Long Cezanne Poems
Long Cezanne Poems. Below are the most popular long Cezanne by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cezanne poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
*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
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
Stinky Stan the dustbin man
Was always less than fragrant
The aroma hung like cattle dung
And he looked like a vagrant
If you saw Stanley at his work
You’d never call him posh
He wore the same clothes everyday
And never seemed to wash
Our Stanley wasn’t stupid though
In every days collection
He’d find some bits worth having
And soon had a fine selection
Then, one day Stan the dustbin man
Decided to retire
Took his dirty working clothes
And tossed them on the fire
Had a haircut had a bath
A nice hot shower, then
Didn’t feel too different
So, he did it all again
He gathered his collection
All neatly catalogued
Took it to the sale room
Where it was promptly flogged
The piece de resistance was
A painting of a man
He didn’t know the artist
But the experts said Cezanne
It made a pretty penny
In fact a lot of money
So Stanley’s leaving Blighty
For somewhere warm and sunny
© John W Fenn 28-08-2009
Form:
Be ye a temple to thyself,
be plain and simple right off the shelf,
or be a Mayan of long ago,
a calendar odds that stole the show,
Be here a while and gone the next,
if you have felt your life being hexed,
these venues of opportunity,
hexing snooze to possibility,
Be heedful of the portal,
since your existence was made immortal,
soul peradventures a righteous cause,
be it the moon or faraway Mars,
Be the creator, make with the muse,
these, doors and gates your point of views,
a tune o'er an opera house,
a suite harmony quiets the schoolhouse,
Be of the arts, if not Mozart, then ...
Van Gogh, Cezanne, Monet even,
said portal, 'tis a gift for the mind
entertained, enlightened, and refined,
Be out that great door, and simply explore,
unlike Poe's dear sweet Lenore,
that raven made Poe feel poor,
the portal's key, he'll be free forevermore,
Be Poe and Lenore, forevermore,
sans that raven, evens the score,
that portal answers your questions,
bear your confessions, free from transgressions,
Behold the truth, the truth of it all,
that gate, that door, so-called, portal,
there's more to life than just break-even,
that portal is … your way to heaven.
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)
The Artist
I need a Muse.
Do you think it could be you?
Can you pick up a paint brush
And show me what you can do?
I need a painter of portraits;
To fill in the gaps inside my head.
I need a Goddess of Love,
To notice the stuff I write in my bed.
I need an Artist, who is simply magnificent,
A breath-taking vision, who is simply Heaven sent.
I need an Angel to paint me a Picasso,
Of my poetry in pieces, before I end up like Van Gogh.
Slightly impaired by deafness, I guess.
Going grey now; thank you stress.
Hi Mona, how’s Rembrandt?
He’s been seen drinking in a bar,
With somebody called Cezanne?
Call Michaelangelo; Donatello will have a plan.
Leonardo’s busy with his inventions,
But here comes Raphael.
Turtle Power! Hi Master Splinter.
Do you have your easel and paints ready
To see you through the winter?
Paint me a story
And I’ll write you a picture.
I think if the two of us worked together;
What I see, to you could become much clearer.
Are you sat there looking for some inspiration?
Then read one of my poems, sing one of my songs;
Maybe then you could paint our creation.
Maybe then I could write poetry about your art.
My vision brought to life,
With the gift of your care.
Paint a picture of us together,
So you will remember that I will always be there.
If you ever need some inspiration,
Just creep inside my mind for a little vacation;
From reality, from your personal Demons.
You will see we are all the same.
I have as many foibles as you do.
My heart belongs to any Woman who truly wants it.
But she hasn’t told me how she feels yet,
So I guess I can’t live without it.
But soon I will meet someone
And offer them my love.
Because an artist without inspiration,
Is like a poet who has never been in love.
Joyous tragedy! Shakespeare laughs
As he tears apart love, with just a couple of paragraphs.
Dead and gone! Not our fair Juliet.
If Romeo had just gone home instead;
He would have turned into a moody poet.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
-- Re: Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --
What would Gertrude. What, Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse? Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.
Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister. Positively looming;enormous in brown. Brown,
in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice,
quiet beside her. Quiet; always, Alice. Alice always.
And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.
Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.
Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.
Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude; Gertie, to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.
Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.
Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude
at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.
And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de Fleurus. Not at 27
After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo. But there was Alice.
Alice was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.
(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.
And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!
And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.
Alice next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein.
Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice always.
And a great Gertrude. A great brown Gertrude. A leviathan.
A passing ship; a great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.
A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice,
just Gertie.
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.