Long Remy Poems
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Thick swirls of paint coat the blue night sky,
Luminescent stars ablaze: yellow white orbs, large in size.
Whirling white clouds under the crescent moon,
Above the asylum’s window the night sky blooms.
Below the rolling hills rests a sleepy little town,
A peaceful essence flows, cool dark colors unwound.
Reigning over the small buildings is the steeple of the church,
Beauty’s released from the bristles as he’s sitting at his perch.
With memories of Theo and thoughts of Paul Gauguin,
He attacks the canvas with broad strokes from his hand.
A single silhouette of a cypress on the left side,
Hides an early mistake as his broken heart cries.
1889, a typical night in Saint-Remy, Vincent’s puffing his pipe,
A committed genius from the asylum’s window painted the starry night.
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For Brian’s Contest PICTURE POEMS
The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh,
1889 Oil on canvas
73 cm × 92 cm (28¾ in × 36¼ in)
Museum of Modern Art, New York City
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Starry_Night
Paris, earlier today. It’s a (vaccinated) summer family reunion and I’m catching up with relatives I haven’t seen for AGES. Like my impeccably dressed (three piece suit on a warm, un-air-conditioned, Saturday) 83 year old great uncle.
We cheek kiss
“STILL searching for love, Uncle Remy?”
“Forget love. My dear, I’m an old, self-absorbed narcissist. What I look for is someone young and frivolous whose most complicated desire is fun - specifically fun that can be bought - that’s an important distinction.”
I gasp and pose.
“You’re looking for MEEEE!,” I squeal.
“Oh, if I needed a spoiled, over-serious, temperamental, unappeasable rich girl - I’d think of you.”
“You GET me!,” *I beam with pride*
As a writer, I am charmingly unoriginal. I use the same letters as everyone else and much of the identical punctuation but in my defense, Coca-Colas are all the same, and each one is delightfully refreshing.
On Sundays my Grandmère throws these fêtes, ‘social lunches’ where anyone might drop in - attendance, I‘m told, can be a social signal. Two weeks ago, it was fashion week and ‘smart society’ (the vampire pale and dangerously thin individuals casually dressed to kill) were trolling for fun.
There were about 150 people there, like the Mayor of Paris, Saint Laurent’s Anthony Vaccarello, Léna Situations (GenZ influencer), Just Riadh (comedian), Delphine Arnault and the Archbishop of Paris - to name a few. But I was only there for a half an hour, and it wasn’t my job to take roll.
Now, these parties all play-out, to me, like romcom ‘problem comedies.’ You have the ever-present and delicate aroma of cocktails, an Archbishop (subconsciously dangling the high trap of moral purification and great, heavenly rewards), elder frenchmen, like my uncle Remy with his languid, cigarette-lipped, smoke-cured profanity, some models hoping to be seen and younger, eager eyed, corporate boy-men types ogling every feminine creature with alcoholic heartiness.
I don’t think Grandmère sees the fun undercard of human foibles, but there are big alcohol-fueled feelings in every register as these events hit their peak. Growing up, at these things, I’d sit quietly in a corner, usually with a book, pretending to read and just people watch. Everyone’s coming and going (‘free-drinks’) but 30 or 40 people are always around somewhere.
These days, Peter shares my little, flowered, corner settee. We sit, shoulder to shoulder, and snark, like huckstas for a sports book, about who’s thirsty for whom. It’s all questionable information, surface impressions and instant verdicts.
.
.
A Song for this:
Someone In The Crowd - Emma Stone, Callie Hernandez, Sonoya Mizuno & Jessica Rothe
we live behind palace walls
“I’m in love,” I said, sighing into the fall-like, Paris afternoon, “I have to admit it.”
My 85 year old uncle Remy, gently stirring a pitcher of American martini he was conjuring, said, “You should marry an insignificant lawyer - if you’re going to have a cross-class love affair.”
Uncle Remy was a lawyer, of sorts, once.
“I think you’re leading the witness,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
“I’m in love with my Havaianas,” I clarified - my new, white, square-toed flip-flops.
“Besides, no one thinks in terms of class any more - and Peter and I are NOT an asymmetrical match or relationship or whatever.”
But it got me thinking. Half, or more, of what Uncle Remy says is politically incorrect. And I don’t judge him harshly..
I wrote, last week, about a guy who
(gasp) told me he found me attractive
like it was some crisis.
Hadn’t I schemed to get with Peter? (my bf).
And hadn’t he admitted that he’d schemed to get with me?
Was I ready to diagnose this guy as a walking red flag
- for a gentle admission of interest?
Because he's a big, intimidating guy?
What are the small, social rituals
we’re allowed to use - to signal desire?
Sure, buying someone a drink at a bar
- but what else? It’s a Catch-22.
Must every comment face the court of
public opinion, verbal consent protocols,
uni regulations and the behavior authorities?
Should we ban serendipity and spontaneity too?
Monday morning came and I didn’t ask to change seats
I moved my pencil back - a little.
He actually could use a bit more room than me.
I smiled a little, asked him about his weekend,
there’s no use in being unfriendly.
His name is Jacques (Jack).
.
.
Songs for this:
So Sorry by Lola Young [E]
The Hardest Part by Olivia Dean
The sharpened mind - with care - takes aim
- at university, we play ruthless games.
Where pencils scratch, their graphite gray,
and scholarly answers take the day.
I've finished midterms!
It was like one of those TV shows, ‘survivor’ or something.
Enzyme kinetics, metabolic pathways, protein structures and functions be damned - no, be double damned.
