"gauguin" poems
Must go. Cannot explain.
The sadness is on the table.
I left you as much as half
of everything I own.
Maybe more.
Spend it how you like.
I know you will anyway.
This is no joke.
The marriage painting is fixed.
The key is under
your lover's pillow.
Tell the cat
Vive La France for me.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Art is either plagiarism or revolution,
but
we've all
heard that
before.
It feels like
originality is impossible
when only given
twenty-six
characters to work with,
and so
these are not
my thoughts,
this does not
belong to me,
I am
writing the same things
that all those before me have written.
We are either replicas or denying it.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Sometimes half asleep, scribbling words
or waiting for the morning sky to deliver birds
I fall off the edge, leave this tiny bed
float on rainy streets, there is no one that I meet
only a corner vacant house, where precious paintings hang
I am staring in the window, at flowers yellow, blue
this must be the room of Vincent Van Gogh, this starry night
with lily ponds so beautiful, fields of flowers
purple iris, Monet meadows
brown skin woman, hibiscus flowered
island scenes of Paul Gauguin, so brightly colored
there are pastel Degas dancing ballerinas
Marc Chagall, blue indigo people
without legs, they smile surreal
this museum of the mind
minutes like hours
turned sublime
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
i'm just bored of having to feel what other people
feel, limiting the realism of things,
a woman with a child's severed head in moscow is
sensationalism to them, but when they get a mild
reality, Kashmir chilly on the palette, they make
cheap Monty Python jokes to scare the facts away...
the so-called satire that requires canned laughter;
was given a library of 25 philosophy books,
not one of them by an englishman,
went as far back as the greeks,
i guess the version of english egalitarian
was not worth a communism,
somehow the two synonyms became
antonyms... 25 volumes of philosophy,
not one english philosopher...
the english intellectualise: i.e.:
regurgitate facts....
the english do not philosophise,
i.e. instead they cite facts... they're intellectuals by rite
of citation, the citation of facts,
they can't philosophise i.e. not cite (facts)...
they intellectualise, they cite and recite
facts with a dogmatism that fears a demolition
and no rekindling of interest...
to philosophise is to avoid citation:
to work from nothing,
the english cannot philosophise because
they intellectualise and by intellectualism
they cite and recite facts like an ave maria
pi = 3.14... Galileo's spectacles...
etc. the english cannot philosophise, they're
just intellectuals, they cite and recite facts,
they cannot engage from non-citation or non-recitation
of a fact, like a greek might ignore a stone
and fool himself claiming it's nothing,
the english cannot allow a confiscation of
a subject and treat it as nothing,
it would not make sense as to why charles i
was the precursor of the french aristocratic en masse
meeting with the guillotine if darwinism wasn't
discovered on the islands of Galapagos...
although i beg to differ with a thought on Gauguin
and the islands of Tahiti: make a turtle yawn
and you'll jinx yourself a blessing to live to be one hundred years old.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
You'd think Blake, Bosch
& Emanuel Swedenborg
read Pythagoras in the original
& walked with Christ & Newton;
E. A. Poe, the Horror-Poet;
influencing the Decadence of
Baudelaire, Wilde & Rimbaud;
Pinkham Ryder's influence on
Symbolism & Surrealism led,
oddly, to 20th century pop culture
depictions of Victorian monsters;
Frankenstein was the product
of the English Romantics;
German Romanticism to Sturm
& Drang led to Expressionism.
Beardsley [dead at 25], Gustave
Moreau, Van Gogh, Gauguin,
Egon Schiele [dead at 28]; ||| - -|
Klimt, Freud, Jung: Judaism;
Id, Superego, Ego, Shadow,
Anima & Animus, collective
psyche, Nietzsche's Superman,
eternal recurrence & will to
power; Wagner's Ring Cycle...
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
on the afternoon of first love
when the air was like Oahu
and the sky was a pastel pool
you and i on our sun-drenched Gauguin day
lay on the sand like shining gold shells.
the breeze blew over us
like music,
warming our humming core
like the hot breath of Aphrodite.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
who can hold the wind in his fist?
~for Ken Pepiton~
your poems full of hints and innuendo,
most of them I don’t get, of stuff, I don’t know, no clue,
my education impoverished, which is why lucky me,
I’m getting my viral signed check for 1200 bucks,
yes siree
but some college educated sharp eyed feller,
said look, see how Ken keen, has the bestus, the real tuff stuff,
hidey holed in the footnotes purposed for you to miss it,
**** he was right, cause I found what you hided!
<>
who can hold the wind in his fist?
*an inquisition worthy of a thousand answers,
my Roman slave cautions forbearance, whispering in
my one remaining unconquered Gauguin ear, just the best,
these time of times, hanging heavy, be sweet, leave out the chaff
*I, cannot *hold the wind in my fist,
for it has always befriended, going
over my life-coarsened skin,
through my-stubbled fingers,
cooling and christening, constant teasing kissing
as it was born anew, a first time poem,
it was meant to be unkept and unkempt*
*you might want to hold on, keep it, for its touch is indeed
that of a first time lady loved, savoring the cool,
and the heat simultaneous, no fool us, empowering,
the wind forever runs freely, between, never sticking,
going around my body, into my open orifices,
sometimes caressing, sometimes troubling,
its power leaving us atrembling, moved, straighter or bent over*
those who created wind and water had many reasons,
but their first purpose was to constant enliven the human mind
with the softest message that true freedom is never bounded,
nature’s song is refrained, “man, be unrestrained,”
it’s majesty then greatest,
men may fool themselves with lines and divisions,
Earth’s best best seen in its unconstrained, searching character
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 10:30 AM UTC
I am here as a token
A voice for my people and my ancestors
As a browning plaque in need of polishing
In the day a middle class white girl
Uses my ancestors voice
Uses my land
A beautiful ei on her head
To caption a photo of her on the beach
Something about loving her body the way Gauguin did
To think that my people would be worthy of that kind of
Out of context type reference
I am here as a token
The truth behind the girls who say that Raro taught them how to love an island love
Who bathed in flowers and sand
Saying it is as though the island spirit has possessed her
And she has the power to bestow it upon you
The real island love is hidden between the pages
Of the copy of the holiday leaflet
My nana gave her
The leaflet that I wish had never been translated to English
I am here as a token
Handing out my peoples story
For the honor of revealing that we have more beauty than retreats
To reference my sisters whos bodies have been put on a stage as entertainment
Despite being a show of beauty and island culture
I am here as a token
To educate of my people
To remind you that I come from a people who used constellations to find their way
My people are beautiful and rich in spirit
My culture is more than a holiday destination
Or an instagram post to flaunt your body
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
listen
to a sunflower
as they tell you
their story
do not think upon
the facts
such as their height
their common colour
their strength
instead remember observing
van gogh
rivera
gauguin
so you may truly understand
why
my lover is a sunflower
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 6:48 PM UTC