Long Self portrait Poems
Long Self portrait Poems. Below are the most popular long Self portrait by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Self portrait poems by poem length and keyword.
ENTHUSIASM
out
of reluctance
some merriment
heretofore
esteemed
notionally
incognito
in a
lovely
renaissance
remained
a rarity
a fantasy
of the
appetite
of curiosos
impertinent
in pursuit
of the picturesque
to conceive
the vivid
in the
archaic
characterised
by
pillars
of the
intricate
patterns in
vivid imaginations
venturing into
the intrepid
visual art
for
a connoisseur
made
practicable
likened to
self-portrait
to celebrate
a common
inheritance
& frequent
the obscure
& the blurry
monochrome
reduced
to black
& white
on
a
series
of murals
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
I faced this man, looking like a portrait,
I heard him whisper from heart straight.
You’re bold and flagrant frank,
voice vibrates with cadence of confident airs,
you’re logical, at times tangentially crank,
eyes encase dulcet dreams, at times tears
In the latent lattice of intricate design,
layer on layer, your mind is stratified,
the sanguine strata of all assorted hues align,
unique psychic patterns are unified.
Many aspects of singular distinction hide
within the network of your mind’s cipher layers,
can’t be decoded by the world outside,
the reticent sense of silent self never cares.
An insular captive of your mental making,
you’re you, an inimitable loner,
in your lane you see the aliens walk forsaking,
you’re defined by your essence sober.
These are the entity attributes of you people view,
different from the rest around you, for you’re you.
I looked at the portrait somewhat closer,
saw this man stare at me from the mirror.
Since childhood,
as alexithymia struck my soul.
I kept all my hopes a secret,
hidden in a bucket of unshared dreams.
I kept my soul sweet like marshmallows,
but life has finally caught up with me,
Like a fast car overtaking recklessly,
leaving me behind in the slow lane -
and I'm running out of fuel.
I'm a vehicle of flashbacks from flashlights,
fatigued from embracing the old,
preparing for freshly brewed emotions.
Yet they deprive me at every dawn,
as new beginnings are always challenging.
Suffocating in this silent selcouth slumber,
life tries to call my bluff, when it knows,
I am the master of my masquerade.
My soul pleads with fate to usher me with belief,
but I can see death at my doorstep,
creating intrusive insecurities like termites,
eating away at branches of my sanity,
feeding upon my ordained Orphic glory.
Emotions are an interior mechanism,
so many remain fooled by my exterior,
but I'm tired of searching for salvation.
You who claim to love me,
gift me a scented candle made with your hands,
so its sentimental scent can bring me peace.
Take me to a place without a name,
without a label,
without judgment -
without suffering.
Unchain me from jeapordising January jitters.
Free me from meandering in misty meadows,
which have misplaced me in foggy morning sunshine -
bring me clarity.
These are not random thoughts, random poems,
because my ink is tired from trying to find new metaphors,
to supplement an abundance of alliterations,
portraying humble happy horizons.
Love can be a false emotion,
when we yearn for reciprocal ravishing redamancy,
but when was love ever equal or even fair?
I have no resolutions, just to breathe with ease.
Sometimes love's presence made me feel aesthetic,
but sometimes a badly drawn self portrait.
You can stay or leave, but do come back,
hold on, but not too tight that it chains my wings.
When I ascend, please, miss me,
so my spirit flies back to you.
Can you not see the irony?
We accumulate many reasons to die,
but search for only one reason to live.
Ask yourself which oxymoron are you?
Dying to live or living to die?
*Alexithymia
A person's inability to recognise or describe ones own emotions
* Redamancy
a love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you; the act of loving in return
Wavy lines and swirls,
In the same family of hue.
Complimentary colors;
Orange hair bound by blue.
Broad strokes of paint,
Scribbled by the brush.
With careful undertones,
His hands did not rush.
A pale face emerges,
On a lonely silhouette.
On a rolled piece of canvas,
He painted his self-portrait.
_________________________
*Note: This is about a painting
by Vincent Van Gogh titled
Self-Portrait Saint-Rémy
September 1889
Oil on canvas 65 x 54 cm.
Paris, Musée d'Oray
http://affiliates.art.com/get.art?T=15041509&A=307084&L=8&P=10213526&S=2&Y=0
bomber jacket, dark glasses
blown out hair,
faded jeans that fit me slim,
brown leather belt and shoes,
a dangling cigarette between lips,
is how I would fancy look!