I’d been working problems raw in dreams, waking up tired.
Sunday, I was so stressed I'd felt calm, like I’d accepted my fate.
I can tell you that now - now that I survived.
“I was strazzled but controlled - there's a difference in how
I struggle internally - and what I let show.” I told Leong.
“Is that why you were yelling at everyone?” she replied.
“Now that midterms are over, I feel luminary,” I informed Leong, “am I glowing?”
She looked up and said, “No.” Communists aren’t sentimental.
Of course I meant luminary in both achievement and radiance.
My Uncle Remy used to tell me:
“Little one, don’t worry about being a failure,
that’s your parent’s job.”
I Love you Uncle Remy.
.
.
Webster: Luminary: is a person of brilliance or a celestial body.
strazzled = stressed and frazzled
Our cast: Leong and I.
Leong, (roommate) 20, is from Macau, China and she’s a proud communist ("don’t knock it til you’ve tried it"). She's a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major.’ We both speak Cantonese, and we talk a lot of secret trash together.
A restaurant on a beautiful island for kids
Remy from ratatouille is the chef of my restaurant
An expert in making boundless perfect blends
Cute kids can urge him anything they want
Seven dwarfs from snow white are the servers
Spider man and bat man will join them in occasions
They organise games to entertain the customers
I also hired some of the Disney princesses
Cindrella,Rapunzel,Snow white,Jasmine,
Aurora,Belle,Milan,Ariel and her sisters
Sing,dance and eat with the children.
Kids can also swing in Rapunzel's hair
Menu contains the healthy food of all nations
Since it is only for kids,I named it as Angels Inn
The best part is,I don't charge any fees
But I certainly need hugs and kisses
It’s fall of 1888, the south of France,
In the verdant fields of Arles,
Two artists shared a single dream,
And so began their quarrel.
Vincent paved the way for Paul
With bold sunflower sprays.
Paul dissembled, stating plain,
“More practiced effort pays.”
“Don't smile before December,”
Said the mentor to his charge.
And the student pegged his better
As a bon vivant at large.
So, their tenure at the Yellow House
Grew troublesome and dark.
Their artists’ shared collective
Strayed a long way off its mark.
Dry and cold, the Mistral winds
Spread madness like a plague,
To infiltrate poor Vincent’s mind,
Whose memories grew vague.
Mania, delirium, anxiety, and fear,
Climaxed when the voices told him,
“You don’t need that ear!”
He’d heard no praise, regardless.
Dr. Rey used his sorry portrait
To fix his chicken coop.
Then Theo got engaged,
And Paul sailed away to Tahiti.
Now time’s become history,
And that paint smeared canvas,
Nailed to a chicken coop
Means to claim a hefty sum.
And Le Fou Roux lies cold in his grave,
Unmindful of the legend he’s become.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
STARRY NIGHTS AT SAINT REMY
Van Gogh
1893- 1890
a Dutch artist
painted Iris (in oils) in 1890
during his self-imposed stay at the asylum
of Saint-Remy
he would venture into the overgrown garden
seeking equilibrium and solace
and this is where he found the wild Iris growing
he carefully drew the sword like leaves
around the shaft and stem
using a soft green color
then, he outlined them with a fluid brush
flowers were painted with a delicate purple touch
the Iris seems to be swaying in a light breeze
he used different hues of greens for the grasses
and placed yellow dots to represent
wildflowers in a calculated way
yet, the entire canvas is full of vibrancy
his desire to paint "a single blade of grass" well
stems from his lifelong appreciation
and love of nature ...
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June 02, 2022
Poetry/Ekphrasis/Vincent Van Gogh's Iris
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1461-179- 02
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 06/04/2022
mending fences can keep your cattle from
wondering : or going astray.
these grasses are as green as the one's
they graze upon, yet they rather dine
in my pastures.
who tends to the cattle, might he
then fix, what he hast allow to break!"
yet the Shepard, speaks as he has strength enough to
take matters in his own hand, my men are Mighty, and
they can bring Mightier men to their knee's.
Let the chore chore over what happens in the night,
that those she pleases, might keep their minds
on the matters at hand!
lovers, and fighter know truths:
neither lover or fighter reveals their intentions
if they wish to succeed, so why
do you allow us to know your where about,
what woman would you trick me to have
the healthy maid or the sick whore?
One wonders if the other cares, than might they understand, in suffrage
the intentions of the other!
Might God restore your strength, Rest nearer the
orchard and the fruit might fall to your feet, the common curtsy
of these women lack's the concern of being
hostspitible they have been taught
manners by the dogs that feed upon their sheep.
Lessons they endear, like the wild es that fest upon their harvest!
tame the words of a wild , and you will discover
the words from the wild, belong no place amongst the tamed!
she stored her underwear in her oboe, so that her lover couldn't be wise to the fact that they were worned!
these cuddledogs are wild dogs of the woods, their adventures are of
mean spirted ways, they are to be tamed by my might, they shall understand, the need of men, come before the need of
things, or creatures, might I stand before God with these truths, he would understand!
you've betrayed me with you "so-call needs": does honor mean anything to you? does it? does-it !
)whoomp whoomp, whom!(
" I can make you dance(til the night is thru), song by Anonomous and his traveling side-show! copyrighted by , music company America! strings conducted, arranged and contracted by Swiggies bass drum company....
"sweat the make-up off" and " moonlite nights " by Remy Sugar soap and the dry towel orcheastra! use with permission! call that man and ask him!