"caravaggio" poems
Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green
serpents.
Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her
skull.
Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****
immured her, hermetically sealed her within
that shield.
Her reflection was at once the face she
never saw...stoned, she...then beheaded.
I notice you've even painted the shield the
color of her serpentine locks.
Serpents registering her ontological shock--
retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd
curl here and there.
Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible
neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood,
almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side.
Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their
way out of stone, reconnect her head to her
body.
Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity
bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to...
explode out of her eyes.
Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the
pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama
to be continued.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
The artist evokes his tormented psyche
Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality
All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.
whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me
They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter
Royal
Baroque
Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist
I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
sand
cherry blossom
vintage clothing
poem
grass...
You Are These, My Love.
like a fairy
is like a dark-eyed Junco, twitter-pated in snowfall apocalypse
like a painter's palette, engrossed in the notion
of gone from me. like chocolate. a sun down
feathering our bed.
like water and thunder
blasting sand
through the blossom
of my cherished -
cherishing.
a
vintage
ache
clothing the naked risk
of my honest poesy.
like the grass roots of joy
fairly gaming the
opaque eye -
of some rara avis-
blinking outside Caravaggio
palette...
a
deep cocoa
of divine waters,
that flood the ludicrous
of your charms
like austerity
is plush
our heart's are vintage clothing
and we must.
what's a metaphor like ? do you simile -
the way I am a valentine ?
or do you
love
me
?
deluge
[ ? ]
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
The Poet is the language,the mystery of Monalisa's smile,
the brush of Caravaggio and the finest painting of Vangogh.
The Poet is the sonnet of Mozart anf the symphony of Bach,
a tragedy of Shakespeare and the saddest verse of Pablo Neruda.
The Poet is the blue Danube in waltz and the Swan Lake in Ballet.
The Poet is the renaissance of passion and the remnant of life,
the dilemma of morality,the shadow of deed,and the ombra of sin.
The Poet is the fantasy of each Sunrise and the illusion of every Sunset,
the wave in tide of wishes,carried in a bottle to dune drunk shore.
The Poet is the believer, dream lover in a hot passionate crazy affair,
the magician who creates fables and fairytales from a deadly reality.
The Poet is the worker who works and works to survive,to cope in this
demanding,sophisticated,stigmatic concrete hypocratic world.
The Poet is the thief of time,with eyes flutterin on late nights,
Still loyal to the pen,His thoughts in verse,bleedin fragranted words.
The Poet is an Omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn.
A Philosopher,whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom.
The Poet is an eternal slave of His Muse,the beverage of inspiration,
the spouse married to literature,adulterer of lyric,deceiver of prose.
He Knows no lapsus in all that is scandalous,royalty or sacred.
He is the artist, musician, actor,the clairvoyant of destined paths.
He is the cheap clay's mold,carved in the sculpture of the next century.
The Poet is the unfinished book,the chapter in yesterday,
He is the Nobody of today and the bookmark of tomorrow.
T H E POET IS YOU ! ! !
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
The young Musicians are at rehearsal...the ladies and the lords will soon gather in the music chamber...and Caravaggio's musicians will play them some music and sing them various songs...but first, they must rehearse...
The Musicians at Rehearsal
Let us continue…
Let me tune a little of this lute
while you peruse the notes
and you clear your throat
And what’s our Cupid doing?
Crushing grapes again between his teeth
Let us rehearse well
to render a song of softness
and ease and grace
A song of love
with sweet music
that will charm our guests
And we shall present it
in the private chamber
of honored lords and ladies -
and we shall sing like angels
and one of us will be as Cupid
dancing and flying as fancy takes him
Let us hurry now
though let us not forget polish
and pace and perfection…
come, let us again rehearse together
...and soon the ladies and the lords will arrive...and the musicians will perform and sing their songs of love, passion and sadness...
...and the ladies and the lords are seated in the music chamber...and Caravaggio's musicians play and they sing a song of love and passion...
Song of Love
O luscious Ladies
and brave Sirs
the clouds join
with one another
and the streams sing;
the birds sit amorous
on the branches
and the trees sway
while the flowers spread their scent
in the air
and the bees dance in a daze
ah, Ladies are made for men
and men for women
and each so shaped for perfect fits -
embrace then the lover beside you
O Sirs pick the red berries
on the lips of the luscious ladies;
and O lovely Ladies,
yield to the embrace
of the gallant beside you
and feel flowers bloom within -
for men are made for women
and women for men
and each so shaped for perfect fits
O embrace and kiss
dear luscious Ladies
and most accomplished Sirs
for Cupid seeks that you make love
and produce heavenly cherubim
who in turn, nights and days,
will make love like you do
now in this chamber of pleasures
...and so ends the first song...and the musicians prepare to sing one more for the charming ladies and the elegant lords...a song of sadness to end the night...
...the beautiful ladies and the lords want more from Caravaggio's musicians... the musicians are always glad to oblige..they sing their song of sadness, of loss and love...
O this ecstasy we call love
O this ecstasy we call love -
what is it?
why do we crave it
when there is such pain
that weighs on the body and heart?
O this joy we call love -
what is it?
why do we fall
when there is so much deceit
and betrayal?
why do we love
when there are lies
and hidden motives?
O this curse called love -
it has dried my heart out
and my being is smeared
as cloth with oil and grime;
my best times have been taken away
and there is left only
contempt and scorn
and derision…
O this darkness we call love -
what is it?
why do we still move to it
even as it teases us
and leaves us broken
and forlorn?
...and it is time to go...and the ladies and lords bow and they depart...some depart hand in hand...silent...some depart alone, sad and contemplative...
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
I always hated art.
as a kid, the forty-five minutes
every ******* Friday and Wednesday was
excoriating. even though
the other kids adored
fondling their fingers through paint
swatches, it just wasn't for me.
until I met you, my muse and my
canvas, your shuddering skin a
cream tableaux for my
lust to reimagine
pointillism cubism impressionism
le renaissance haut
in scratches and bites and
streaks of saliva criss-crossing
goosebumped skin.
I always hated art.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.
But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.
Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
All that will remain is bones and rotting meat
Toss it in a cheap wicker box for worms to eat
Topped just with wild flowers and no cement
Plant a weeping willow instead of a monument
It can do the weeping, please don't you cry
There is a chance that I'll be busy when I die
For if I am wrong and there is life after this
I have plans with whom I'll dine and reminisce
I'll be dining with Oscar Wilde and Caravaggio
Cocktails and conversation with Kant and Plato
Then with Bellini, Verdi and Rossini I'll take a Show
An interval tipple and discourse with Rousseau
An after party with Bakunin and Proudhon
Whisky and blues with Howlin Wolf til I'm gone
I shall breakfast the next day with Tz'u Hsi, Homer and Malcolm X
And take morning coffee with Gandhi and Marc Bolan from T.Rex
At noon a spicy ****** Mary with Mary Queen of Scots,
Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed, Picasso and lots of tequila shots
Lunch that day with Saladin, Karl and Groucho Marx
Then smoke a pipe with Newton whilst discussing quarks
Afternoon tea with Queen Victoria, Kipling and Colin Ward
Followed by a game of Tafl with a viking on a giant board
Dress for flamenco with Carmen Amaya (then dress the blisters)
Then pre-dinner drinks paid for by Geronimo and the Bronte sisters
So you see, if I'm wrong
And we actually move along
A fascinating after life awaits me
Yeah, when I'm gone from here
There'll be plenty gin and beer
Cucumber sandwich's and tea
If you wonder what I'm doing
Give your watch a quick viewing
Then just check this poem and you'll see
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM 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
Inspired by Caravaggio's Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness
Repent!
in my dreams
Repent!
in my waking
Repent!
in the crunch of every locust I eat
Repent!
in the sands of my resting place
Repent!
in the dust on my feet
I asked
What shall I cry
in this wilderness so vast?
What shall I sing
to Jordan’s banks?
Repent!
The voice answered,
and it rang in my ears,
and it rolled through my bones,
and at once I understood my father’s fear.
The voice of the LORD
is not a dessert rose,
but a knife
cutting ego from its sinew.
The voice left my father dumbfounded.
The same gave me words to speak.
Repent!
in my step
Repent!
in my breathing
Repent!
swimming in my tired eyes
Repent!
in the water I bury them in
Repent!
resonating each fiber of life
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Twas there they convened
framed by a doorway
a triangular composition
with gods light shining
on their grey and balding heads.
an oratio ad contemplatio
of an evening.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
every breath tastes
rancid on my tongue;
fun fact, if all you eat is
raspberry yogurt and
hypersaturated strawberries,
your ***** looks like
Jackson ******* plus
Picasso's Rose Period.
has anyone ever told you
that drunk texting you is like
standing in front of a Caravaggio;
it's dusky and dark and sensuous and I
******* adore getting lost in
translation. Cezanne draws solely in
molecular geometry, tetrahedral,
trigonal pyramidal, octahedrons
scrawled across the canvas and doused
in living color. Thursday night already
seems so intangible,
a bad dream that didn't dice up my liver
like a ******* sous chef. Thursdays
have come and gone, the weekends
ever-beckoning, and the scent of Smirnoff
stays in my sinuses.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
I wish I could run to end of the cosmos
Just reach the reluctant intellectuals
Just so I could catch a glimpse of them ducking out of the limelight
I wouldn’t bother asking them
It wouldn’t do any good
They wouldn’t have much to say
They’d be a bit focused sticking to their morals
And criticizing the museums
Tell them to open up just a little bit
So that way everyone could rush in
Empty canvas in hand
Or typewriters
Or a marble slab waiting for them
They’d rush in
Bringing a beautiful fire to everything else
Explaining themselves to Matisse and Greco
Mona Lisa and Caravaggio would understand though
At least I think so
Van Gogh laughing in utter delight
The fire would burn all the glitz and convention
But all the passion
Emotion
Angst
Uncontemplated beauty would shine brighter than ever before
Some observers would go insane
Climbing up to the top of skyscrapers
Jumping off
Screaming, on their way down
DUCHAMP
Conning the police out of their guns
Putting it to their head
Walking into the middle of the street
Welcoming the buses with open arms
And I know you want to save those people
But it’s not up to you
We’ll see them again someday
Hopefully they’ll understand it then
Don’t cry for them, though
Look at all the others
Running through the streets
Naked
Without shame
Greeting their friends from so many years ago
As they stand in front of Rothko and he looks into both of their eyes
And they stare back trying to let themselves be encircled
With smiles
That shine like halos
As they look at their sisters
Without lust
And with compassion
While they express their enthusiasm for jazz
And sing as loud as trumpets
Dancing as fast as a piano
I’m finished crying for the dinosaurs
Or feeling guilty for Christ
I jump into the smile of the moon
I spread my arms wide open in front of the sun
Just to let him know that he’s welcome
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:06 AM UTC
paint on callused fingertips,
paint dyeing German beer,
paint flickering fluttering trembling
across bare canvas skin as you
finesse, ink and watercolor at your
whim while you work. you are no
Caravaggio, much more a Gentileschi,
but Michelangelo himself would be
awed by your radiance, the subtle
art of your face and
brushstrokes of your curves,
spine sinuous undulating while you
dance for him.
I've been begging for you
to tell me something new for
months upon months, to tell me
that you are not the same,
that you cannot stand me,
that "I love you" was the Great Lie;
but you will not no never
you're too good for something so
base as hate or someone so
base as me but
you're still here and I
love you
and hate myself for it.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
"you may keep small electronic de-
vices on, but please make sure all
cellular capabilities are
switched off."
then they switch off the cabin lights,
and I am here in the dark, iPod assaulting
my eardrums as iPhone assaults
my retinas. this is
How It's Meant To Be
me and my ephemeral avarice, my
electronic yearning;
Bethany Cosentino is crooning, a
private concert for one, I wish
Allen Ginsberg was my boyfriend;
the other boy isn't like me, he's
prettier but that's nothing
new is it?
of course, Ginsberg is dead and also
forgotten, by and large; same for
D. H. Lawrence, Caravaggio, Joan d'Arc,
all those I drew upon for my Wilde
persona. there is only
me now, and I am
alone.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
love come in many colors
an illusory hope arching
across the sky
a rainbow ending in broken
promises and tears
love seen through a prism
is only an optical deviation
a foolish man's perspective
of love's true value
love is painted in shades
of monochrome
a chiaroscuro image of
Caravaggio's brush
love is black and white
colors having no hue
love absorb and reflected
nothing but an incidental light
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
Like western ice melting and pooling into puddles
filled with crimson Caravaggio blood.