Reality is something else,
and what I look is more like this…
A T shirt straight out of wash,
never seen the underside of iron,
crumpled to show how the machine spins!
trousers broad fit that struggle to stay
at the waist, with a belt that fails to grip,
the colours of these never match,
and the shoes are ones that were
quick to reach, and the result is a
riot of disagreeable colours!
who cares!!! That is me!
When I walk, my wife walks with me
separated by a hundred feet,
with her impeccable attire that
compliments every fraction of her,
with lipsticks to match!!
Style of clothing do not make a man
but they seem to make a woman!
Reality of life is mismatch of things,
that we learn to love and to live with!
That is why we have been married years!!
our distances in clothes is bridged by
our deep understanding and love for
each other! And when this love really
gets to work- we often discard our clothing!!
Burn
Poetry is my self-portrait, for all the world to see.
I show you my every thought and wonder about yours.
What do you read into me?
Are we all, all we could have been,
If we have never tried to study our dreams
And chased them through to the conclusion?
Why is love such an optical illusion?
What would I be if I chose to never write again?
If wishes are real,
Then why can we not all feel the need to love another?
Why is it so easy to just throw it all away?
Such a waste and expectations so unreal;
Lovers always find new lovers.
Surrealist art shows an image from inside,
A dysfunctional mind, that slips and slides as worlds collide
And atoms separate.
Who is to say what is first-rate?
Who is last to take their place?
Who is humble enough to have nothing to say,
But are happy to wait, to be given their way?
Their way to go; a way to be.
A way to avoid the shared misery.
Pull me out of this slumber, for my mind is awake
And I cannot wait to try again, to brighten up my miserable face.
I used to smile a long time ago,
But those days are far away from me now and I can see no return,
But hopefully with just a little bit more hope,
I can ignite my future and leave my past behind to burn.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
It’s Sunday,
and I’m drawing myself again,
third time this week.
This version features a haunted air fryer,
a coupon for free emotional labor,
and Janice—
the shoebill, wearing my ex’s hoodie
and threatening the moon.
She’s perched
on a folding chair I stole from a church basement,
clutching a Slim Jim like a relic.
Her breath smells like copper wiring and vengeance.
She doesn’t blink.
She’s been through things
I wouldn’t survive in metaphor.
Next to us is a gas station floral arrangement
wilting under fluorescent light.
In front of us is me,
in my paint-splotched pajamas,
asking Janice if she thinks
my inner child should unionize.
She says nothing,
just tilts her prehistoric head
and sh*ts squarely on my manuscript.
I call it divine intervention.
Later,
we walk into the city wearing matching trench coats,
one of us smoking,
one of us quoting Adrienne Rich,
neither of us offering apologies.
When the world ends,
it’ll be a clerical error.
Janice will fix it with duct tape and a spell
written in cut-up tomatoes.
I’ll be there,
editing the horoscopes.
And when someone asks
What kind of bird is that?
I’ll smile, say,
Oh, she’s mine,
we found each other in a storm.
Unpredictable and volatile--
morose and quiet one moment,
laughing heartily just after a while
at whatever excited his mirth,
his high thin loud laugh strange
from a person with a grave mien.
He would often be in deep thought,
as if engaged in contemplation
of a philosophical question.
You’d think he is not given to humor,
but know him well and you’ll divine
he is not averse to jests even at his expense.
You would view it with some misgiving
he delights in fairy tales, children’s books, toys,
movies with superheroes or fantasy themes,
colors, flowers, and childish games.
But perhaps you would forgive him
for through circumstances not of his doing
childhood had somehow skipped him.
November 15, 2024
Self-Portrait 1-12-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds and Pretzels
Still life, not stillborn,
With a woman’s face
In dusky background hues,
Pure clarity clothed in white,
Gazing on gastronomic abundance.
Artist of the banquet
One step behind –
The woman’s place of her time -
Guardian of the sweet rewards
Served like bridal wine,
Topping the earthen vessel
Of embryonic fermentation.
In a cradle of fine delft
Consummated almonds,
Mellow figs
Ripe fruit
Conceived out of ravenous rapture
Confinement released in harvest’s fare
In signatures of arms crossed -
Daily bread – gifts of finest wheat –
Served with golden curls,
Crushed seeds of grain
Birthing beauty’s fullness.
Above this feast of still life
A woman smiles
Her signature waiting to be discovered –
Waiting for the invitation to emerge
From the shadow!