Long Cubist Poems
Long Cubist Poems. Below are the most popular long Cubist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cubist poems by poem length and keyword.
"All his portraits of me are lies."
Quote by _Dora Maar
Picasso painted Dora Maar with green nails in 1936
his lover and muse for a decade
she was a photographer, painter, and surrealist artist
influencing his art . . . she was captivated by him
he was intrigued by Maar's seductive nature
theirs was turbulent relationship
The painting by Picasso is a surrealist-cubist that depicts
his lover, elegant though with anguish
with green nail polish and eyeshadow
her gaze is intense . . . her eyes beautiful
her beauty is distorted
tortured
It is said that Picasso was physically abusive to Maar
resulting in a painful separation and depression
in time she became a recluse, died at 89~
Picasso, though the father of modern art
had a dark side . . . manipulating women
with cruelty
he had a long list of sexual flings
and revolving affairs
he said out loud that his art was his
primary relationship
his lovers just hobbies
He was a complex, talented man no denying that
able to capture his subjects emotions
but not much of a lover . . .
Organized collection of data
Splayed open in the meta
I played jokingly Alpha
It was a riot of type Beta
”... Time to test the schemata …”
Arc.of.tech.sure….
Painting a picture pure
Tables related undone
Mental re.codification.On
Reason clears the horizon
Sunrise surprise modification…
Interface driver recollection
Spectacular calculation
Stored and passing inspection
Lines designed for flexibility
Waves of water transparent…
Currents of Lito come urgent
”... learn it…” He said…
So Pablo started in Madrid…
Cubist stylist consisting of Time.
He was their favored Rhyme…
”... shields to test the mind…”
"A slow brush, penetrates the wind."
Form:
Oh dear, dear Dora, fragmented and bright,
A puzzle of planes in the shifting of light.
Green nails are daggers, sharp points on the page,
A geometric dance during the colorful age.
Your purple eye shadow, a block and smear,
Holds two eyes together, yet one’s never near.
One looks to the future, one stares at the past,
In a Cubist arrangement that’s destined to last.
With lipstick applied in a thick, waxy stroke,
Your mouth is a silence that never quite broke.
A triangle’s curve on a violet-stained lip,
As the lines of your spirit begin a courtship.
Oh, Muse of the angles, of squares and of sighs,
With a kaleidoscope burning in deep gold eyes.
You are broken and rebuilt, a masterpiece grand,
With that emerald flash of a segmented hand.
I am a mural
of seasons patched in nectar
slowly—bit by bit I falter
Tinkling tinkle—
bicycle bell
bashes my pieces back to
where they belong; Where
they were sort of a whole. At least
I remember them making the decision
that we hate tomatoes
as a collective.
And they ride
on one bike, towards
nowhere specific—
—tinkling, tinkling
Now the shred of rainbows despise
the fragments that watch yellow leaves die;
Flakes of white scoff in frost
when they hear laughter from chips of sun
—No one is right yet
nothing can be wrong
Binded with
what I had, I am—or I was—
no, I am
a Cubist mosaic
Inside The Mysterious Enigmatic Fragmentary...
Mortal Mind Of Matthew Scott Harris
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Seedy gobbledygook ergot
visibly argot bubbled, burbled, bustled...forth
yea...give garbled, jangled, warbled shoutout
if ye doth render
mug gadabout totally confounding,
this unfettered voluminous confection
ruff lee in toto as sample
doggone freelance gargon
sublime red rover - misaligned with
twenty first century time
emerging, fishtailing, kvetching,
slithering, whipsawing
during springtime
thaw - oozing out primordial slime,
schlepping aboard bissel mishuga train
while kibitizing with longfellow
ghost hosts Bartleby,
thee Herman Hermits,
and Stray Cats caterwauling
scrivener circumlocution showtime
evidences troubadour prima facie
tremendous struggle rustling rational rapport,
ruminating, citing his dismal schooltime
track record muddled, and hence
questing to cobble a rhyme
distilling, harvesting, and
leaching (out pulpy, knotty,
Max Headroom Ancien regime
filmy... gray matter) in realtime,
while strains of Ragtime echo
from late nineteenth century
tin pan alley, nsync, linkedin
cubist, dadaist, existentialist...
mine poetic melange jerry rigs
flashes random discordant phrases
kickstarting hotmail...faintly
analogous to processing quicklime
mucking with abstract alphabetic
mire ranks as playtime
forging whimsical tactical trippy thoughts,
nursing eternal idealistic Earthly peacetime,
worrying away looming mortality,
noshing post death as pastime,
welcomes input and alien abduction – ME,
mine "FAKE" existence, sans charade,
facade, masquerade onetime pantomime,
no second act allowed, nor
revising questionable tour de force
I claim NO pièce de résistance, nor overtime,
asper waning game
of thrown away Life
approaches nighttime haven
soon...forever rest in peace
surrendering requisite burnt offerings,
sans (cremated ashes) - meantime
fete grateful dead
scythe lent hoodlums on warpath
to incite bedlam
postprandial mealtime prayer final -
deathly hallowed gleeful grimace
witnessing successful electroshock therapy
of yours truly emotionally frozen
decades long comatose state
thankfully oblivious, when impending
curtain call signals finis!
Picasso's hand, a sculptor's art,
Carved Dora Marr`s lines with his heart,
With strokes of genius, richly bound
To hold the world ever spellbound.
The vibrant hues, a dance untold,
Paint passion fierce and spirit bold,
A woman caught in moments bright,
Bathed in the artist's knowing light.
Her hands display a prying gleam,
Fingernails painted like in dreams,
A vibrant touch, a greenish hue,
A secret language, fresh and new.
Perhaps they reveal defiance,
Against the state of reliance
On the world`s order and its woe,
A bright spark, an artistic glow.
Her profile bears a fractured grace
Each angle finds its rightful place,
A cubist soul, a shattered view,
Yet in her essence, shining through.
The oils blend, an ornate embrace,
Capturing time and fleeting space,
A moment frozen, on display,
Dora Marr comes alive, what may.
In the strokes, a story does lie
Underneath her left piercing eye,
A moment held, forever bright,
Bathed in artistic golden light.
Her lips a curve, a hidden smile,
Lingering on for quite a while,
Captured by the artistic will,
Up to now remains sovereign still.
The canvas breathes with life's own fire,
Fulfilling the artist`s desire,
A portrait painted, bold and true,
Reflecting the vibrant bright hue.
A legacy of lines and shade,
A masterpiece, forever made,
In every stroke, a soul laid bare,
A lady`s feels, beyond compare.
Picasso's vision, sharp and keen,
Saw more than what was often seen;
He painted feelings, painted thought,
The essence of the soul he sought.
Dora Marr, a muse bright and grand,
Held captive by his skilful hand,
Her image etched, for all to see,
A marvel for eternity.
It’s all been decided for me
I was told to get up and go
To reap the harvests for free
Which I had no idea to sow
In a competition of fictions
The most plausible won
I bargained three new convictions
For the price of the cheapest one
I invested them in three essays
Which I was relieved to forget
I walked through the Roman arcades
I rested on faraway sand
I drank from the springs of wisdom
And ate from the plates of good
Almost lost my immune system
Survived though wasn’t too shrewd
I bet this plot is predetermined
It’s all been decided, you see
I gave my word to return it
But still I keep it with me.
The dream seems real since we don a form,
borrowed from elements of that domain,
but if we simply chose not to conform,
we wake up when desires to rest are lain ~ Unseeking Seeker ...
I am relaxing into the regal rigmarole,
combing through the Cubist clues ~
leafing through lived pages of light
as you speak of the architecture of sight,
an acquired texture of tasted existence,
constructing the circuits of cognition
like an aphrodisiac elixir
dissolving beautifully in my mind,
awakening reveries to draw desire,
the flames of our love’s foreverness...
You are the rose line beneath the allure of winter,
a manuscript of robust mindfulness,
teaching truth to the tired tongue of time;
not every dream requires a reason,
not every wound needs to be woven,
not every cloud needs calming;
crystals are created and
catalyzed in the cradle of coal and patience,
crafted through curated concepts…
And I sit, soaked in the curious dimensions
of my wandering shadow,
questioning the avidness of my learning eyes,
browsing the nameless depths of what would be,
as we are fit to furnish a framework of fortitude,
aware of the perceptions ~ dressed in violet blue,
studying the urge to never abandon
the alabaster face of the hopeful heart.
For you, O beloved savior, taught me ~
faith is only real in the unknown…
Standing on my head
looking up at the trees
and the sparkling sky
When it’s dark I don’t see
the ship float by nor
the tsunami sea
Upside-down women
on either side
of cotton candy eventide
When the light’s bright
palms and ferns come to life
tickling my soles
and I am able
to rearrange the houseplants
with my toes
How much harder it is
to apprehend the tossed high heels
and the mute parrot
high and higher
almost in flight
but I catch them
as I carry on
with lethargic lids
that never seam
The minute I close them
my baby-faced muse
pries them open
with a seam ripper
and I flick the light back on
and then to annoy her
I hit the switch
so I can view the “Fanch”
in the Hitchcock hour
Truly, I am reclining
and in turn propelling
out of my chair
It’s been a long day
I won’t bore you with its tales
I’ll just point you to
the simple fact
that artwork looks different
hanging
upside-down
or inside-out
or Cubist
"Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins"
Walking through the poetic frames of featureless ghosts
her fingers play like harps their ectoplasmic cages
strange symbols that clang the frivolity of vacuumed cleaned emptiness
dissolving in the invisible time wasted in the chronicles of their newfound empires
the meaning of their spectral presence swings
like canaries singing home all their honeys sweetly
it’s all bluebirds entertaining the wisdom of lovelorn owls watching on
like they are azure feathered blind mice adorned with halos,
while the carnal vultures smile winging it above them all in prayer circles predatory
“her tongue is an arena of silent conflicts”
her mind is a carnival of Picasso harlequins
balancing the trapeze, the affairs of a wild heart
scorched and stinging with fragments of cubist love collages
arriving like ashes within the flames of her phoenix stages;
some newly burnt Aphrodite.
elements closer to reality than the abstractions of geometry
CandideDiderot. ‘25