You moved your hands like I was something porcelain,
something breakable.
The sheets became giant waves filled with debris and pollution
crashing against sea glass and lime stone,
and you still thought I was something incredible,
something unreal.
The walls creaked and breathed while the room heated,
filled with secrets and Christmas lights
that dimly lit nothing but shadows and silhouettes,
and you still thought I was something crystal,
something beautiful.
The marks and scars and memories caught my throat
suffocating my face under layers of empty pages
and water stained notebooks,
and I thought I was something untouchable,
something tainted.
And you laughed and ground palm against cheek, mortar against pestle
and I smiled and thought you were something extraordinary,
something honest.
So more like snow dissolving
into the depths of bottomless oil wells, I blinked
and disappeared into something dangerous,
something wonderful,
something real.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
Smiling eyes
In sensuous touch
Of naked sound
Taste mysterious pulses
Imprisoned yet unbound
Spangled light reflected
Colors that pierce the ground
While echoes of
Forgotten brush strokes flutter
Like a thousand birds all around
One moment, this moment
This scene, Oh! this freedom
Holding in the artists tender touch
The promise of a lifetime
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
She never once asked why
I keep the twisted rosewood stick
or if it holds significance.
Or why Flann O'Brien's
"At swim two birds." has a place
by itself on the shelf.
She never understood my love
of jazz, metal or classical music
or wondered why
Hieronymus Bosch and Caravaggio prints
are in the hall.
She once said I should get rid of them all
"They don't match the décor."
She never understood the humour
of Leonard Cohen,
nor appreciate the raw beauty
of a Bukowski poem;
claimed they were just ***** old men.
She couldn't fathom why
I am drawn to decrepit ruins
or could spend hours just walking
without a destination.
She never will comprehend my love
for the ghostly hue of twilight.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
Out of the ashes I rise;
Blistered limbs, scalded eyes
Like Venus, born at sea
And arrive at shore underneath olive trees.
The rekindling of the fire has set me free- but Zephyrus' wind blows at me.
I Athena and you the Centaur;
You long to hold me, but I carry the Halberd.
I am a creature of reason and wisdom
And You, the outsider of my Kingdom.
And so the only right conclusion is hatred: malice as sharp as Caravaggio and Baglione.
So descend back into Oblivion, Lucifer
For those that abuse, will suffer.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
Rafael was deaf.
Those colors were only
Depth shadows
He heard
When his brushes
Sang quietly
Every morning.
Caravaggio was mute.
And thus he
Could not
Sing along
With Rafael's brushes
On those
Oily mornings.
Funny how their paintings sing to us.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 7:46 AM UTC
"Amor Vincit Omnia
(Love conquers all)"
M. Caravaggio
He said: Turn back the drapes,
this requires an early
morning light....
He said: How rare...that pervasive
primary color.
He said: There was dew left on the
skin from the bath.
He said: I have painted holy men!
He said: The brush wasn't wet
enough.
He said: Notice that triangle of sable
below the navel? A difficult
color...
He said: I never saw Matthew and
Paul like this.
He said: There's no mistaking his
aura.
He said: Turn more to the right.
He said: If I were a woman--
I would love him too.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 7:56 AM UTC
the intermediate state of art from one innovative orientation pinpointed to the next is plagiarism, and the output of this intermediate state is colossal, although back in the day, it would have been called schooling, like the school of painting that might have produced a pseudo-caravaggio x10 in number for a marquis dumbflou, a don quichehot, a tsar ukuleleitch, a baron einsbach etc etc. well you can’t expect everyone to own an original caravaggio, can you?
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC