"frescoes" poems
I remember a dog with matted fur lounging in the shade
of a collapsed arch, staring in a way that animals sometime
stare that makes me wonder if the beliefs of Kantianism are
nothing more than old wives’ tales spun from smoke and cinder.
I remember the faint smell of sulfur mixed with seawater
in the shadow of the volcano that poured out its wrath
by the bowlful, the golden urns of the gods spilling
fire and magma from the very cradle of hell.
I remember the empty bathhouses, the villas with
half-painted frescoes, the expensive red paints made from
crushed beetle shells, the overturned tables and chairs,
the uneven stone streets carved by horse-drawn cart wheels.
I remember the skeletons huddled in boathouses,
unearthed from their ash-spun graves for prying eyes,
for the rapid shutter of camera lenses, for the proof
of their existence, as if to leer at the living and say,
“We are all nothing but carbon and bone.”
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
"Have you ever sailed across an ocean, Donald? On a sail boat surrounded by sea with no land in sight. Without even the possibility of sighting land for days to come. To stand at the helm of your destiny. I want that, one more time. I want to be in the Piazza Del Campo in Sienna. To feel the surge as ten race horses go thundering by. I want another meal in Paris, at L'Ambroisie in the Place Des Vosges. I want another bottle of wine. And then another. I want the warmth of a women in the cool set of sheets. One more night of jazz at the Vanguard. I want to stand on summits and smoke cubans and feel the sun on my face for as long as I can. Walk on the wall again. Climb the tower. Ride the river. Stare at the frescoes. I want to sit in the garden and read one more good book. Most of all I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy. Give me that. Just one time. That's why I won't allow that punk out there to get the best of me, let alone the last of me."
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Pompeii stood proud near Naples.
Close to Herculaneum.
When in August of AD 79.
Volcano magnificent erupted.
Without nonchalance.
A buried city born.
Complete with frescoes of erotica.
Were subject to ancient censorship.
City modern with flowing water.
Trendy port.
Gymnasium.
Modernist by all accounts.
Population 20 000.
Mostly perished in brimstone's evacuation.
From the deepest depths of hell.
Suffocated nearly all.
Asphyxiated on vile fumes.
Eruption cataclysmic.
City buried far underground.
By written description.
'Tis believed that hell on earth unleashed.
The day following magical celebrations.
Worshiping Vulcanalia the Roman God of Fire.
Ironic tragedy procured.
Few survived the tragedy.
Those that did ran free
Anarchy, starvation.
Mainly petty larceny.
Landscape near destroyed.
Pliny the Younger wrote in a letter.
Vivid description of images seen as Pliny the Elder tried to rescue a few.
Felt perhaps had a duty to do.
Was admiral proud of the Roman fleet.
His life taken in forfeit as citizens from the ash world perished.
Pax Romana followed tragedy.
Dealt such a wicked card.
Embalmed in ash citizens lay.
Locked forever on the spot as they ran away!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC
"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio
There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
*"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
me,
me,
...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.
_____________
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."
This poem is a true-life story.
__________
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
BULL FIGHTING
(WITH A CLASSICAL TOUCH)
* By Raj Nandy*
(I)
The Minoan Civilization of ancient Greece,
Was well centered in the Aegean island of Crete;
And around 1600 BC this civilization had peaked!
Seeing their frescoes, and paintings on potteries
and vase,
Scholars concluded that ‘bull-jumping’ was
perfected as a gallant art!
Those jumpers grabbed the bull’s horns, -
And receiving momentum from its violent
head-jerk,
Vaulted over its back in a somersault,
To land on both feet to break their fall!
I was spell bound by Minoans courage and agility,
Their acrobatic feats performed with such
dexterity!
Those bulls were not killed and no blood was shed,
Some acrobats might have been injured instead!
What a shame for our bull fighters of date!
(II)
Today bull fighting has become a popular sport,
Where the bull gets slaughtered amidst loud applaud!
