"donatello" poems
Leaving Minnesota on train or buses,
crowded and alone, were you fearful
to sleep on couches and of the Village
people with a rhapsody of dreams
and cacophony of chords, under rain
and sewer stank was it hard,
to step inside and play
the first time for glistening eyes
and stage lights and to let melody
escape your belly-throat
for them, or did you know
more, that words can sculpt
delicacy as smooth
as Donatello and that life can be bought
without wrinkled greens and pressed
threads? Walking under a hard-rain
of assumption and change, did Greenwich
birth a demon-sadness, so you hid
your neck beneath collars and dark
glasses and smoky rhyme, when the ship
comes in will you be onboard or escape
to Louisiana, misunderstood, working
a river boat after you give Lennon
a puff and Warhol a tight-fist?
Did sad-eyed Sara send you back
leather spanish boots or forget,
and was Christ able to mend that
broken love, and did you later kick his idiot
wind away and in 2009 on stage when I could
see emptiness and heartbreak
hidden underneath your creased stetson,
were you still singing
it ain't me, babe?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 8:26 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
Can we go back...to where life met laughter. To when love had more value than fame. To how we used to respect those who came before us. And family extend far beyond the limits of your doorsteps. Can I get back to a gap toothed smile and fill em in puzzles. To puff bread and pecan candy. To walking my hanging with the homies at Dunbar. Who want to go back to walking from Oak St to Wakefield. Playing ball at Centennial Park, East end community center and MLK Elementary. Somehow I've wipped away a lot of my memory, however, I'll never forget my homies playing their makeshift drum set and me winking at their sister behind their back. Childhood crushes right. I have erased dates and events but the way you all have influenced me is engraved in me like the chiseled details on Donatello sculptures. I just want to go.....
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
People talk about the strength of love
How nothing can beat it, in stories love
Is how the hero wins the day, saves the
Girl. People talk about how love heals
Or how madly there in love in someone
There is strength in love, I know about it
My love isn’t with a loved one though
My love is with a an adorable four year old
Who loves teenage mutant ninja turtles (Donatello
To be precise) who when I went to her birthday
Party she didn’t say hi at first
But a simple moment of watching cartoons
Made the love bloom
At first I was none the wiser, the party went
On everyone left save a few, we heard “hey
She’ll go to bed if you cuddle and watch” so
Her mom left but quickly came out again
“She wants you” and quick as that a love
Began with a lovable little blondie sitting
In my lap passed out
Now when push comes to shove and I feel
Like I’m breaking, I think about that moment
I’m not giving up I tell myself, I push myself
Off and dust the dirt off
They saying nothing is stronger than love
And it’s true, but when you have
The strength of a little girl driving
You, you become down right
Invincible
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Hand on my bare thigh
Dig your nails in my cold skin
Turn me into clay
I want to be your masterpiece
A work of art discovered
Under the sheets.
Michelangelo sculpted with his hands
But sculpt me with your lips
Leave kisses on my neck in the outline
Of Donatello's St. George
And don't leave a piece of me untouched
Our private exhibit
Darling, mold me.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
*We are clay in the hands of Donatello
Waiting for our role
With hopes of one day becoming whole
To receive knowledge voraciously and to grow
To harden and weather in Summer sun
To serve as a reminder for our future
sons
To embody them with the spirit to carry on* ....
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
The Artist
I need a Muse.
Do you think it could be you?
Can you pick up a paint brush
And show me what you can do?
I need a painter of portraits;
To fill in the gaps inside my head.
I need a Goddess of Love,
To notice the stuff I write in my bed.
I need an Artist, who is simply magnificent,
A breath-taking vision, who is simply Heaven sent.
I need an Angel to paint me a Picasso,
Of my poetry in pieces, before I end up like Van Gogh.
Slightly impaired by deafness, I guess.
Going grey now; thank you stress.
Hi Mona, how’s Rembrandt?
He’s been seen drinking in a bar,
With someone called Cezanne?
Call Michelangelo; Donatello will have a plan.
Leonardo’s busy with his inventions,
But here comes Raphael.
Turtle Power! Hi Master Splinter.
Do you have your easel and paints ready,
To see you through the winter?
Paint me a story
And I’ll write you a picture.
I think if the two of us worked together,
What I see, to you, could become much clearer.
Are you sat there looking for some inspiration?
Then read one of my poems, sing one of my songs;
Maybe then you could paint our creation.
Maybe then, I could write poetry about your art.
My vision brought to life,
With the gift of your care.
Paint a picture of us together,
So you will remember that I will always be there.
If you ever need some inspiration,
Just creep inside my mind for a little vacation;
An escape from reality, or from your personal Demon’s.
You will see we are all the same;
I have as many foibles as you do.
My heart belongs to any Woman who truly wants it;
But she hasn’t told me how she feels yet,
So I guess I can’t live without it.
But soon I will meet someone
And offer them my love;
Because an artist without inspiration,
Is like a poet who has never been in love.
Joyous tragedy! Shakespeare laughs,
As he tears apart love with just a couple of paragraphs.
Dead and gone! Not our fair Juliet.
If Romeo had just gone home instead,
He would have turned into a moody poet.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
I have fallen in his world so deep that i begun loosing the definition of mine. My goals and aims shatter to pieces, no not with his name written beside mine, i suddenly dismiss my grand future plans. How ... how in the name of the Mary herself would i imagine life once more without him. His eyes, angelic art donatello would define, his smile, a blessing to earth.
Many have not yet felt love they way i do, the way he loves me, little would understand , that the safest place on earth is between his arms, its when he holds me and whispers close ... i will never let you go, he would whisper again and again , i'd tell him ... i know .. but he would repeat once more.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
his eyes dripped melted diamonds
his words flowed like a stream of red wine
his physique sculpted by the hands of donatello
his skin was the finest silk of africa
he was a man of the world
made of the finest taste
and what can i say?
i was blown away.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
It’s ironic, huh? How when the small of your back is pressing into beige carpeting with those nail polish stains from that one experiment in the eighth grade, your rib cage suffocating you as your lungs expand like a party balloon animal, that that’s when you are your strongest? Your fingertips are cold and blue, your cheeks flaming as if you had tried to stick the sun under your tongue, but all the while you only feel a slight warmth coursing through your veins and a pleasant breeze on your thighs. Shrapnel and pieces of broken stucco plant themselves in your forehead, tilted up towards the crumbling cerulean ceiling, but it only feels like the light sprinkling of rain you used to try to gulp down for refreshment. It is ironic that when you falter, you lift your shoulders a bit taller. You feel like you are falling apart, limbs numb yet pricked and prodded as the whole world’s pincushion, but you are being rebuilt out of marble. When your mind’s scaffolding is collapsing, your face still keeps that slight smile in the corner of your mouth stained with berry lip shade. Everyone admires your genuine smile while you know that it was carved by Donatello himself, your torment hidden behind layers of compacted stone.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
.*michelangelo's david? the head's too big! he looks odd, even though the celebrated statue ranks higher in celebrated status... the real competition though: is between reimenschneider's adam & donatello's david... mind you... i can depose da vinci's mona lisa too! that smile is nothing by comparison to... the sculptor? anonymous... but the smile within the framework of the ****** & child (ivory, 14th century) louvre*, wipes mona lisa's smile cleanly off + the trouble of it being admired.
truly... you can own a beautiful garden,
plant as many flowers as you want,
and it will look grand...
the visual beauty the splendor...
but... what if you do not walk through
the same garden come the magnum
opus of early night during the summer,
say 11pm through to 12:30am?
all that visual beauty is not worth it...
you have walked through the garden
blind-folded: even though you can see...
why?
at night the garden becomes alive...
it starts to breathe!
and mein gott! what sweet exhalation!
flowers look pretty during the day,
and that's all they do: look pretty...
but come the night they open their pores
and release what they were harvesting
throughout the day using nothing
but sunlight and water...
the most pristine perfume house
in all of man's history...
even the humble flowers like pansies...
and if you happen to have garlic, roses,
mint, rosemary and thyme growing in
your garden... the scents are intoxicating...
perhaps the hanging gardens of
babylon existed,
but my humble garden is enough
to not unwish the myth...
a garden is truly a garden at night...
for an hour or so the flowers give off
what they were always supposed
to give off: their scents...
which will forever surpass their
visual beauty...
a garden is planted to be walked
in at night...
by day the flowers are like all
other creatures... busying themselves...
well: if not fruit? what else can a flower
give? a perfume...
but not during the day...
you can only really walk in this perfumery
at night... esp. early night...
come 11pm in the july in england.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
From the corner of my eye,
I watched.
I noticed the way you lean in your chair,
The way you laugh like a storm in a drought.
Tilting your head back just enough,
Your bottom jaw protrudes,
Displaying your sharp chin.
You grin wide like the skies parting,
And closing your eyes,
Your shoulders shake like thunder.
You rain in drops of iridescence
That douse the fires in my arid attentiveness.
At the dawn of our day,
When I first began to know you,
Drinking too much,
Smiling at our fitful hands,
You carved out a piece of my being
And interred it within yourself.
This is not a complaint though.
I would give you every ounce of me,
Carved into whatever shapes suit your desires,
Whittling away at myself
With all the craftsmanship of Donatello.
With this piece,
You possess me completely
Everywhere you go.
Now you stretch my love across oceans
And my heart sets sail
In pilgrimage of you.
I’d drink every drop in the sea
And walk on its barren floor
To be close to you again.
I’d build a bridge of river-foraged driftwood
From my door to yours
Just to wrap my arms around you
For a moment or two.
But my body is already too saturated
With the sodden lamentations of missing you.
And I fear that I’m too weak with hunger
To carry all the branches and boards
Needed to raise such a structure.
So I will wait for you to come home.
And I wish I could say “patiently,”
But I’m fervent with longing
And frantic with grief.
But I will do my best to carry on.
I will paint, and smoke, and work, and cry
Until you’re home again.
Then I will hold you
And hold you and hold you and hold you,
Until we are stuck as one body
And you cannot escape again.
Aug 16, 2023
Aug 16, 2023 at 8:51 PM UTC