Painting…
spotlight
The Christ
yellow
fellow
maidens
fade in
peasants
presence
The cross
embossed (INIR)
Color…
ochre
stroker
orange
for tinge
cobalt
blue thought
Symbol…
arose
God chose
vital
idol
Surface…
canvas
grandness
captures
raptures
Technique…
dual
rurals
movement
Pont-Aven
brush stroke
unbroke
outlined
confined
patterns
lanterns (verb)
flat planes
Gauguin’s
Nine Inch Nails play Handel’s Messiah
Gauguin paints Guernica bare chested
war poets fall in love with what never was
a Gingko tree blossoms at Hiroshima’s swords
into ploughshares condor legions into peace doves
cacophony synaesthesia proverbially composed
A prose poem based on Copotronic love (Scifie)
by Tamanna Ferdous
One day, I was all prepared to test him about his IQ.
After testing him with different questions in general knowledge,
I read him from an antique Bengali poet, Jibanananda Das.
"The resting place placed the restful here
Never certain if the restful is resting here, though.”
Then I asked his opinion about these two lines.
He informed me," A humane quotation with an outlier in deeper introspection."
When he was showed an art piece of Paul Gaugin,
of a polynatian girl,
he tried to perceive the art from different angles and then said,
“A deformed body had a strange reason to occupy the usage of all the colors
used otherwise irregularly.”
The valuation of paul gauguin and the remark,
it was too difficult to control a wild laughter.
After a while I stopped my loud amusement and asked him.
What was I doing?”
“You were laughing.”
“What is laughing?”
“A physical procedure devoid of meaningfulness.”
“Please try to laugh!”
He followed up with a mechanical noisy aptitude, sensible.
Prometheus, he was a machine!
"Life being what it is when one dreams of revenge," ... Paul Gauguin
Light seasoning dash a chain last resort
as zephyr courses an edged clement squeeze ...
sun gods and goddesses front more ... last sort.
Muzzled chartreuse turtles exhale teal seas,
fed cool streams persuade a lush verdant spree.
Cascading falls echoed balanced wildlife,
aground or in flight where heaven's decree,
claimants amity free beyond the rife.
Hawaiian spun air spells a differing,
abated Summer rains, engorge their Fall.
Ocean water's temperate offering
uncommon to most except those who call
these islands, their home. The tourists share cold
tales, saying here's paradise--we've been told.
An existential waiting for Godot,
when aggravated, drinking much Bordeaux,
could even bring Thoreau dismay and woe,
to mutilate one’s ear like poor van Gogh.
When we despair, impatience flaring, though,
in spite of claims of piety, we show
our unbelief about the debt we owe,
a faith that’s shallow, feeble, even faux.
Oh Lord, come to me now and do not go!
—————
for the Monomixorhyme Poetry Contest
63 words, 90 syllables, checked by HowManySyllables.com
sponsored by Hilo Poet
written on 11/4/22
Waiting for Godot, (pronounced “Guh-DOH”, although some prefer “GOD-oh”) a play written by Samuel Beckett in 1948, is often view through a Christian existential lens.
Henry David Thoreau, author of Walden was a transcendentalist, philosopher, and naturalist.
Vincent van Gogh was a post-impressionist artist who suffered from mental illness and heavy drinking, famously severing his own ear with a razor during an argument with his friend, Paul Gauguin.
Autumn
I looked up to see
the day receding from me
and it’s falling leaves.
***
Note:
The 'Alyscamps' is an ancient Roman cemetery founded in the 4th century in Arles, France. Vincent van Gogh was inspired by Japanese woodblock prints and expressed his feelings about Japanese art in letters he wrote to his brother Theo and fellow artist Paul Gauguin.
Arty stuff No 4
Gauguin was eating a peach,
While painting a scene on the beach,
A girl who was nude
Thought he looked rather lewd,
So she kept herself way out of reach!!
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXVII
IF you pull a long poet's face
All things you write go awry
E'en fans who cuddle up offer no solace
Remember Kipling's " IF " the price to pay
If you pull a long deserted face
E'en friends plot with club members to assail
You lose will e'en to tie loose line shoe-lace
Damn could e'en petty sins cause such travail
If you go on pulling that long worsted face
Lines you lilt and rhyme sound airy-fairy
You push pen you powder verse till tears race
Creative college rhetoric plunder words weary
Yet if you pull this long-lined sick face
Grinding teeth biting lips till red ink spray
Ask who cut off Van Gogh's ear to spite his coal-mine face
Will a Gauguin mock a Brando's South-Seas belles-ballet
If you pull a long Art-for-Artifice sake face
Ask whose Kafkayesque trials plagued a Welles's Moro-Jacobean play
Holy-Wood chef-d'œuvres dictate classic post-modern pace
Kaleidoscopic formulae : rape batter murder on Tolstoyian vertebrae
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 31, 2019
I tell you
it is rough being the poet
of petty bourgeois
middle class complaint.
Sensibilities based in
the ordinary.
Fetishes and obsessions
clinging to the prosaic
with no great success nor
abject failure.
Some practical good sense
always seemed to save me
and render life and poetry
to a solid B grade.
I need to drink and carouse,
do drugs and gamble my last dime,
and hang out meantime with the
wildest of wild women, but
I can't, so
I sit here waiting for
Gauguin
Meadows are painted
By Van Gogh, Monet, Gauguin
Unsurpassed beauty!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
22 March 2017
Mid-life street woman from red town
she was...I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still contoured like a Paul Gauguin urn, is wrapped
in arms lovely in flesh and heat: fanned banana
leaves swaying to samba notes while cooking
fried bamboo roots; her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic beat. How she then pinched
my cheeks with her tapered fingers still
pink on veins floating through her quivering
body…
Somehow, she gave me this epiphany of touch;
the slow wave of body rhythm lightly fondling
the rosiness of my adolescent skin. If i knew how
to pivot in the wakening garlands of Latin
steps, it was her ample hips winding and bellying
in nights and morns of her own wanton sashays...
Oh how I long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still blazing among
bursting seeds of female treachery or finery.
I tell myself, there is no age when her fire sways
in places where tropical eyes dazzle with her
near flowing, soaking limbs…so tenderly
wild because she, Livia, nymph of the forest raw,
has nothing else to lose.
©
for Debbie's Women, and SKAT's Poem #2
by nette onclaud
Candle lit quarters..
bearing colorful carpet...
and his wooden chair.
·
With a curved backrest,
of somber reddish-brown wood;
upholstered green straw.
·
and in his absence...
a lit candle takes his place:
...two modern novels.
·
Vincent paint’s his muse,
in consistent loneliness...
...waiting for Gauguin.
_________________________________
For Abe's Van Goh's of Van Gogh contest
the Painting is "Gauguin’s Chair"
Thick swirls of paint coat the blue night sky,
Luminescent stars ablaze: yellow white orbs, large in size.
Whirling white clouds under the crescent moon,
Above the asylum’s window the night sky blooms.
Below the rolling hills rests a sleepy little town,
A peaceful essence flows, cool dark colors unwound.
Reigning over the small buildings is the steeple of the church,
Beauty’s released from the bristles as he’s sitting at his perch.
With memories of Theo and thoughts of Paul Gauguin,
He attacks the canvas with broad strokes from his hand.
A single silhouette of a cypress on the left side,
Hides an early mistake as his broken heart cries.
1889, a typical night in Saint-Remy, Vincent’s puffing his pipe,
A committed genius from the asylum’s window painted the starry night.
_____________________________________
For Brian’s Contest PICTURE POEMS
The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh,
1889 Oil on canvas
73 cm × 92 cm (28¾ in × 36¼ in)
Museum of Modern Art, New York City
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Starry_Night
The elemental powers,
Of natural scenes to paint.
Combined with intangible drama,
In a time so far and quaint.
Below the hills of Arles,
All the landscapes thrive.
The hands of Vincent Van Gogh,
Painted them alive.
Enveloped by harmony of things,
While he waited for Gauguin.
Vincent found in Arles,
What others looked for in Japan.
Paul Gauguin came and stayed,
But then he left out of fear.
Which broke Vincent’s heart,
That led to the cutting of his ear.
Vincent grew disturbed,
After his friendships quarrel.
The inception of an ill saga,
And a broken heart in Arles.
________________________
*Note: Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's
Life and work. A true genius who
suffered of a broken heart.
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