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.
The 19th century stole this artist's soul,
causing him heartache and much turmoil.
His style of painting, too avant-garde, not dark enough or hard.
His expressive colors and vibrant art was mostly met with disgust.
In this era, it was not realistic enough.
At first poverty provoked him to paint things he could see, such as flowers, farmers and small trees.
Later his famous Red Vineyard, intense, red and bold.
I often wondered, what message did it hold ? Was he asking,“Am I a conflicted soul?”
But he persevered as an exceptional painter.
His ideas never waned, despite the times he felt judgement or pain.
Despite it all, Van Gogh felt pride and was able to put their ridicule aside.
He moved to Paris in 1882
and jumped into its bright happy milieu,
Impressionism, an accepting world of new.
Resilience, brilliance, permission for his jeweled art.
A creative mind, slowly accepted for his love of design.
Strong, tall sunflower stems,
bending with bursting seed pods for feathered friends.
Like a dove,this yellow painting I truly loved.
His famous art of a twinkling Starry Night
Each stroke from his brush, gave a lovely light.
Like humans, we are all unique, and one of a kind,
and like Van Gogh's stars, we can also shine.
Blossoms growing on an Almond Branch decorated white.
Van Gogh’s painting of nature’s, flowering delight.
Against his slim crooked branch, soft blossoms danced.
His adoration for the first tree in June, sang a spring tune
Now more freedom and fondness for his artistic flair.
More acceptance of his colorful art in the air,
but at times in his mind, trouble and despair.
He met his sorrowful fate, after painting his self portrait, Eternity's Gate.
He painted for decades, despite the sadness at times he faced.
But his artistic abilities never were never erased.
2,000 paintings, sadly only one sold.
But the history of Van Gogh will always be told.
Not a room for the waiting
or the receiving of the waiting,
but a room for a liquid thinking
a turgidity
that trickles through plastic tubes.
Is this where doors remain jammed
forever between Hospital floors?
Unseen, a wall clock drops
heavy packages of time
into narrow chutes,
latex handprints are shaken
from sterilized surfaces.
The regularity
of beep and whir mechanically
sucks light in and out.
The yoke recalls it shell.
Desiccated fingers
squeeze a phantom pain-ball,
morphine as cold as ice
is delivered
to an unknown address.
A swish of a starched presence,
fingertips retrace
scorched fever-lines.
Eyes creep toward the voice.
Consciousness
scratches a self-portrait
upon a white neon sun,
a hesitant, primitive etching.
A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse
of a free-floating mind.
Space expands under her hands.
SARTORIAL SELF-PORTRAIT
Even as a young man,
I dressed just like my dad.
‘Clothes are what defines you,’
Was a saying my mother had.
But now I’ve retired from the city,
Perhaps it’s time to break free.
So I’m looking through my wardrobe
To find out what defines me.
Here’s a row of pin-striped suits,
Three-piece, in the main.
With waistcoats with a pocket,
For a watch on the end of a chain.
And now the shirts, all white of course,
With collars that detach.
Long sleeves with fancy cuff links
And a smart tie pin to match.
There’s a lingering smell of moth balls
As I move along the rails.
Especially in the section
Where I keep my top hat and tails.
Even at home I wear a tie,
Though, to help me to relax,
I have a long-sleeved cardigan
And a pair of well-cut slacks.
But, right at the end, in a cover,
To make sure it doesn’t fade,
A memory of a brief interlude,
When I wasn’t quite so staid.
A reminder of my salad days,
When I lived life with a passion.
I’ve kept those flares for fifty years,
In case they come back in fashion.
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.
The canvas- propped blank on the tripod
The artist- flicked tunes on his iPod
The acrylics- were blended
The paint brush- apprehended
The self-portrait- was nearly finished
The man- in the piece real distinguished
The signature- bold
The piece- to be sold
The neighbours- came first for the viewing
The locals- arrived and yahooing
The press- much reported
The world-prints imported
The painter-had flaunted
The muscles-Supported
The apprentice- flexed at his teacher, laughing at his procedure
Tennis balls- hit the ground, peas were then found also along with a reefer.
The sweet fragrance of spices
Fruits ripened lush from mountain gardens
The bouquets of flowers scenting the air
Vivid memories of yesterday
Now the flowers are black petals of death
The souk reeks of burned flesh
As fires from hell fell from above
Those who tilled have become the earth
Scorched and soiled souls, color ceases to exist
In the dream world of eternal fires
Hope is sucked out of you, the dead whom still walk
The nomads with no eyes, lost inside timeless nightmares
I am an artist, who paints with tears
For those whom stories have been buried in hell fires
They lay, facing the heavens, raped of their smiles
Leaving Infants to cry in the night, lamenting in a sea of blood
A child wanders past me, rented and soulless
I take my brush and prey someone will save that one
I am the invisible artist
As I stab myself, my final portrait to the world
They're on the wall is a self-portrait of me
In a small local art gallery
A small group of people looking at the picture
There are few who agree look at his Eyes
Look at his eyes
I show no smile no teeth lips put together
In awe and I wonder why are they still looking
Wondering still why are they still standing and continue staring
I'm still mesmerized and why they still categorizing
Yet to my surprise they still say as I asked why
They silently chant whisper and all look at his eyes
Look at his eyes
For the eyes are the mirror to the soul
Look at them they're so golden and round brown and bold
And all the world's dysfunction and turmoil
And if I if I can see he has peace in his soul
Whether this like knowledge to whether it is known
It is truly shown I can see it on the wall the painting of his face
Shows no shame no disgrace such a beautifulness
And it's all shown in his eyes in his eyes
He has the peace of God
In his eyes for you see this is my self portrait on the wall
08/20/2017
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.
inspired!
by what – a big blue circle on a museum wall?
it’s big
it’s blue
and it’s a circle
but what inspires you?
‘well I like blue, and I’m fond of circles…’
but does it speak to you?
does it whisper or shout or cry to you?
does it make you want to kiss somebody
or compose a melody
or write a long letter to your best friend?
does it make your heart race
or sing
or break?
does poetry emanate from your lips?
do you get the sudden urge
to plant a garden
or write your senator
or fall in love?
then pay it forward: create, give, thrive, love
deeply feel the highs and lows with eyes wide open
fill up somebody’s empty cup
paint your self-portrait
in whatever frame you’ve been given
and never be embarrassed
that you were inspired by
a big
blue
circle
on a museum wall
She personifies the rift between town
and gown in the city,
pageant pretty, in pale pinks pellet,
lace sleeved adorned,
like a primrose she stands prominent
a gringo cigarette in one hand
Mexico’s flag in the other,
her country ‘tis of thee
like the contrafactum
of an earlier English anthem
God Save the King,
American democracy
she paints her de facto
her homeland in turmoil,
under an anthropomorphized sun
lest the moon’s clash in her own sky
Olmec ruins, laid foundation
stone heads, deep-rooted cacti
leaving behind the natural nation
she’ll advance athwart
contra the cold chicken coop
industrialization’s smokestacks,
the iconic River Rouge Plant
ugliness versus beauty
a glossy façade?
homesick for her pagan past