Long Picasso Poems
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Written By: D. Collins 4/6/2018
The "Picasso of Paper" is what I strive to be.
An artistic moment allowing the world to freeze.
Dropping this in your ear, while telling the truth.
A pen and a pad are the weapons I choose.
You see, words like this are always in my head.
This is how I'll get 'em out until the day I'm dead.
They so easily come together and fall into place.
Making us think and putting smiles on our face.
I'm just free-flowing and channeling thought.
Doing what I do best, getting rugged and raw.
Long, after I'm gone you will know I was here.
Because what you are reading will ring in your ear.
A moment in time is what's erupting.
Spreading the love. Trying to give you something.
If you ever hear my name sometime later.
I've reached the status of "Picasso of Paper."
"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
In the Kitchen
This is about a particular drawing though I wish not to disclose which one exactly I
mean for it matters so much that it matters no longer because my friends Arthur and
Bim watch over their kitchen rest their bones now and fly in spirit together
In the Pembrokeshire winds
Little squiggles on paper of lovers drawn with life-long experience to master the craft
of surreal expression what is and may yet be like a curious child expressing the world
and it holds so much description of how Pablo adorned the evolution of
Genuine genius
Like the outlined lovers who hung framed on the panel the Giardellis had eloped and
spent their lives painting collaging and sculpting in the former Warren School House
where they played ping pong on a table like soul mates’ embrace in the gallery with
Pablo adorning their life
Art work is what it means to the viewer ink drawn on canvas beholding the meaning
depicted straight into the heart and the soul when they join essence symbiosis along
On a stone wall over the Aga it had lived as they had
Breakfast with Picasso each every day
25th April 2017
The only luxury we possess,
In this world, let’s say,
It’s to think about nature,
Men abuse men,
We can’t believe them often,
Women understand this,
So you have to listen to the birds,
Respect the elephants of Kenya,
So we must admire the roses,
To address them prayers,
spare the delicate whales
Preserving tropical forests is
The only luxury we possess.
14
The only luxury we possess,
In this world, let’s say,
It’s to think of each other,
To seek the goodness of some,
To admire the talent of others.
In the deafening thunderstorms,
Under the obscure ceiling of the clouds,
The only luxury we possess,
It’s to think of each other,
To admire Picasso and Courbet,
To think about Eric and Sébastien,
to Maryline and Martine, it’s
The only luxury we possess.
This poem is based on the painting 'Weeping Woman' by Picasso
In fragments of fate,
timeless tears seem invisible,
but there is profoundness in sorrow,
a beauty in the vulnerability -
there is an art to expression.
As colours collide upon a canvas,
it reminds me of a black and white world,
where I was taught to be a 'man.'
But all I recall are my mothers cries.
In times of pain,
all I feel is your fears.
When adversity calls,
all I see is your struggles.
I am a reflection of your love,
a structure of your strength.
When you are no more,
maybe, I'll search for you among the stars.
If moonlights should caress my face,
I know it's you smiling down at me.
Every great artist must be a little insane
Because nothing that vivid could come from an average mind
Nothing that twisted could spring to life
On canvas and not in the brain
The insanity of it all
The thoughts twisting in little spirals
Nagging, tugging at corners of the mind
That for most are empty corridors filled with cobwebs
Searching for a crack in the dam, seeking a way out
They hit the wall and back in again they turn
scoring invidious trenches deeper and deeper
Leaving damage in its wake
Maddening to not be understood
To be so clever that expressing yourself is so outside the realm of possibility
That you have to die to be known
Through the broken windows of your soul
Glimpses of what life is like inside your head
Not a portrait, never truly elucidated
A tortured, drunken poet,
Mad on life’s nauseating boredom
The fantasy of being known come to life on a page
But never real.
Oh, beautiful, enigmatic woman,
subject of “Dora Maar with the Green Fingernails,’
nothing did I know about you
before seeing the works you inspired
from a misogynist and womanizer.
You were used as Picasso’s aid and his muse
for 8 years before he used you up
and threw you away.
Shattered, like the “Weeping Woman”
you also posed for,
your life and splendid surreal photography
were overshadowed by the man who never cared
to know any of the women that he used.
You were an artist in your own right,
admired and even successful.