I recall those Roman amphitheaters that remained
jam-packed,
When the Gladiators performed their fatal acts!
But even those Gladiators had a chance to survive,
Our cornered bull has no place to hide!
Friends, to see blood is an age old thrill,
But none would like to see their own blood spilled!
(III)
Our Matador today is like a popular Rock Star,
While the bull becomes a martyr in the pit by far!
The bull’s mighty horns are sharp and strong,
Can lift up a man like a rag doll!
But when the Picador lances the bull’s ****
The bull never gets a fair deal and jumps!
Next the Matador waves his ‘muleta’- a red cape,
The bull makes a final charge but cannot escape!
I wonder if the bull sees red!?
The Matador then amidst much pomp and applaud,
Spikes the neck severing the bull’s spinal cord!
He is greeted by flowers and cheers of ‘Ole’! ‘Ole’!
Let us learn from those Ancient Minoans, -
That's all I have got to say!
- by Raj Nandy
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
Mopeds, Mercedes
Dandelions and daisies
Churches
Mosques
Women masked
Exposed eyes
Revealing
More than the body
Ever could.
Lingerie
Sold openly on the street
Olives
By the kilogram
To fast-talking
Fast-walking
Men and women
Young and old.
Ancient ruins,
Ruined
The fall of one civilization
Destroyed
Merely to give rise
To one that will
Only hope to make men
Worth remembering.
Mystery lies
In the lives of artifacts
Bare finger tips
Graze over frescoes
Religion
Art
Expression
Litters every corner
Accompanied by waste
And poppies
Blood red
Amidst the gray haze
Of cigarette smoke
And pollution
Clouding the view
Of snowcapped mountains
Diamond lakes
Undisturbed
Surrounded by
Mopeds, Mercedes
Dandelions and Daisies
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.
The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.
Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.
The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.
Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.
She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.
He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the ugly –
- to render them enchanting.
He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.
The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.
The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
My work site is climate controlled,
No Pigeons threaten my peace.
Of all of my gigs, this one is the best,
no acid rain scours my cheeks.
Yes, it is boring at times;
stuck in the Louvre, night and day,
but, as I’m a creature of Marble,
I cannot run outside and play.
Instead I’ve become an observer
of the tourists who whisper and gawk.
That girl with nice ***** is from Paris,
that fat little guys’ from New Yawk.
I pose for their pictures for free
as they snap up some memories for home.
My maker, long dead, was the master
who painted those frescoes in Rome.
Its hard to believe that the heirs
of the Renaissance men of my time
have gotten so fat and complacent,
gorging on fast food and cheap wine.
pig like are their fat chubby faces.
They prate like some fatuous child.
They are, compared to their forebears,
like butterball turkeys to wild.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
She shakes her ****
When I get home;
Does everything
To get the bone.
She realizes;
I recognize.
The new born eyes
Me so intently;
I return the gaze
Just as gently.
She realizes;
I recognize.
The battered bird
With feathers thinning,
Knows Spring's waxing,
Winter's waning.
It realizes;
I recognize.
So too with art
As pieces languish,
Some we banish
As too outlandish;
Some are lost
At our great cost;
Some are found
Underground,
In a cave
On frescoes walls,
In attic, cellar,
Flea market stalls.
A sonnet found
In some distant shire,
Or ten words
Of wisdom
We retired;
Banished today,
Tomorrow admired.
We realize;
We recognize
Not all our work
Can inspire,
When buried in
The hit pismire.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
I've seen so much extravagance thus far,
The extraordinary paintings and frescoes
start to blur.
But in this place, I like the feeling
more so than the bible stories
outlined
on the carefully arched ceiling
It's calm with cooled air,
Giving me sanctuary
From all my headaches.
I could fall asleep now
and not care that I never woke.
