"botticelli" poems
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*
Shall I compare thee...
...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.
or
...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.
or
…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.
or
…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.
or
…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.
or
… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.
© Sia Jane
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Look here. I've been admiring the spectacle
of Ng’s bare **** Yes,
this is simply because I have to say
Ng’s bare **** is magnificent.
It’s not a bouncing Botticelli but it’s
a slim, firm bottom, subtly rounded,
real split peach and cream stuff.
And Ng at the other end
is a real nice girl, too!
She's my friend, see?
But back to Ng’s bare **** Let's stay focused.
I contemplate this vision,
along with the meaning of life,
quite often in broad daylight
with a slash of sunlight across her little buns.
This is more profound than the Tait, the Louvre,
the Met, the Frick, the Neue, the Helly, the Hermitage or even
the Natty Portrait Gallery all bunged in together.
Ng's bare **** is also better, by far,
than anything you'll see at the Bolshoi or La Scala.
I’m amazed at how much I’m amazed by
this work of art. It’s awesome.
And I betcha the most famous galleries would
fall over themselves to display this finest little **** that is,
if the world wasn't so hung up with hypocrisy and hysteria,
yeah, it'd be heaps more famous than the Mona Lisa.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
I love you, as a saint
with an aureole of gleaming autumn-burnt hair
an ecstatic shining and bright as the sun,
spilling forth with holy oil
with the face of a white-rose angel from Botticelli's brush,
with the heart of a tar-black demon, a serpent in the fiery bush,
a heavy pink blossom all dripping with honey
a sinuous and serpentine moth-silk scarf, fluttering in the summer air.
and I love you, loving and knowing that
I love you, as a painter
loves a streaked and bright tempura paint
here, sun-kissed as a yellow flower today,
revealing its thin translucent colours the next
and I love you, as one can only love
another who can only love a mirror
whether one made from moon-struck volcanic glass
or drawn from the lips of another.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
There's a painting by Botticelli
I've always loved,
showing Venus being born naked
from the ocean and
not fearing the current.
Those around her renounce her body,
scrambling to clothe her,
turn her virginal,
contain the way her eyes cross galaxies,
shine all the way to Pluto.
But she is soft, unwavering,
not noticing the mortals' concern
about her *******
and bare collarbone that could catch water
at its base.
I found you halfway across the world on the steps of the Uffizi
and in the 3 hours it took you
to show me some of the best art on earth,
I was transfixed only
on the orbits of planets in your eyes.
Shortly before the sun set,
you took me through the secret corridor
Cosimo de' Medici built to walk across the
rooftops of the city
where you kissed me but
told me you didn't believe in love,
that all you needed was art,
and Michelangelo,
and in that moment
I saw Venus in your collarbone.
Saw a shell under your feet,
saw the universe in the way your freckles connected,
saw how you immortalize yourself
among the rest of the art in Florence
so no human can bring you down to earth,
can make your heart stop,
show you what it's like to cross timezones
with a single touch.
And here I am,
wanting to be your Botticelli,
to paint the uneven slope of your shoulders,
the crookedness of your right ankle,
your fear of exposing yourself to someone
who could love you.
It must be lonely out there, Venus,
on your little fishing boat by the sea.
Botticelli's painting was found
long after his death,
laid into the floor of
an abandoned villa in the south of Tuscany.
Venus looking lost and mortal
between cracked paint and chipping walls,
like the way you hide between
the dusty statues of the dead statesmen and fading portraits
long after the museum closes,
just you with only history to hold.
You want to believe in love
as past-tense,
like you've lost faith in present participles and the fact
that art is still being made,
and people are running barefoot into future conjugations
together.
Don't come back to land, Venus. Vanessa.
I won't be here waiting with a towel
or an art critic
or a spaceship.
But maybe,
just make a little room for me on your shell
under the sun,
atop steady waves or Florentine rooftops.
Throw the map overboard.
Let's forget the shore.
And Michelangelo and the rest of them
will smile as they see us off.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Y ahora qué haré, si tú no estás.
En el espejo te desvaneciste.
Qué haré, si ya no estás. Cómo encontrarte.
Fui a la agencia de viajes.
Dije: «Un billete». «¿Para dónde?»
«Para dónde ha de ser». (Me comprendieron enseguida).
«Mucho tiempo esperó», dijeron enigmáticos.
Volví a casa cantando, recobrada
la vida. Me miré al espejo.
Tú ya no estabas. Comprendí.
Ahora qué voy a hacer. Sin ti quién puede
recobrar lo soñado, lo perdido: Venecia
de vidrio rosa, Roma con cabellos de fuentes.
Florencia y Siena, Nápoles y Pisa,
Botticelli, Giotto, Tiziano, cipreses y palacios,
canales, Miguel Angel, frutos, palomas, Donatello
qué van a ser sin ti, si eras tú quien les dabas
vida, sentido, magia.
Llegaré -a veces gusto
imaginar que en el crepúsculo-
a no sé que ciudad. Consultaré la Guide Blue
y, ...Esta es la prueba. ¿Quién puede acercarse
después de tanto amor, a un gran amor,
sin alma, sin amor, es decir, solo con los ojos?
«Un billete» diré. Preguntarán para dónde.
«Para un lugar que yo invente
y tal vez ya no existe. Par mirarme en un espejo
que reflejo mi vida cuando no estaba yo
y al que me acerco ahora
cuando no puede devolver mi imagen».
Y entenderán por qué lo digo.
1.7k
Behind the sweetie shop,
under the reproductions,
Leonardo, Botticelli -
Dark haired girl in shorts
hides the softness of a rabbit in her heart.
And across the stone wall,
love is riding a
borrowed bike.
- From the grey as sky jackets,
From the strange eyes...
I'll remember you
Cinnamon, dandelions and rain.
Sundays silently glittering walls.
Dark haired girl in shorts
drinks coffee and herds dusty tones.
And across the stone wall -
summer street
and souls bound.
- From the trembling fingers,
From the hats -
I'll remember you
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
If I could draw or
Paint or sketch,
Or sculpt or even
******* embroider,
My self-portrait
Would be titled
Cliché, Bright Eyed Girl,
Girl Who’s Falling
For ‘The Bad Boy,’
Girl who Doesn’t
Stand a Chance:
Girl Self-Involved in Petty Problems.
I’d be a surrealist
I’d befriend Zelda Fitzgerald
In Paris, then the clinic:
A sad clown face
So eager and fragile,
Drooping low,
Fair, but not the fairest
Dripping, melting,
Like those clocks, or something
into a dream,
Where I, a Botticelli,
Venus,
You, a Gonzo trip
And you’d press into
My soft full hips
With nicotine stained fingers.
A bee coating the peony,
Such slick pollen
From past flights of fancy:
You linger for the most succulent taste.
I’d trace the ink of your tattoos,
They lay beneath your skin.
I’d crawl down there too,
Pushing up against your veins.
With the crest of a wave,
We’d crash together,
Golden silk surrounding us:
Coming
Out of the foam.
Then I come back,
Back into the frame:
A sad little girl,
Face lowered,
Unruly hair shadowing her face,
While you look past,
Walking away in the foreground.
But I can’t paint,
Draw, sculpt, whatever.
I’m no Dali.
Just like I
Can’t make you
Fall, fall, fall,
into a cliché,
In love
With me.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
2nd to rise, she enquires
you ready for coffee?
it's only 6:22am
if you're having, I'm having...
she quiet disappears
thinking coffee's coming,
when to this layabout,
it occurs,
she's making
coffee in the ****
get up, make myself presentable,
track her,
the coffee aroma pulsating,
radar signal emitting
sure enough,
coffee in the ****
grinding, dripping...percolating
but what I see is
contrast and
definition
appliance white
stainless
steel chrome gleaming,
walnut wood cabinetry warming in
Vermeer sunlight window in-streaming,
a Chagall and Botticelli duet,
freshly filtered
thru a Manhattan sky
and flesh,
freshly filtered
flesh
is not a Crayola color,
or
if it is,
it's more a spectrum,
than a single shade
but this moment morning
flesh is more realized,
as if recognized for the first time,
by a newborn old timer,
who senses the
comprehension tension of circumspection
circumcised differentiation,
flesh knowledge gradation gained
this poem,
a first attempt at
painting a ****
in words
appreciating task enormity,
for there are currently
insufficient words,
too many striations,
all cannot be straitjacketed to the
vocabulary palette
this then,
but my first definition of many,
of
flesh
so many canvasses,
so many undiscovered shadings
awaiting
****** recognition definition,
composition
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
alessandro
botticelli said
let there be venus
(said
let there be you.)
you
running your hands down your own curves
blind;
the mirrors are all broken here.
it doesn’t matter
if you want this.
i want this
dotted i
(crossed t)
wants this
****
is this, for instance.
a pear:
bruised
muscled like
holy breaststhighs
completely inmoving
(outmoving)
breathe—
celebrate
the words
going upward to the sky and the
strawberry-red hair cascading down
it hungers
(like you)
to touch my back
gently
curl around my shoulders like your cold fingers in January
**** not
skeletal.
let there be
me.
let there be—here is where
the words stop mattering to me—
let there be caramelchocolate skin of sunlit honey tint
melting into itself on the wooden floor
(we all
scream
for ice cream)
titian and
anadyomene me
wringing long wet
raven hair
my legs are covered in salt
sand
once the sea goes dry.
almond eyes
upturned
(angular)
marvel at your own geometry.
lips of salome
drawn upward into a not-yet-smile
(cherubic)
to the women who give their thin
pale bodies
to muscular men with perfect
arms to hold them down:
i am for you.
i
with my
******* that blossom at your winter touch
my thighs
scarred by ivory teeth—no.
i
with
******* in full bloom
(orchids)
thighs sculpted by
God himself
don’t you want to make love to me?
doesn’t the world
want to make
love?
love that tastes
more metallic than the blood behind my lips
don’t you want to bite it out?
taste the sweetness behind them?
run your hands over
the elysian fields of my thighs
and the valley between them
don’t you want
my legs slung over your shoulders
don’t you want
your tongue
on my vast skin
sweat made of sugar
and salt.
(bittersweet)
you want
lips crashed against yours like
w
a ves
eyelashes sweeping your cheeks
you want
don’t you want
me
**** with nothing to cover me but my
blanket of raven hair
for immodesty’s sake!
perhaps
i am (is) small.
but
the mirrors are all broke}n here
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
I barely remember,
When we get together?
How it start?
Did you just get inside?
Maybe I was expecting your arrive
I don’t know, I might be losing my mind
Whatever it was, it’s a fact that you came
And without a word you stay
We didn’t had a night
But thousands of mornings instead
Then I name you my spring
Like the one that Botticelli paint
You became my muse
You were my truth
And even when you left
You remain in my heart
What should I do now that you’re gone?
I’m growing old
And suddenly there’s no more words to describe
All the goodness you are
What should I said?
I never told you “stay”
Until now that you’re not the same
It's a shame, I guess
And who I am?
If not a fool with a worthless claim?
‘Cause even if I need you every day
There’s nothing for what to cry
When you walked away
You didn’t know
All the nonsenses I can’t shut up anymore
Words that would have meant before.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
Miss Haversham has shaken
off the cobwebs and the deadly dust.
tore down the tattered curtains
moth-eaten and frayed
She’s flung open the windows
thrown away the detritus of decay
into the path of passing winds
napery tossed down to the garden.
Even the mice have run for cover
as she tears off the raggedy sheds
of stained satin and be-ribboned lace.
She stands naked in the barren room
Estella has prepared a soothing bath
perfumed rich with oils and fragrant attars
to steal the acris stench of unwashed years
coaxing the arid brittle crust away
saving the soft delicate skin beneath
viciousness, sloughed smooth
and vengeful purpose passes.
She is reborn a Botticelli Venus
standing in an open shell
long hair shining and wrapping around
her creamy skin, voluptuous
curvaceous, slippery with life
newborn yet wiser for the years
of reflection, ready to deflect
romantic nonsense and live
free and breathe again.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
Like Winston Smith,
I think it’s time to start a diary.
Follow me now: it’s April in Oceania,
The cruelest month,
The silly season, printemps,
A regular I see London, I see France.
I see Winston’s Underpants.
If you catch my drift?
La Primavera: Vivaldi’s rocking the
Juke box and the vote, Botticelli’s painting,
A mural on Jerusalem's wailing wall.
My diary will be hard evidence of thought crime.
Thought crime: one of the more severe varieties of
Religious experience & the most psychotic form of mental illness,
In a category known as antisocial personality disorders.
Thought crime means never getting into any serious trouble,
Until you’re caught, can we at least agree on that?
So, we'd better add the DSM to our stack of essential literary classics.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Published by the American Psychiatric Association,
Providing a common language,
A shrink’s Esperanto.
DSM-IV codes classify mental disorders.
The DSM: a Frommer’s travel guide &
User’s manual for life on planet Earth.
So, like Orwell's Winston, I start a diary of my own; but
Unlike Mr. Smith, I address my message to the here &
What’s happening now, not the future, not the past but
N-a-zayer, N-a-zither NOW.
That's right, I write for the present:
“If thought was ever free, it is not free now."
If truth exists it is a closely guarded secret,
Although McLuhan’s observations hide in plain sight:
*“The new electronic interdependence, recreates
The world in the image of a global village.”*
Which makes us all global village idiots.
We are no longer different from one another;
The age of groupthink is here.
I write to you from an age of security & surveillance,
Warrantless search and predator drones,
An age where no man is ever truly alone.
From an age of standardization, replaceable parts,
Whirling dervishes, dabblers in spin control,
Newspeak and doublespeak,
Atlas shrugged, drugged and fugged,
The new world order:
All but the faint of heart need apply, …
"I send greetings.”
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
The violence of roses tangled
In redolent blooms throughout her hair.
“Forgive me,” Venus said to herself,
As she struggled with the piercing layers.
She parted her tangled strands
Like the turbulent sea had parted her shell,
Within this brume around curly waves
Of blood and blonde so frail.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
I didn't have the right shirt on so she sent me home to change into something more appropriate because the people throwing the party were a little bit more than just well-to-do and I did because I generally don't like to argue but my second choice was no better than the first so I left again and then once more until she was exasperated enough to let my apparel go even though I was still less than presentable and I followed her through room after cavernous room adorned with Botticelli and Goncharova, way too expensive furniture, cutting edge electronics wired to speakers that screamed "nah nah na nah nah to ground trembling base until finally we emptied out into acres and acres of back yard where there were scores of people milling about and a pet killer whale swimming around that would occasionally rise up out of the water to splash guests to their amusement, sometimes grabbing one of them by the leg or arm and gently pulling them down to the bottom before releasing them and back up they would come to break the water gasping and giggling which tickled those wandering about but I didn't get what was so funny at all so my face was that of consternation which in hindsight might have been that last straw because she was looking at me, not with the smile she once had of someone completely enamored and enthralled but instead, her countenance was that of someone entirely perturbed and she certainly was with my piss-poor etiquette, lack of insight and my rather limited wardrobe and it was just then that that whale rose up and crashed down again sending a massive wave that totally enveloped us making me realize in an instant that she might have been right about my shirt, for mine was made of silk and certainly it would have been better to be sporting nylon or rayon or, at least, something as wrinkle resistant as polyester for she still looked quite perfect smiling back plastic at the raucousness of those watching and I knew then that I wouldn't be seeing these people at the next big party which weighed on me more heavy than that wet shirt and the loss of her crushed me more than if that mighty mammal had landed on my chest but, oddly enough, when I awoke from that dream, it was with a lightness of relief finding myself lucid again in a world for which I am far better suited.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
He makes me feel beautiful. Not Vogue beautiful that can be washed away with soap and water. No, he makes me feel Botticelli angel beautiful. Venus de Milo. Starry Night... He makes me feel like art in his private gallery. He looks at me with all the wonder and amazement children have before the world turns them cold. I am a fairy tale and all his wishes come true. A fine wine to be savored; taking in all my subtle notes with each sip his eyes take of me...
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
your hair
reminds me
of a storm
in Ireland
you face
reminds me
of Botticelli's
Venus
Your eyes
remind me
of unsolved
mysteries
Your lips
remind me
of stolen
kisses
Your smile
reminds me
I am still
alive
~mce
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
He had been working for days
A simple man
With rough hands
An eye for beauty that rivaled
Botticelli's
Dukes and Duchesses had paid well
For flattering statuary that would
Live on in granite repose
Chisel and hammer tapped away
Sweat poring his brow
He worked in silence
Though the square below him
Played the symphony of daily life
It was his hands that listened for him
He may have been born deaf but cherished he was
Treasured
By a woman who could have no more
God's gift she had prayed for
Then thanked for every day after
He knew the story
Lived her gratitude
As he finished the final curve
Placing tools on the side table
He stood back to survey his work
Realizing it was his greatest piece yet
For it was the brightest memory
Of his mother
In her face he saw God's grace
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
Botticelli
Bottomed
Breast-pink cheeked
cherub
Hors-D'oeuvring
Hallowed
Wisps of
Wondrously
Mellifluous
Muscat
Bouqueyed
Babybreath
Sucklescented
Sweetmeat
Creases
Gloved in
Globs of
Bubbarind
Probing
Puckish
Pudgy
Dimpled
Digits
Touch
Timeless
Truth in
Humankind
January 26th 1990
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Queen,
I am.
