fall upon my knees
My words explode to strew
like a thousand storms set free
“I love you…I love you…I love you”
In a riot of colours using brushes with valour,
Many movements he started devoid of pallor.
From a town called Malaga,far off in spain,
Pouring his heart out,unloading his pain.
What a journey he started from conformity parted,
To paint till the last,until he departed.
Many have aspired and wanted to be,
Including your's truly,I say why not me?
From erotic nudism to new found cubism,
His loss to the world left a wide open chasm.
How God made him great,I never could fathom?
But thats the way I guess God wanted to make him.
Although the years rolled and went passing by,
Another painters yet to reach for the sky.
I'm telling the truth and not telling a lie,
I'll love only Pablo until that day when I die.
I know he had friends,some straight and some gay,
But all I want to say today is....Happy Birthday.
PS.It was Pablo Picasso's B'day on 25/10/09 and I dedicate this poem to this
mentor and inspiration of mine.
---Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
A fragrance, the tangy dagger
of plums down a road,
sugary kisses on teeth,
juices of life, seeping through fingers,
in sweet ripening flesh,
of meadows, haystacks, the hungry
hiding places in vast houses,
of long forgotten mattresses, wild green valley
glanced from aloft, through a secret window:
all of adolescence burns and drowns,
like a lamp dying down in rain.
***
February 21, 2017
Blithely rising in shadowy night
Is Man of the Sun wearing the threshold
That was once been secluded from the sight of me
But together has drawn me closer to glee.
As swiftly as the sun arise back in the eyes;
Like morning glory bloom dash’ly under bright light
My heart surrenders to Love what they called
Relish days playing music of caress.
But I a girl lithe and tawny still frenzied youth
Settling for one hardly creep to my grasp
As fresh as I hunger for pleasure
Of what may World compromise that pleases the soul.
Man of the Sun, sorrow not in deepest night
Someone a woman be laudable of that sincere love
Acquaint other who never pierces the heart
For I not worth, the girl whose love blooms and withers.
http://www.oocities.org/nerudapoet/lovepoems/girl.htm
Pablo’s Plight
Blinding color, third eye closed
Squared off chin and angled nose
Arms in the back, feet from head
An odd sight it must be said
Eyes are pared but rarely paired
Ears an afterthought uncared
Daring use of brush and paint
Never quite described as quaint
One boob here and two boobs there
Disjointed limbs evry’ where
Jumbled mess by child’s hand
Or mastered work, each stroke planned?
It all comes down to point of view
What you see is up to you
8th May, 2017
Oh unruhige Welt,
höre seinen Gesang,
vom rauschenden Ozean
bis zur weiten Kette der Anden
Erhabenes Macchu Picchu,
hier wandelt sein Geist
zwischen den Nebelbänken
des Urabamba und den
eisigen Höhen der Berge
Du hattest viele Leben,
den für ein einziges
war keine Zeit.
Deine Worte klingen in mir
mit der Melancholie
verlöschender Sterne
Der Pöbel, der dich verletzte,
ließ dir keine Zeit mehr
zum Dichten,
deine Lieder aber in uns
werden niemals erlöschen
Oh troubled world,
hear his voice,
from the soothing sounds
of ocean's surf
to the wide rangeof the Andes
Sublime Macchu Picchu
here his spirit strolls
between the foggy banks
of the Urabamba and
icy heights of the mountains
You had many lives,
as for only one
there was no time.
Your words sound in me
with the melancholy
of dying stars
The mob who hurt you,
did not give you the time
for new verses,
but your songs in us
will never cease
¡Oh mundo intraquilo,
oír su voz!
De los sonidos suaves
de las olas del océano
hasta la altura de vasto Andes
Sublime Macchu Picchu
aquí su espíritu deambula
entre los bancos de niebla
de la Urabamba y
heladas alturas de las montañas
Ha tenido muchas vidas,
como para una solo
no había tiempo.
Sus palabras suenan en mí
con la melancolía
de estrellas moribundas
La plebe que te hizo daño,
no te dará el tiempo
para nuevos versos,
pero tus canciones en nosotros
nunca jamás expirarán
The abstracts of Pablo Picasso
I think his paintings are a fiasco.
For every one I see
They're always upside down to me.
Neftali the Great
Engaged in many careers
Ready to write for "La Manana"
Until he was forced to go into hiding
Day after day, being protected by suppourters and fans. Then
At last, he was able to leave, but in exile.......
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is an informational piece for Raul Moreno's "Pablo Neruda" contest.
Pablo...according to me (Part 1a), read Part 1b to finish
Re Pablo Picasso printmaking exhibition at Bellagio Hotel's Fine Art Gallery.
(1) Left Profile of a Woman with Blue Hair
The lass you slay here rebukes your dogma while submitting to greater cause. I wonder if her soul preempted her locks in route to this blue oblivion.
(2) Woman with a Yellow Necklace
I don't blame you, I'd chase her too. The untamed lass -- part figurine, part conundrum, part hurricane -- who pried, cried and tried your fervor until committing to the menu and after-party.
(3) El Greco's Portrait of a Man with a Ruff
The patience you must have had, I never would. Slicing, dicing, razors slashing this debonair freak, and from the misery of linoleum too. Seems like you took 3rd Grade stencils, dipped them in the blood of barbarians, and chased it with a cocktail of speed, habanero grits and rancor. Well done.
(4) The Painter and His Easel
So it's me, watching you, watching this painter, watching and coloring the world in hope that someone is watching. Eye drops, anyone?
(5) Reclining Woman
If my wife looked like that on the sectional, maybe the dogs might behave, and I might get peace and quiet every once in a while.
(6) Head of a Woman Next to a Window
The pink streak grabs my gut, saying trace my face with grace, then maybe you tackle what I see, what l need. On that note, Windex ever?
..to be continued in Part 1b (because the Soup won't let me post it all here, ugh)...
(8/1/15)
Pablo...according to me (Part 1b, continuation/finish from Part 1a)
Re Pablo Picasso printmaking exhibition at Bellagio Hotel's Fine Art Gallery.
(7) Photo - PP's living room (by David Douglas Duncan), Summer '57, Villa La California Cannes
I'm glad I'm not the only one who breeds mess, industry, libation, and managed chaos in the quest for genius. He found it. I'm still looking.
(8) Figure (oil/canvas, zinc plate, litho)
Helluva way to capture the lady and her virtues. I've never seen nipples and nostrils so exquisite and interchangeable.
(9) Woman with a Chignon and Yellow Hat
Wife (his) in all her glamour. I imagine the hand on the face is gesturing, "Pablo, finish up, the trash won't take itself out".
(10) Jacqueline with a Multicolored Straw Hat (series from carved linoleum, staged in colors, details and vibrance)
So we start with faint silhouette and baseline virtue, homage to woman as the world's foundation. Then follow to add glow (yellow), fire (red), mood (periwinkle), passion (purple), and beauty (full blown spectrum). Oh, women, you of hues incomprehensible and indestructible to man.
(11) The Two Nudes (his take on Goya's "La Maja desnuda" and Manet's "Le Dejeuner Sur l'herbe")
New muse, old muse. Threesome fantasy. It's getting hot in here, so take off all our clothes. What? One loses steam. Oh no! The other falls asleep. Darn, bitches! Rosie, it's all yours tonight.
(12) Reclining Woman Reading
She's skimming through "Fifty Shades of Pablo". Chapter 12, "Brushes and Booty Calls: How a Flick of the Wrist Seals the Next Tryst".
(13) Photo - DDD again, July '57 (same Cannes villa), PP in his studio looking at "Head" work in progress
Deep contemplation. 42 days until NFL Opening Day. I need to kill time. Hey, Jacqueline, any PBRs in the fridge?!
(8/1/15)
Si de pronto no existes, (If of a sudden you were no more,)
si de pronto no vives,(if of a sudden you live no more,)
yo seguiré viviendo. (I'll continue to live.)
No me atrevo,(I do not dare,)
no me atrevo a escribirlo, (hardly will I find the courage to write this)
si te mueres.(if you were to die.)
Yo seguiré viviendo. (I'll go on living.)
Porque donde no tiene voz un hombre(Since there where a man be not invested with a voice)
allí, mi voz. (there, my voice will be heard.)
Donde los negros sean apaleados, (There where Negros be skinned,)
yo no puedo estar muerto.(I cannot be counted among the dead.)
