Long Edvard munch Poems
Long Edvard munch Poems. Below are the most popular long Edvard munch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Edvard munch poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: June 18, 2023
Ekphrasis Edvard Munch Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Dilly Dally
______________________________________________________________
Humanity
is trapped in the spasms
of
lunacy,
technology
lured our wayward hearts
into
schizophrenia,
humaneness
gone astray in the midst rush
to self
enrichment,
faith,
a pointless endeavor
for the
lost;
finally,
vicious realization - life atrophied,
a silent
scream...
This poem draws inspiration from the iconic work of Edvard Munch, titled "The Scream." The profound impact of this poem is truly amplified when experienced in conjunction with the accompanying picture.
"Like the silence that screams, cursing solitude
... whispers of faith sing patiently with prayers"
Regina McIntosh
IMAGINATIONS OF SOLITUDE
The scream, his palms unleashing Danse Macabre.
The sinister skeletons tapping digits
against the ebon glow of candelabra.
The sinister skeletons tapping digits.
Ten bore into his human brain, the echoes
of full violin’s disquieted widgets.
Ten bore into his human brain. The echoes
releasing...releasing a wing and a pray’r -
elongated shadowbrush of El Greco.
Releasing...releasing a wing and a pray’r,
those fierce flexuous hues - the Spirit of grace.
The phantasm flees - a disturbed boneyard despairs.
Those fierce flexuous hues - the Spirit of grace.
His countenance resounding to see God’s face.
1/28/2021
HEARTS UNIVERSE
SPONSOR: REGINA MCINTOSH
HMS - 11 syllables each line
Painting The Scream by Edvard Munch
Inspired by “The Sick Child” painting by Edvard Munch
A pale face, all happiness drained out!
green and auburn lines - vertical and horizontal,
swirl around her in abundance,
except her face... devoid of any colour!
A drooping dried flower almost ready to fall,
return to the soil!
Feeble and declining - from exhaustion,
ailing and haunted - her expression!
A young girl of fifteen…bedridden for many months!
disease has crippled her, lying in bed she hopelessly
gazing towards an ominous white curtain...
a symbol of death!
clutching hands of a woman for comfort,
who can not look at her knowing it's all futile.
Her eyes have lost the lustre and hope they once possessed,
chestnut russet hair encircling the fatigued face of a maiden,
who once was a bubbling cheerful child,
Disease ravaged a budding flower!
The final moment has come!
PLACED FIFTH
All colours of lustre and hope drained from a young face,
She wears green....
Green and auburn lines playfully swirl around her…but,
Disease has crippled her for many months,
She clutches hands of her mother, when her eyes are vacant,
Chestnut russet hair encircling the fatigued face of a fifteen year old!
Final moment has come…
A white ominous curtain is all she gazes at…
A drooping flower, ready to fall!
Red House and Spruce by Edvard Munch
Snug, in a blue bunting of hibernation,
Red cottage
In a clearing of indigo and ice spruce
That form ribs of protection from
From hues of ill winds,
As a leafless birch backbone
Spreads a protective circle,
Sentinels of secrets
Behind the hidden crimson door
When eventide’s crystal constellations
Of fallen cerulean white snows
Sleep in solitude
As Aurora lingers above ash and aspen
In glowing neon passion values
Sheltered scarlet hearth and heart
Slumbers in tones of a Nordic cradle song
And winsome memories of a mountain king
In snowfall’s language of winter
Of painted cobalt shadows
Surrounding a red house.
when tremors ripple
like a seething storm ~
f o r g e t t i n g
hibiscus hymns to heal,
I sleep wide awake ~
a restless requiem,
breathing within
the cruel conscience
of a confined canvas,
misunderstood and
misplaced in time…
this enigmatic ache ~
endometrial curve,
a cureless curse,
bitter sting of betrayal,
curling beneath
tormented tissues,
of tuscan twilight,
teaches me the
poignant language
of pills,
patience,
pain and prose,
yet,
still I, persist,
~ sunset screams
in watercolor silence ~
a horizon
brushed with
hues of heavenly haze,
only the dusk
can decipher
and the breeze can translate
the truth of
all I never say...
Gloom pervades, an empty stillness hovers,
No sound, except the echo of faint sighs,
Rising from a frail chest.
Popped upon white pillows, a small girl reclines
On her sick bed, incapable of sitting up.
Her body down the waist, is wrapped
In a thick blanket to douse the chills of fever.
Consumption has eaten away her vitality
Her sick lungs gasps for breath
Her face, a white paper- pale and bland
Her golden hair lies disheveled.
A curtain hangs dull, half drawn
Waiting for the final pull.
The lady, her aunt who has been with the child
Through her tortuous journey,
Bends down clasping her frail hand
Unable to face the girl’s blank stare.
A yellowing leaf is about to take its downward spiral.
An unseen guest waits for the final embrace.
The faint stirring of life will soon desert her.
Yet love remains, a whiff of cool breeze,
Fanning her fears away with a gentle clasp.
In a critical moment of suffering and helplessness,
No medicine, but love alone serves as balm.
Each blurred stroke unravels the silence,
Of art that speaks for itself~
Man’s vulnerability and hovering sorrow,
Of a life so enigmatic, cast in gloom’s shroud.
An Edvard Munch reproduction hangs demurely,
yet with a blushing come-hither
disclosing/unclothing.
A Van Gogh print
hovers near her like a sad and troubled lodger.
I sense his self-inflicted wound itching
under the bandages.
Flick goes the duster,
for a moment the diaphanous drape
covering Munch’s semi-naked girl flies away.
In his self-portrait, for an instant
Van Gogh’s lost ear returns.
I am putting the world to rights,
or maybe just my world.
Not correcting, just moving the artwork along
to where it was going, or should have not gone to
before it was set forever inside a jailhouse frame.
Turpentine waters of paranoia
ripple beneath an opaque surface,
merging with the burnt umber sun,
ravenously setting
over the savage distance.
Did the earth just crack open within its core...?
An ungovernable fear
hastens—
up my spine
tracing each vertebra
meticulously,
as the flavor of iron
and
burnt charcoal
plates my tongue—
leaching into
semi-paralyzed bronchi.
Each breath
of stained oxygen
gets harder
to inhale—
Hypoxia,
smiling mechanically,
rears
its ugly head...
and the tips of my fingers
turn from
porcelain
to
ultramarine.
Trying to scream—
yet silence
is all
that escapes.
A plethora of thoughts
buzz—
like a horde of bees
within
my mind.
If the earth did crack open,
then
why is everyone acting
so nonchalant?
Conspiracy theories
ruminate;
paranoia-fueled
delirium
takes full control.
Consumed
by panic,
abdication of rationality
unfurls—
amongst the
receding world.
Oblong outlines of a soul
Stretched in elliptical misery
Redefines the perfect circle
To a breakable volatile tautness
Loosely cloaked in sheaths of epitonic blue
Draped upon the shrinking body to hide a terrified world
Dressed in swirling ominous patterns of anonymity
To be lost within the deepest abyss of fatal fear
Planted like a tenuous girder of iron truth
On a bridge of no return
There is no departure from excruciating fear
From this wicked self-imposed poltergeist
An unseen force deliberates death
Smothering with tremulous trepidation
Annihilating the essence of existence
With no bond found on common ground
There lies the secret
Within the mystery of a soul’s distress
The exorcism of human strength
As fear brings the will of life to a standstill
7-12-2023
Painting by Edvard Munch, 1895: "Moon Light"
your soft hand trembles in mine
no words are spoken
we observe our ascending full moon
as we have every month for forty years
empyrean empress rises to her throne
queen regent of the night sky reigning
over brooding blue bay and melancholic mountains
as predictable as death
we again sit in our folding chairs
whispering under our favorite tree
anticipating the coming light show
enjoying her long bridal veil
shimmering in the existential ripples
a nocturne of nebulous narratives
stopping at the shore line
stopping
she inevitably will descend
the shroud of shadow will cover the land
comforted that tomorrow will awaken
to a resplendent sun
and next month will bring another full moon
the doctor said three weeks
so this will probably be our last
your soft hand trembles in mine
no words are spoken
written 11 July 2023