I wonder about you and
why you became reclusive
when Picasso left you for a new lover.
Your life by then was about halfway through.
I learned how you continued to create,
but the auctions making you famous today
came after your death and at
the end of the century in which you lived
mostly alone.
That painting of you with green fingernails
was sold for over 4 million dollars,
and you kept it in your private collection
until your death at 89.
This shows me perhaps you had
a piece of your heart still beating
for your long-gone lover.
Sadly, you are still barely known
for much else other than being
Pablo Picasso’s long-ago muse.
Picasso, oval face and olive eyes,
always solemn and searching.
Pushing boundaries, challenging authority,
his artistic torch cut through the fog of life.
At times his scrutiny turned inwards.
Self-critique of the physical and the psychological took hold.
Could it be self-doubt or ego which drove him on?
Or was it simply a visual diary of moments in his life?
1901, subdued bluish tones portray young Picasso in an older light.
Sadness and solitude emanate from the cloaked figure.
Though beset by trials and tribulations
he stands proud gazing at his audience.
1907, the face of cubism unfolds
angular features with large searching eyes.
He seems lean almost undernourished.
His sombre outlook dominates the vista.
1972, and then the end draws near.
Staring his own death in the face
there is fear in his sunken eyes.
Flesh nearly gone reveals his skull for all to examine.
Pablo asked, “Are we to paint what’s on the face,
what’s inside the face or what’s behind it?”
The recognisable image becomes less and less distinct,
until what is left is the naked soul.
And Pablo said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
But eventually the soul becomes dust and all that is left is a memory.
We will always remember Pablo,
for art is life and life is art.
-----------------------------------
2020 published in PS: It's Poetry, pp.286-287
2019 November 26 *1st Place*
Your Favorite Artist Contest
Sponsored by: Anne Cooke
Since humans surfaced from the slime,
our art has always turned on time,
on measurement, and not on rhyme –
so Solon says (I’m with him):
the heart of art is rhythm.
You want to waltz? You need three-four.
And verse that’s truly free’s a bore!
The drumkit forms rock music’s core,
and Rhapsody in Blue has
wrought classical anew (jazz).
Our architecture, uninspired,
was looking – feeling – somewhat tired.
Then Frank Lloyd Wright, completely wired,
transformed it, not for profit
– have you seen his soffits?
The painter had become a monkey,
just reproducing portraits (clunky)
and soulless seascapes. Things got funky:
what stirred the stiff Sargasso?
A samba called Picasso!
Those Western movies grew so dull,
the steers were ready for a cull:
Italians dispelled the lull,
while Hollywood said, smugly,
“no-one wants good, bad, ugly!”
So, whether you sculpt or you sing,
you groove to The Beatles or Bing,
you think Nat or Elvis is King,
it don’t mean a thing
if it ain’t got that swing!
Blue is the colour, blue is the period, blue is the mood
As Pablo's mind sunk, on the meaning of life he did brood.
The death by his own hand, of a friend that was close
Left Pablo the poor artist quite depressed and morose.
His feelings from deep down within his soul
Could only be expressed by his brush, his goal.
To show how he hurt and affected was he
He painted the guitarist, the one that could not see.
A blind beggar stooped and cold, a guitar in his hands
Not strumming just there, muted background looking bland
Muted colours of blue that makes one feel so cold
Of the half staved, freezing guitarist, that looks terribly old.
The oil tends to blend on the panel lacking some colour
To express his heart weary soul, his colours ever duller
The guitarist is stretched, elongated, looks almost dead
All the feeling of Picasso in his life, this picture said.
Look at me, I am starved of love money and bread
No colour in my life, perhaps I am better off with the dead.
A reflection on the times on society way back then
The hopeless, the wretched, Pablo caught with his pen.
On the bland background of blue, a guitar painted dull brown
The guitar in his hands, the player blind with a sad frown
Was he a symbol that the blind have inner vision yet can see
The dejection, the poverty, the misery of times lost on you and me.
His period of blue lasted three long years before it was then spent
He changed his style with his moods as his emotions were pent
A poor artist who suffered with his moods as we all can do
He expressed them with pen and brush, much the same as me and you.
© 23/01/2013
Contest Entry.
The Old Guitarist By Pablo Picasso