an axiomatic actuary always axiomatically anyplace again
could credulously careless cubist complain crisply to cezanne
I,in impious indelicate indwelling ionized internment
me,meaningfully merry, mistaking my myriad mono
telefax this turmoil & toil thereabouts through to their tryst
The boy leans against the emptiness of his world,
his sharp elbow inclined on the wood,
holding up the burden of a young mind.
His red vest ablaze like ember,
the defiant flare of youth,
glows in the quietude of the auburn ambiance.
The background configured in fractured patterns-
a slate curtain, an olive wall,
capture the space between his thoughts.
His gaze drifts desolate
into the realm of reflection
where silence congregates in introspection,
embodied in emotional resonance of color
and in innovative portraiture of impressionism.
Inspired by Boy In A Red Vest by Paul Cezanne (1889)
Though it may get me labeled a traitor
And it surely won’t make me rich
In the face of all those who hate them
I announce: I love the French.
For De Tocqueville and Voltaire
For L’Enfant who designed DC
For the fact that without their
Aid this country would never have come to be
For Dumas, Joan of Arc, Exupery
Doctors without Borders, and
For a civilized society,
Low crime rates and beautiful land
For their gorgeous, passionate women
For Cezanne and for Gaughin
For wine valleys, chateux – earth heaven -
For Riviera, Paris, Sorbonne
For their foreign aid to the poor
And diplomatic outreach -
There is one thing I know for sure:
Hear me saying: I love the French.
CEZANNE tasteful tahiti timeout
CEZANNE
mountainous
musings
HOLBEIN
pictureque
pictorials
BOTTECELLI
staged
scenes
TWINKU a double word distich with integral title
There are days
when I don't look
for much, just an old chair
on the back porch,
a few thoughts
to pick over, perhaps
a memory to recall and,
to entertain the eye,
splotches of sunlight
to dance around
a cup of coffee
cooling on a table.
Life distilled
to such a simple array
of mental bric-a-brac
set in a familiar scene.
Cezanne knew it
in a bowl of fruit.
And yet how clear
the moment, how
this bright beam
of consciousness illuminates
a patch of existence
making it a lens
into a world trembling
on the brink of becoming.
I keep returning
for more.
Monet strayed from trees and haystacks on this canvas
kept his signature clouds and barely touching strokes
verdent grass is speckled a lot like Cezanne would do
the muted colors fairly yell Monet to the connoisseur
woman’s shadow is perfection, as is her green umbrella
lifting this admirer’s hazel eyes from top to bottom
was this lady an unrequited love or possibly his mother?
Monet was never one to tell, so no one knows
Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Chagall
Inspired by beauty of Paris, home of the Louvre
Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo statue
Paris, city of light, where artists are inspired
Paul Cezanne wasa little obsessed
perhaps a consequence of stress
Painting Mont St Victoire agin&again
as a wy of releasing artistic pain
With temps and the humidity
No longer off the chart,
We made a visit to the Met*
Since we’ve been starved for art.
A Winslow Homer show would soon
Be packing up and so,
It seemed to be the perfect time
For us to up and go.
The hordes had not arrived yet,
Thus the galleries allowed
Us time for a relaxing look
Without a pushy crowd.
Before we left, we stopped to see
Our faves – Cezanne, Monet,
Van Gogh and several others,
Making it a lovely day.
Although the Covid variant
Is here and on the move,
It’s time for us, museum-wide,
To get back in the groove.
*Metropolitan Museum of Art
French artist Paul CezanneP
was quite s determined man
he painted again&again Mont Saint Victoire
almost abstracted but never his bete noir
*Image of Winslow Homer's 'The Gulf Stream' provided by, The Metropolitan Museum of Art
TrueheARTedness
Poetic Form: Rhyme
Neath lolls the abyss, some monster shifts, ontop heaves mammoth swells --
ship wane toy'ishly, rocked side to side, amidst the roaring sea.
Accomplished panoramic art, celebrates the scape by heart,
for Winslow Homer's nature, the American name rings bells.
Faraway, choice views the Monet as none had stood beside it,
yet fate brings on a mystic stare, pupils up close, concoct spells
from a traipsing fool -- a hall waits, Renoir, Matisse, and Cezanne.
Freed eyes vigorous strokes of Van Gogh's refuge, not parallels
since sought asylum was the sanctuary where'd he be free.
Celebrates the scape by heart, accomplished panoramic art,
sparked artist's insights, charm us like coins flickers in wishing wells.
2021 April 24
*8th Place*
A New Abracadabra Poem
~~Emile Pinet: Judged 2021 June 01
Gone is the era of the Renaissance Man
Who delved into Milton, Voltaire and Rosseau
Knew the difference between Cezanne and Gaugin
Could parse a sentence and quote Henry Thoreau
Came Woodstock, he was buried deep in time's sands
Covered over by Joplin and Country Joe...
Social media's dug man's hole even worse
Alexa and Cortana ~ My lips are pursed
Robert Browning and Me (1)
Imagine me in nineteen ninety-two,
in need of something to ignite the flame:
the London Independent – a review!
The painter Gentileschi – striking name!
(American professor’s brand-new book,
describing how the Roman girl was raped,
and how this trauma subsequently shaped
her art) – I didn’t need a second look!
Now, Robert Browning. Never was a man
more like myself (though, naturally, I’m
not fit to shine his shoes). Rodin? Cezanne?
They don’t come close. More sweetly than our rhyme,
his spoke, in smiles, of clods and cognoscenti:
he taunted human frailty lovingly,
embracing our shortcomings. Italy!
We both adored the art, the grace, the “gente”.
What Browning did (so may we all rejoice!)
is take a person (Lippo Lippi, Pippa)
and let him tell it in his own sweet voice,
as if upon the stage – what could be snipper?
The beauty of Dramatic Monologues
(for thus he named them) is, the subject speaks
to put the best face on it, but out leaks,
despite his caution, stuff that’s fit for dogs.
Dust shed from long - gone memories
Old clothes cleared from the corners of dark closets
Cobweb caked, stained over time
(It no longer fits)
(Is this mine?)
(Wait a minute...i remember!)
Orange Happiness.
Mayfair.
The faded sunshine print on an old dress.
Like thin cardboard.
An old song.
Silently retreating into the corner.
Tendrils of string.
An echo.
(I have been waiting for you)
Dirt under my nails.
Dust smeared accross my sweaty December brow like thin oily brush strokes by Cezanne.
And still time for the soul is different somehow. Undeterred by gravity.
Dizziness. Inertia.
(Where are you going? Please don't leave me.)
Slipping away.
Floorboards crumbling beneath my feet like thin sun-baked clay.
Grapping onto old friends by their snaky cobwebs, my fingers ripping through their time - torn clothes. Slipping away into the Grey.
Falling.
(what am i doing here...?)
"...hello Granny! We've come to visit you! Do you know remember us?"
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