This is not a religious conversion,
This is a feeling
Caused by centuries of humans being comforted.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
He woke me up by punching me
I never agreed with his view of the church
He never beat me in a race around the block
I never went with him and Mom on Saturday mornings
He was the best student in mathematics and history
I remember he took such pride in helping me study for tests
He was fascinated by the frescoes outside the Voronet Monastery
I aced an Algebra II the day the ambulance came to our school
He asked me to read poetry when he had trouble sleeping
I held the tubes when he had to throw up
He was remarkably cold the last time we shook hands
I heard the long beep that would not stop, but I could not go inside
He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed
I was moved by the feckless symphony of medical salvation
He laid there unmoved like monarch butterfly in prayer and
I resolved to visit the frescoes at the Voronet Monastery
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
The mushrooms in the forest
Know more about survival than me
They bloom in death
And wear it like velvet
I tried burying fear in the compost bin
It came back fragrant
Humming songs I hadn't written yet
There's glory in the stink of it
Mould carving frescoes in
Forgotten bread
Worms in the pit of the peach saying
"We were here first"
I think I love things more
Once they start falling apart
Makes them honest
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 2:31 AM UTC
Chances are you forgot you have an ace
In your pocket, questionable thespians are weary, winsome women
In a poet's life, bringing him to temptation and avoiding coyness
Coarse behavior can be a form of attention and aptitude
But the coquettish reminded me of the inhibitions as an observer
An accosted girl left in a town also was a part of this terse reason
Edicts could have been written on her spontaneous knowledge
Buttressing this poor logic was her reasonable interest in my expression
Art, was a class apart when we sat together creating a dense-structured essay
Yearning for better proliferation in opulent desires, ideas were purloined
Carpe Diem became Carper Nocte
And the Illuminati Du Ponts were a sourced for respite
As her religion didn't interest me
Her faith in God brought me tears
I folded her legs and broke her spirit
Took her to a place where religion made me happy
The release was being with a long-lasting ******
The happiness was in the blood
Blackness hovered her face as she was gonna get it
The pressing of the abdomen didn't bring adolescence anymore
God what is time to those religious, but, reckless
In the everlasting love for enervated breath and emotion
Relentless, there were frescoes of superior litany veritably written
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
Looking into the *** of literature
Eratosthenes, and getting some midnight wrong
Broken poems, killjoy, I'm in a mellow dram with my bearhugs
In the chugging lurid frescoes of the mind of a gregarious soul with lion's eyes and a wolf's soul, the warmth lit the Savannah
Seems like cold ice, thawed in the nasty weather, left with positivity
Emerson's rude bridge, on the point, on the road, *** or a livid ultimate cunning guy being the ****** kicking the dirt with the incomplete poetic lines, where souls find lost dreams on the end of passion steps, lost Conrad
Do they murmur as a poem which is one, unbeing and being
The poem reminds of a haiku
She once told you
Tea was taken black
Sweet and right, is white on the top
A soul in the heart of darkness find an accident in the heart of weakness of others, my lungs are paper trite on the road around this town
Bless the soul, it knows peace after we're long gone on the dry dirt, kicking up the darkness in dreaming of you
Fear in a handful of stardust in an ashen raging madman
If you could those poets in that lost poem
If you could read between the lines and keep the metaphors alive
Dying and slipping, sliding away away
Concordant lives of the passion of the Christmas, he lives with his Hagrid-like father
Strolling the empty nights, with the Christ in the amazing hodger, roger in the soul love, and they share the same books
That's why they share different characters, and lines
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:49 PM UTC
Thou est speak
Separately and in speech
Your life shys from the light
Where is your violent life
In purple bruises or redness of your cheeks
Just like a child afraid of the dark
Turns into the bard of barren times
Laconic about his problems
And inclement about his cumulus
The turbulent seas finally shine on this sunset line
Burgeoning bright oars from the stygian life
The tridents push you into the frescoes of reconnaissance
As you lose control of your helm
Your poem comes to a pensive finish
Making someone's poetry better and brighter ad
Cantankerous about fuliginous lines and the velleity towards writing disappears
Some lines for your frostbitten ears
That feel like the heat of icy burn of some desolate polar boreal search
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 7:41 AM UTC