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I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if  framed paused  Frozen We, the Impressionists!
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Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Subhadip
We, the Impressionists
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if  framed paused  Frozen We, the Impressionists!
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31
There’s a decisive moment Between light and dark, An intermission of clear sight When movement becomes illusion. For light does not hold still But converges to a hundred shapes, Fields, haystacks, cathedral portals, A dizzy dervish, constant change, Finally softened by slithering shadows Of dusk. A tempered darkliness folding Into moon-glow pillow clouds, Creating their own impressions.
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Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
lutindog
Impressions
There’s a decisive moment Between light and dark, An intermission of clear sight When movement becomes illusion. For light does not hold still But converges to a hundred shapes, Fields, haystacks, cathedral portals, A dizzy dervish, constant change, Finally softened by slithering shadows Of dusk. A tempered darkliness folding Into moon-glow pillow clouds, Creating their own impressions.
Continue reading...
13