Cuando entren en la cárcel mis hermanos(When my brothers are put in prison)
entraré yo con ellos.(I'll be in their ranks.)
Cuando la victoria,(When victory,)
no mi victoria,(not my triumph,)
sino la gran Victoria llegue,(when the great Victory is attained,)
aunque esté mudo debo hablar:(even if I were dumb, I'll open my mouth to speak :)
yo la veré llegar aunque esté ciego.(yes, I'll see it arrive even if I were blind.)
No, perdóname. (No, do pardon me.)
Si tú no vives,(If you are no longer of this earth,)
si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú(if you, sweetheart, My Love, if you)
te has muerto,(were dead,)
todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho, (all the leaves will fall on my chest,)
lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día, (they will rain on my soul day and night,)
la nieve quemará mi corazón, (snow will consume my heart,)
andaré con frío y fuego(through the cold and fire, I'll continue to walk)
y muerte y nieve, (and through death and snow,)
mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero(my feet will want to walk on towards the place where you sleep, but)
seguiré vivo, (I'll go on living,)
porque tú me quisiste sobre(because you wished that I were)
todas las cosas indomable, (over all things not to be trampled upon,)
y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre (and, My Love, because you know that I am not just a/one man)
sino todos los hombres(but he who stands with/for/among all men)
Pablo Neruda
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 10,2019
A Mexican man,
I once knew awhile back,
an amateur poet, who was trying to make it,
but never did finish one single poem,
we nicknamed him, "Da Vinci."
He was a good ol' boy,
we always saw him smiling,
always with a broken heart.
He never seemed to care,
he never seemed to question,
or bother with such curious thoughts,
he went with the flow,
and never finished a poem.
We later nicknamed him, "The unfinished poem."
One night-you may find this hard to believe-but
good ol' Pablo did finish a poem,
he named it, "Pablo Saliba"
and marked his signature with blood and bits of brain and skull.
We found him, two days later,
there laying face down,
blood all drained onto the maple floorboards,
and under his pale, lifeless face,
his finished poem.
We buried him two days later,
his death was marked as, "Natural Causes"
I think it was suicide.
A good ol' boy, not even twenty,
and dead already.
At least he finished one poem,
I hung it up on my bedroom wall,
next to my framed picture of Ernest Hemingway.
And sometimes,
when I am stuck on a word or two,
I look up and over
and there, my good friend Pablo Saliba looks at me
and winks,
and I start to write again,
I start to smoke and drink again,
I start to live again,
and work again.
Good ol' Saliba,
this one is for you.
Picasso, oval face and olive eyes,
always solemn and searching.
Pushing boundaries, challenging authority,
his artistic torch cut through the fog of life.
At times his scrutiny turned inwards.
Self-critique of the physical and the psychological took hold.
Could it be self-doubt or ego which drove him on?
Or was it simply a visual diary of moments in his life?
1901, subdued bluish tones portray young Picasso in an older light.
Sadness and solitude emanate from the cloaked figure.
Though beset by trials and tribulations
he stands proud gazing at his audience.
1907, the face of cubism unfolds
angular features with large searching eyes.
He seems lean almost undernourished.
His sombre outlook dominates the vista.
1972, and then the end draws near.
Staring his own death in the face
there is fear in his sunken eyes.
Flesh nearly gone reveals his skull for all to examine.
Pablo asked, “Are we to paint what’s on the face,
what’s inside the face or what’s behind it?”
The recognisable image becomes less and less distinct,
until what is left is the naked soul.
And Pablo said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
But eventually the soul becomes dust and all that is left is a memory.
We will always remember Pablo,
for art is life and life is art.
-----------------------------------
2020 published in PS: It's Poetry, pp.286-287
2019 November 26 *1st Place*
Your Favorite Artist Contest
Sponsored by: Anne Cooke
A sensual man, songs full of his land
Loving love, spoke without censure
His life giving him words
Take me. . . Float me. . .
to your Macchu Picchu.
Swirl me with your images surreal.
Show me nights, like those where stars shine blue
and she is not with you. . .
so I might feel
that beauty born “between the hill and river”
and the loneliness your saddest poems reveal.