#monet
I was reading in the library and I began to have imaginations of jazz, deep conversation and talking about the beauty of lilac and powder blue colored flora, I want to muse about Monet with someone and share our emotive thoughts that could be like spoken poetry arriving from the unsaid within as streams of sunlight coming from our lips, and perhaps, the art of genuine, truthful love would also return like falling stars in our palms.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 4:24 PM UTC
I often lose myself in doodles, sketches, and drawings... Trying to replicate great works but more often originals of my own creation. But when I do try to replicate a work from lets say Monet or Van Gogh its because a piece stood out to me and the image lingers in the back of my mind like a shadow cast by a single lit candle in room as vast as the universe itself...
https://postimg.cc/kBGGjwPr <---- What I've done so far compared to the original found in the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena California...
I believe whole heartedly that the eyes in this painting belong not to the peasant but to Van Gogh himself... Either intentionally or not the piercing stare will forever be burned in my mind.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 4:52 PM UTC
Atmospheric smog,
the quays are mysterious --
and the river breathes.
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 4:48 AM UTC
This is poem written by Lisel Mueller (according to google). I just wanted to share it because I couldn't find it on here and it's one of my favourite poems ever.
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC
Three poplars grow along the river bank,
Three poplars reflected in the current,
Past is paint and the future is a blank
Canvas framed with poplar wood recurrent,
Reeds sway silently,
Tree trunks climb crooked,
Colors blur like smoky clouds unfurling
Colors blurring cloudy smoke rings spread
Across a pastel sky. Autumnal swirl
in kingly golden glow—presages:
Brush be quick / the sun dips / the light changes
Capture it before it rearranges!
Sep 21, 2020
Sep 21, 2020 at 10:57 AM UTC
Cool fragrant Lilly
Monet's sweet floating flower
Hides much deeper roots
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 3:23 AM UTC
I'm just another
That you pushed in a corner
Your weeping Monet
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
Lucid dreams of a place
That seems unfamiliar,
But it feels like home.
I perform a barefoot ballet,
Sinking my toes like anchors
Into the soil.
Orchids and sunflowers
Stand guard like soldiers, giving
An aroma as strong as gun smoke.
The wind whistles its tune
As the leaves tango, resembling
Lovers brushing fingertips.
I reminisce days where
The garden was the universe
And words came easy.
Today I am speechless and
Amazed by all this vast
World has shown me.
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 6:38 PM UTC
As fog covered my outside landscape I sat,
relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas
to scribe at later date.
The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.
The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.
As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.
I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions.
Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge.
Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.
More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.
As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.
I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
Lichtenstein crashed into Monet's garden under the mistaken impression that a pulse of pop would compliment the oil on water, but instead his WHAAM missed its target and his POW wept hot, bleaching the aqua white with noise and ripping the lilies to shreds.
'Oh, Claude,' he cried, 'it's a masterpiece!'
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 7:12 PM UTC
I awoke to a sunrise so beautiful
Monet himself dare not
Attempt to capture its beauty
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
There is more beauty in the steam
coming out of my coffee machine
Than there is in a Monet
At least with my lonely eyes
it seems that way
When the sink drips its drops
To me it is art
Maybe cause my world
Is falling apart
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
It is not some dusty frame,
hanging rusty nails;
chaotic mess.
No es amor solo amar, to you,
just some language you,
can't comprehend.
Distraught, despaired, disheveled,
a dystopian novel notion,
romanticized.
There's no need;
you don't need to patronize.
Cold hand upon cold hand;
lifeless smiles colluding.
And as if you were a Monet sunrise,
my impression of you is that of drunken brush strokes,
dull blues,
and angry orange hues,
Left on display within a rotting, wooden frame.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
i.
the grey ghosts
water to the sky,
pond to the
breaking air,
the blues are
cloudy
islands and
stars, lily pad
gold-green
dream of monet-
light.
ii.
love drifts,
scurries over
the water like
a dragonfly,
her wings the light
flowing, melting
in its breathful
streams
falling
falling
in the delicate
colours of
spring with
its tide-like
ebb and flow.
iii.
i held you
close and you
were the
aching spring,
the bright
opals of the moon,
i held you close
and all i could see
where the blues of
the pond, the
snake-silver
stream of starlight
and flower,
you were the
aching bronzes
of the rivery
pools, the still
water's paradise
of blue and white.
iv.
capture me
in the cloudy
isles of
the bright
lilies,
i am the melting
light, the frail
bloom with its
zen-like peace,
church of quiet
air, hopeful stream
of ache and light.
v.
ghost-enamels
of impression,
silently, the sun
sinks and the golds
of spring blossom
like a spell.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC
I gaze at his famous painting,
A lily pond for reflecting,
His focus for serenity,
His gift of tranquillity,
So, thank you, Monet, for your legacy........
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
i.
under a flaming bridge
blue islands,
sky-stream of
light, as the tranquil
waters unfold,
dream of
visionary seers
and haunted rooms.
gold sun running
like a tide,
pads of echoing cloud,
reflections like
mirrors on
the hollowy
water.
ii.
oil on canvas
pond of daydream,
water wrapped in love
and flower.
sunken, bird of grey
wire, fallen stone,
rippling ghost.
iii.
flower of ghost,
ink lady of sapphire
melting and sinking
like lanterns
in a chine,
where the night
wanders and the stars
lean against the sky.
iv.
watery isle,
rivery summer golds,
trembling pond,
flower of the dragonfly
flower of white sun.
v.
shadows in the leaves
monet fire of gold,
strange indigos,
violet sky,
water-dragon of the pond
water-dragon of the flowers.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
i.
impressionist,
where the grey
clouds and the blue
ice of winter
gather their ghosts,
winter, too cold,
too white, the
woodland hollows
dent,
summer love
discarded in
the frost,
the sky oaken,
the moon’s forget-me-knots
silvery dream.
ii.
clouds like wintery steel,
sunken, in a night pool,
the golds of my heart,
the lodestar gathers
moss and rook,
glimmers in a sky
of woven cloth,
her leaves, the trees
of winter,
her leaves, the dark
breath of the storm.
iii.
winter and quiet stars
brooding emperor
sleeping in the twilight
hour,
winter dreams of
strange ice caverns
where ice ghosts
dance with twisting
hair.
iv.
pond of ice,
snow bear,
snow dream,
sleep unwraps
wide avenues of
trees,
sleep, the dark girl,
the falling tide.
v.
twig breaks under foot,
earth’s thrones
settle in the lizardy light
the moon rises in the sky,
soft centuries of sky.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
"Where is my Monet?", I say
As I look through the blurred vision of an impressionist day.
A double paned view of reality
Swaying beauty through eyes once knew.
Where is my Monet or be it Van Gough?
All beauty's vision framed newly printed Picasso.
Shadow me done, and once never knew
What others should have seen as they counted me too.
So now, I say no
Not of Van Gough nor Monet,
I see beauty no Rembrandt nor Picasso to sway.
I see a simple little girl with all she will need
To see the world lovely and in the midst of all, succeed.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.
The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!
I celebrate the intellects that created these.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
She stands outside my blooming heart
and draws my soul with messy hands
paint mixed with my blood and sweat
blurring all the lines
bending all the rules
And she's not Monet
but she doesn't remember my face anyway
I'm just a shadow in a crowd
and just a paint when we're alone
'cause the sunny afternoon
doesn't last forever
whenever
wherever
the wind will take us away
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
So potent was the resemblance,
so rich the imitation,
of meadows of wandering green,
with some red (tulips)
breaking through.
But careful not to chip the paint.
You drunkenly mistook the vivid
for the real. It was not real.
Here is the origin
of your sadness.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
A small skiff drifted in the harbor
guided by the eazy oars of a fisherman
standing in the hull to better view
the shimmering reflection
of the orange circle hovering overhead-
dancing with the gentle waves
in the morning mist.
Monet had to name it something
so he called it what it was:
"Impression, soleil levant."
A critic, wanting poison for his pen,
seized Monet's title to squeeze
a lethal dose into the radical veins
of the artist and his fellows of the gallery
(Renoir, Pissarro, Cezanne).
With scathing indignation
he dubbed the lot of them,
"Mere Impressionists."
The label endures (minus one word)
but how many recall or care to know
the righteous critic's name?
November, 2011
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
Blurry details,
milky scratches and old punctures,
charming wrinkles and spots of pure sun,
a human Monet of perceived flaws,
delicately tie together and blur to create new imagery,
a lush scenery of memory and choice,
a coveted masterpiece.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC