"ekphrastic" poems
(an ekphrastic poem based on the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper)
Four
solemn faces,
doused in gold,
like moths to flame,
seek warmth from the cold.
Darkness leers, but harsh light shields
these lonely creatures from their feelings untold.
One
diner desolate,
a waiter old,
and three weary visitors
are portrayed. The scene unfolds.
Most eat under the sunlight, unlike
these nighthawks who flocked from their households.
Some
loneliness darkens
hearts like blindfolds;
nighthawks’ hearts aren’t exceptions.
The woman red and bold,
the man in shadows, and another
man with a cigarette in his hold
are
isolated together.
They are controlled
and defined by solitude.
They don’t belong. No mold
fits them. They only have a
diner, each other, and lonesome souls unconsoled.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
Van Gogh wanted to mix a material rainbow of colors
From primary red, yellow and blue in the sense of divine.
In the Holy Light, the love time of the flower clock discolors.
The empty glasses on the tables lack the Holy wine.
The ideal round tables assume their infinite regress,
While huddling down in a stupor the lonely men around.
Their eyes do not see the sense of life and true noblesse.
From a corner view, silent colors search for the sound.
Tables for awakening, for life and for the fate's game.
In life, a complete circled awareness needs time.
In many forms, the epitome of tableness is the same.
It keeps a purple silence for the painted mother of thyme.
This irreconcilable demon -woman hung on the left wall
Needs that freedom engraved on the emerald green door.
The watch on her hand shows the time for a masked ball.
Destined never to meet are the parallel lines on the floor.
Love is for completing the time as pink is for the emerald green.
In the mirror, this nuance of green reflects the sadness of life.
Against the red, pink and white, in games, the cue tip can lean,
Because all the main complementary colors are at strife.
The white coat of the waiter is a symbol in the glow of the lamp.
The perspective looks somewhat downward toward the floor.
Extending to new dimensions, Eve sits or she just up to vamp.
The flowers wither and the life disappears after an endless war.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
***** Attacked by a Jaguar, after Henri Rousseau*
Unaware, arms sway.
Attentive green gazes
at a tuxedoed man
and his broken bride.
Pink perfume glides
over the jade scene.
A red disco light
hovers above raised limbs,
spinning stardust
rain down upon them.
In the corner
he hides -- peering
around fibre-optic
shrubs. Blackening
this white moment.
On the ballroom
floor they dance.
Rendezvous in the Forest, after Henri Rousseau
In the wilderness
they meet, horsebacked,
whispering nothing
sweet, meaningless.
Captain courts, seeking
victory beneath bare
branches... hidden
where all can see.
Curious trees bend
to view the scene below.
The lady's palace
chaperones her mistress
from faraway brush.
Antiqued cotton tufts frown
overhead, lost souls
driving by wreckage.
Vultures. Scavengers
of hunting season.
Pausing to behold
the carnage
of predator and prey.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
Staying is a form of haunting.
I don't know
whether it's the mind or the heart
that refused to let go,
incessant, untouched.
My trail steered towards
their station,
a cerulean sky,
an ekphrastic response
where the jigsaw-interlock
of sand grains mocked
the subtle imperfections
inherent in any life.
So you joined the dance anyway.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 12:09 PM UTC
These mountains are but a stand of trees
to the man astride that horse;
dark eyes are
massive storm clouds
or shadows cast
by towering presence
hidden in the folds
of an otherwise ordinary
brain. Power? There
is no end to this man's power
except the end
that will always march
shattering sheets of glass ice
with hooves so hard
they weather mountains.
Does he see it? The horse,
whose everyday hooves crack
one film of ice among many,
sees it; has a face
- most expressive beast on earth -
that speaks aloud
against the cold that runs fingernails along
the raw interior of her throat.
*Yes, this man, like so many men,
make choices, and choices
have troubling consequences.*
There is darkness
in these mountains;
because mountains stand taller
than the common countryside.
Sometimes, their height brings them closer
to the sun. At midnight, their peaks
are more distant than the depths of a gorge.
*See the deeply set, tempered soul
ensconced in that man's eyes?*
The horse is very,
very tired, and sees more
than mountains, icicles,
wisps of frozen cloud -
she sees beyond these and
beneath these, to a destination
frozen shut in the folds of an
otherwise ordinary brain.
Power? The horse sighs
and drips chilled mucus
on snow. Her humanity
she pours out and only a
frozen peak can see.
*There are humans
making choices
always leading
to the cold.*
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
(after Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Evening)
The light is everything;
it saturates the locust grove,
inundating
uncut grass,
negating
shadows,
conjoining husband
and wife in oblivion.
Melancholy blinks
in the black eye
of a whippoorwill.
Who catches the notes
of its song?
Only the dog.
Dusk, patient
as a chrysalis.
They can’t hear
the transmutation
yet, but they will.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
Dark mountains and
stalactite tears
blending into cave
marks on the wall.
A funeral? But
warmth and belonging
and a community
of travel, hope, legacy.
Footprints on the ground.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
Writers choose pens that are inked with words.
The color of ink might be a peach colored verb.
The adverb joins in with a red that is flashy.
The prose is beginning to read somewhat ******
The noun is thinking to mellow this down,
But the writer wants more from what has been found.
An adjective presents with its green colored hue.
Then gold trickles in making the vivid story true.
Yes, writers choose pens and words choose colors.
Stories then written,
For us and for others.
https://www.susykamber.com/
Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
Sep 15, 2020
Sep 15, 2020 at 1:48 PM UTC
below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed
by a creature covered
not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting
in muted strut
deafening silence
preparing for hunt or coming home
no one knows.
illuminated, the creature casts a shadow
against the grainy surface
bleak, distorted reflection
that mocks you with its
empty mercurial gaze
like a soul trapped in ebony cage
an empty space, a vacuum.
the absence of light is darkness
darkness is haunting
light in itself is haunting
the umbra, an illusion
of a phantom in the middle of the night
perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined
if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 4:18 AM UTC
The town of the grateful yet,
soon to be dead,
receive one last glance of the universe.
The radiant truth stills voices
and tranquilizes breath.
Eleven fireballs illuminate the moondust sky.
The grim sapphire hills wicket the town.
Is this the way to heaven?
This is the way to the stars.
The black tree's hair is a moussed flame,
a pin-point on the absent map.
An imaginary itinerary to starry night.
The orange crescent moon sings
lullabies to a silent town,
trapped in Bardo.
As the wailing spirit of death
slurps the brilliance from the stars.
Eleven stars, eleven souls.
Soothed gratefully to death
on a starry night.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 8:14 PM UTC
The sound of the leaves written primarily by trees.
As such was the beauty heard plainly with ease.
Up mountains, round rivers.
A song for the birds.
For the people that fly there.
Across valleys was heard.
Now what be the mention of this, you may wonder,
Alone to unravel the blur from down under.
A song can be sung from the language of trees.
I heard in the sky and then carried to thee.
https://www.susykamber.com/
Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 9:09 AM UTC
Whoe'ver the still examines, must define
The wond'rous shifts of the immortal Time;
To kindly witness, the graybeard's silent gaze
From youth to age, from guidebook to learned ways.
Divided only by the fixed life stage,
The youth consults, and the elderly explain.
Slow the transition when the hours date,
From mighty Boy's knees to old aching gait.
While for the Old Man's loss the Young Boy gains,
Old Men comfort and Young Boys wisdom attains.
Here Boy listens to the old learned ways,
There in silent gaze wistful hungry boyhood stays.
Mem'ries and rememb'ring give time for time,
And young knees below, and old above climb.
While simple youngster shake the leg of old,
Experienced veteran like prophet hold,
Eager minds and submission mix their servile roles,
Lads and Late in waiting for their parole.
Smiles and sighs, proverbs and plays life abound,
And form a life-cycle that goes round and round.
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 4:50 PM UTC
You walk past me
Catching my eye with your ice blue discs
Time at your control and you stop it
You look me in the eye and
You see right through me
Electrocuting my heart
Burning through me like a lightning bolt
All with a single
Blue-eyed glance.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 10:16 PM UTC