My crown may not adorned with the largest sapphires and the most sparkling diamonds
Silver or gold or rose or platinum
Crookedly a top my head
It may possess bumps and caverns, the ones in my road
No Michelangelo and no Botticelli
Just essentially me, melted down by fire and molded by ambition and brain.
You may doubt and question,
Resurrection of the inquisition
(Do we sit under the Barcelona sky?)
But under the eyes of your God,
I am truthful always
To myself.
a broken promise is a crack in the earth so please keep your feet
Because I promise you
I am a queen and I bow
To nothing
But what I wish
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
TN 2008
There is a girl in my cabin.
She sits on my 70s brown, velour
porno-couch with her long legs
tucked beneath her
like folded promises.
She wears nothing but a pair
of wool socks and an old, flannel
shirt of mine. The wood fire blazes.
Her honest blond hair
cascades to the small of her lovely back.
Her skin is the flawless pink
of an unexpected spring sunrise.
Her eyes are emeralds that blaze
like novas when we make love.
Botticelli might have painted her.
I am reading Harrison to her aloud.
She imbibes his words like a toddler
learning language for the first time.
I light her cigarette and she laughs,
radiating the shameless pleasure
only the very young experience.
She expects nothing of me,
but this one evening,
and that is all she will get.
She tells me her name;
she is all of twenty-one.
Perhaps I am a ***** old man;
perhaps I am incorrigible;
perhaps I will burn in Hell;
perhaps I am a casualty of Eros;
or, perhaps, I am simply
still alive.
- mce
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
If you were Any Other Girl......
I wouldn't be writing this
If you were Any Other Grl......
All of these thoughts that stumble around my head like drunk men trying to find their way home wouldn't exist
And I say drunk men because it's easy to understand sober men
Yet these thoughts seem inexplicably intricate....
If you were Any Other Girl......
I'd be able to decipher all of these emotions and realize that after seven drafts of a poem I should probably give up on trying to explain that if I could I would nail my hands to the very stars themself if only it would give me a tongue crafted of pure gold....
Maybe then I'd be able to explain to every passing stranger how I can see a masterpiece in your very smile
If you were Any Other Girl.....
I wouldn't stumble over wanting to kiss you
If you were Any Other Girl.....
I wouldn't want to brush your hair back slowly, acting like a walking cliché in the desperate hope that your smile would inject my pitiful heart with enough courage to lean in and just be close to you
If you were Any Other Girl....
I would have kissed you a hundred times over
But you see the truth is that......
You're not Any Other Girl
You're gorgeous
Your smile seeps into me like water soaks into the parched land and gives it new life
Your hair seems to have a life of its own and I can't help but think that if you were Medusa's daughter, being turned into stone would be worth it because the last thing imprinted on my vision would be a walking artwork
And what I want you to know is that when you smile I feel the precious bud of bravery blossom within my chest
And I manage to convince myself that I will kiss the most beautiful girl I've ever had the privilege of knowing
Yet when confronted with a face as pure as a Mondrian painting
And more beautiful than a Vermeer or a Botticelli
Massive waves seem to form over me and I stand beneath behemoths of beauty and I laugh.....as these waves crash over me
My inconsequential bravery is washed away in the face of your beauty as I realize for the first time that this girl is....... worth the frustration
She is worth the wait
Worth the energy
Worth the embarrassment of letting an awkard attempt at a kiss melt into a more awkward hug....
But the simple truth is.....
You are not Any Other girl
You.
Are.
Worth.
The.
Journey.
And I can not wait to savour as much of it as I can with you
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
Kate Larson, Carol Ulverness--
19-year-old goddesses
I knew at college:
beauty so inward and effortless--
like Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus"--
that that of even the most celebrated actresses and models
seems to be contrived and self-conscious.
Like all of us, they're in their 40's now--
I wonder what they're like. . . .
Does some inner flame
still illuminate their faces and bodies?
Or were they flowers--
whose petals now have faded and fallen?
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC