Long Paul klee Poems
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To pick up a line and take it for a stroll.
The essential is within, the mystics say,
but equally important is the outside:
a stunning summer sky, two wind-whipped clouds,
in the intense green background a dazzling yellow field.
The line crosses dead centre. To draw breath for surfaces,
smooth and cross-hatched: first impressions of place.
A distant rumbling. Scene changed by invisible stagehands.
Gadflies in sorties before the storm, a frenzy,
a slaughter: chaos linked up.
A flash on the horizon: a zig-zag line.
I set my face for rain. Paul notices a girl
with curly hair, fleeing: a spiraling movement.
A bridge comes into sight: row of curves. Lines
in his sketchbook appear in the richest profusion,
fading and gaining power, restrained and articulate move
and countermove. The rain’s blurring it all. The feeling of space
intensifies. Mesh and brickwork, when one returns to town.
Voice. Polyphony. Strange face. Smiling greeting.
Above us the stars are revealed: scattered points.
The painter’s tree grows from roots, but its crown
is a trip to the land of better knowledge. A flame-burst
directed by hand. A symphony of forms. A good thing
like a guiding thread in the dense bush at twilight.
A joyful equivalence. A whole.
Geology and biology are both to me
Confusing studies that are more than weirdly wee
artistic sands of the beach by the sea
speaks to thee, and speaks to me
I like astrology, darling, hungry chickadee
it makes me feel wild and free
giving me hope for a space odyssey
obscure, familiar, darling better-than-astronomy
Wow! Here come that crazy General Lee
over Atlanta's horizon, as I can see
the Civil war, how can this be?
History, baby, history
a chimpanzee beside a coconut tree
he’d better let me be, said Annabelle Lee
Poe’s protagonist, at twenty-three
She makes me think of poetry
As far as my arthritic left knee can see
I hear from my artistic friend Paul Klee
His canvases are expensive, as can be
Glad I am to pay his fee
Life is fun, good times are free
I live by the sea with my paul, Flea
Who has a habit of saying “gee”
add my donkey, and we are three
A stroke
Full of horror
I am cut off the list I am no more
My face contorted I am a mistake by the Artist
No eraser, an error and a cruel X, Klee has no time
He sees the end of world
In hazy anger, sadness-nothingness
Nothing to live for, Nothing to die for, Nothing to love for
An X
That says all
ON : Paul Klee-Struck Off the List (1933)
Contest Name Ekphrasis 12 Line Max
Sponsor Rick Parise
Poet: Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
12/31/2014
While viewing a painting I liked by Paul Klee,
A docent-in-training came over to me.
Can I ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind,
About “Old Married Couple,” as she’d been assigned.
I told her the woman appeared to berate
Her husband, who seemed to accept this as fate.
His eyes, closed or downcast, displayed on his face
Resignation, as if he’d accepted his place.
The trainee, amused, didn’t say I was wrong
But her script sang a very much different-type song.
The husband was sleeping, the wife, sitting near,
Gazed with tenderness - how it was meant to appear.
I called to my husband to see what he thought
And he gave me the answer that I would have sought.
He agreed with my take, all the proof that we’d need
That we sure are an “old married couple” indeed.