Les plus lus ▸
Mindnight
in my wife’s painting
something of midnight
a bed is a ship
being taken round
to the north
Poèmes sur le thème : painting
Poèmes sur le thème « painting » sur Poets.by.
Still life
painting fruit
the howl of it
like a bet on joy
Bohemian life
I paint for pay
and stay to dinner,
my house a mess.
Dress me in white
and I turn very ill.
of the sun
it is 6.30pm, the edge of the sun
glimmers beyond the boundary,
taking its last breath before it is
returned to its rightful lover. and
the bystander waits, listens to the
cry of the sunbirds, knowing yet
their time has been lost, past,
it is time to forget. they remember
naught, the outline of your skin, the
glistening voice, an airy shadow
left in the wake of mere fate's hands
nestled upon circumstance; a certain
glory to the act of erasing resides in
the dying glow of the auburn sky.
and it is a new dawn, they say,
rid of all sentimentality. the air quivers.
Impression, Sunrise
Confusion simplifies:
sun’s a red dot in murk,
boat’s a black patch
on murk, just a spill
of red light lets seeing tell
a difference between one
murk and another. It’s all
a seeming in which morning
looks as vague as thoughts
or the other way around, and
blended seemings compose
a soup which eyes will taste as light,
air, water. A painter makes
one moist concoction seem
like another, and we look at
what seems to have been seen
Tour of a Painting
Please open the gray door,
follow lavender light
all the way down
the long blond slope
into the valley checker-boarded
with blue with green.
Stop at the silver silo.
Speak to the brown holy woman
wearing the one enchanted ruby.
People Who Must
I PAINTED on the roof of a skyscraper.
I painted a long while and called it a day's work.
The people on a corner swarmed and the traffic cop's whistle never let up all afternoon.
They were the same as bugs, many bugs on their way —
Those people on the go or at a standstill ;
And the traffic cop a spot of blue, a splinter of brass,
Where the black tides ran around him
And he kept the street. I painted a long while
And called it a day's work.
The Painter on Silk
There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.
He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.
When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.
He thought only of roses,
And silk.
When he could get no more silk
He stopped painting