"impressionism" poems
She walks down pavement
She makes the government’s infrastructure look like beauty
Her beauty turns away the rules of the snooty conservative government
The constitution loses its soul
When she bends over to check the hood of a car about to roll
Her boyfriend accompanied by other boyfriends who hit on her
I stand on the sidelines
Problem is I murmur
You probably thought a stutter was worse
She’s such a high class gal
Despite her sultriness and I’m not judging
But I must mention she goes to Church
So you might still mistake her for being an uptown sister
She dances to rock music
Her head doesn’t even sway to the EDM that the plebeians surrounding her play
She’s an anachronism
But she just needs me to introduce her Monet’s impressionism
I bet her cultural values force her to mould Picasso’s Cubism
Even though I’m not a man’s man
She without influence is not enough
Because influencing is love
And I hope it is to this cute rebellious dud
I suppose from her house she ran
When she looked morose in school during period nine
It was English Drama and suddenly she couldn’t seem to remember the line
With her friends flanking her she walks and talks
She’s on the phone while she’s wearing her socks
She’s on the prowl she’s an active girl
That women is close to my heart
And I hope to treat her like a clam treats its pearl
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"
I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.
Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.
Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.
Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
maybe I should encourage violence within conformity and seek to end impressionism or maybe NOT!- create perversions within a song split-ting hairs of the long dead being found at a youthful age washed ashore no longer breeding nor bleeding ceased of breathing to be now an exact science- scaled back models of when it was brave to be bold but hidden from news cameras for leftover caveats - I wanna go else-where and find redemption to shout **** you - desktop plants dried out from foul air and aspirin bottles ******** clad in old skin next to a banana peel- no remorse no recourse no answers for in my brain
prescribed lies conjunct with irreversible truth complexity.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
When the streets are made for nothing but thinking
It's the weight of the water that's caused our sinking
It's a loss of feeling that's made me lighter
It's everything around
That makes me neutrally bound
The only writers block is the writer
It's the kind of thing that makes a man with a pencil and paper a fighter
Like the paper's jumping up at you like a, like a alligator
But it's hard to chalk down all the mistakes, cause when you're trying so hard you're just being fake
You just gotta learn to let it, let it all flow
Show your all and let em all know
Just how you're feeling that blow, even if it means one or two bad lines, that's how you feel though
Cause life ain't a poetry book
It's all the points in between the pages that we missed
It's all the things that make us factories of emotions,
A crook with feelings creeping through the motions
Turning pages, trying to **** it all up like the books eroding
Don't you talk to me about feeling
Naw you ain't know what you be dealing, everyone's got there own **** you can't tell me mines to be concealing
See, I'm a material void of expressionism
Cause I told everyone what I feel, not for the sake of impressionism
They chose to see inside and learn a lesson without all the criticism
Everything I've learned is turning me into a crustaceans fossil
Hard to the shell but brittle to the touch, and I preach my **** like a god **** apostle
You make me feel from the inside and I'll be your crutch, but you're gonna need more than a god **** rock hammer to open me up
My words I mend to make up for what I conceal
But as I sit here thinking about how I feel
It's gonna take more than this to make me heal
Now let me dilute as I talk to the god inside my head and make a deal, something to end the pain and suffering I have concealed at the expense of everything real
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
contemplate
again!
nothing
accords
with
cerebral
understanding
impressions
survive;
actualities
disappear -
***personalities
s c a t t e r
icons***
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
11.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 1:58 AM 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
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
in the summer before
everything ended,
we went to an art museum
that had entire rooms showcasing death
and you pulled me away before I could admire the human composition
stains, melted into bronze silhouettes, because
what if I thought it looked ugly
what if I figured out
I didn’t actually want to **** myself
and instead just wanted to escape you –
stains of strawberry juice around my mouth I thought of
as blood and you thought of
as lipstick
I prettied myself for
suicide , I scratched maps into my thighs – little guides of where a
knife would go
little hopes that if I saw the death display
maybe I would have known.
for years
it was all experimental. I watched pieces of us
come and go like art exhibits, you watched me as if I was nothing but
a work in progress
that soaked up so much paint I could
not help but look like you when it was through. I was
a child, was
impressionist (impressionable –
now your thoughts persist
as human composition stains – happily, I am alive
and you will never be dead enough.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
we used
to be
tourists
in our
own city
we would
go to the
art gallery
and whisper about
impressionism
you would
hold my hand
as we walked
through gift shops
we would laugh
at over crowded
hiking
trails
everything
was lovely
we desired
to see
new things
in the old
we loved
each other
so well
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
Inspired by: Toilet Tisha by OutKast
Spaced out
Brain out
In space
Checkin stardust
My timewaste is
Just a journey to the center of my soul
With the far reaches as my goal
And the cold wastes as my place of solace
Feelin soulless
Pacin in my brain
Shy away from sane
My plane doesn't fly
It hydroplanes on to other planes of existance
With no assistance
Sliding on a rainy runway
It's a jetplane with a runaway
Who close his mouth
When he's got the most to say
But not enough hope to pray
He implodes
A black hole
That warps him
Warms him
Like frostbite
Deadeyed all night
But he's never felt more alive
Lost in the thoughts of another life
Based barely in reality
Impressionism over realism
Is it really healin him or killin him?
That's the question of the hour
Sittin in the head till it spoils
Goin sour
Green eggs and ham
With a side of sacrificial lamb
And extra power
Now imagination junkie's
Feelin weak as his soul slowly
Drifts back
Drips back
In to his irises
To the land of the living
While sipping with Osirises
Feeling riotous
While his lips split
Dry with the taint
Of the fountain of youth
Sittin there rotting away
Without use
Tryna meditate without medication
Racing to slow down
Before the "Why?" in the road
Cuz once he gets there
He knows
He'll never know
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
I think yesterday is years away;
Between one and the other,
Between fathers and brothers.
So sisters and mothers
Blink feathery at their watches.
Hums like a hummingbird
Flails to a shrillness,
And a polyphonic fearing panic
Pulls us all back by chance
To the chancery.
Somewhere after grandfathers
Before grandsons,
Like Robert Frost being a modern
Not modernist—
There’s the last of the conceivable eros—
Conceived by sleeping
Resource and resourceful
Poverty with all the impressionism
of the gardens and allegories
at a dinner party.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:49 PM UTC
In another life, I was born a painter.
Gliding colors over canvas to imitate emotion.
Stepping back and marveling at the impressionism or the modernism or the realism of what I just created.
And people could look and gawk
and give gracious complements.
In another life, I was born a dancer.
Helplessly allowing melodies to transfuse my blood and move my limbs the way ocean waves move water.
Elegance in my bones, loveliness in my tendons, beauty in my ligaments.
Boys would leap toward me
and I would jeté toward them or grand jeté away from them.
In another life, I was born a singer.
A voice of gold and diamonds
that people love to eat
and bathe in.
Like summer sunlight in the springtime,
snow on December 25th.
Things people love to experience.
But, in this life, I was born a writer
so I live with what I must.
And I'll paint with my words-
give them color and life and realism, with just a hint of impressionism.
And I'll make my words dance-
across white pages, dressed in black, the smell of sweat and blood soaked within their skin.
And I'll make my words sing-
sing the ballad of my heart and the ballad of my mind and, maybe, even the ballad of the world.
Words are not inadequacy,
even in a world of painters, dancers, and singers.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:39 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
this dog, the stump of a great tree possessed by a kindly demon. a woman cradles the homely thing and shares a dream with her husband the poor man’s empath. I squeeze my infant son so lightly his age stops. one day yours will be too young to remember impressionism’s grocery.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
A tired dog trots through
a gas station parking lot
panting for water
but no one can spare
any, or even care
But don't mind me
I'm just passing through
Such a harmless thing to do
And dried blood washes off your hands
but it's okay 'cause you've got plans
for a better world
plans for your better world
But don't mind me
I'm just passing through
Such a harmless thing to do
Prisms of plastic make--
nothing; rainbows are fake
I'm stuck in my head, my fear
I might just take
the next exit out of here
But don't mind me
I'm just passing through
Such a harmless thing to do
Motivated to be peaceful by
an illegal state of mind
if the world was safe
I'd be doing my time
But don't mind me
I'm just passing through
Such a harmless thing to do
I don't think it's possible for us
to grow into a foresty place
but I've been wrong before.
No one wins in the human race
But don't mind me
I'm just passing through
Such a harmless thing to do
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
It was a Sunday afternoon when I
went for an impromptu drive,
keeping my foot on the gas and snaking
among the one-ways and the
downtown traffic as I
made my way to the river.
I put the heat on
ever so slightly just so
I'd be warm enough to roll
the windows down and feel that
fresh spring air on my face.
I wore my retro hat backwards,
and my Raybans covered my eyes,
my cool demeanor and slouchy posture
in sync with the steady rhythm of the
90s hip hop booming through my
speakers.
I watched the sun as it made love to
the river's chop, and
I snuck a glance at the stolen kisses
the green grass shared with the
tall trees on the shoreline.
Beautiful yellow and purple buds
splattered the bushes like
Impressionism,
thick dabs of color that all blended
into a beautifully disorganized
vision of the season of
rebirth.
I sprouted wings and flew outside
my body as I inhaled
pollens and flower nectar,
as my skin reddened under the
bright sunlight,
my self got lost in the time and space
continuum that swallowed me
like ground swallowed up the last
traces of snow, replacing my ground
with the warmth and
rebirth that spring always brings
after a long winter.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
anti-narcissism,
painters with self-portraits,
the damnable face used
to kindred of inanimate things
taken for granted via still-life or impressionism,
damnable visage, yet
not exactly a finite banality of narcissism and acting,
it’s just there, if it isn’t being bosomed by
kissing it might as well be painted,
shame to leave it to simply frown,
or undue the english stiff-upper lip with
the fisherman’s hook, that phenomenon
of the fisherman’s / elvis’s upper lip aha hum hum:
it’s a twitchy eye when you mind the nerves
and just say: i’m in r.e.m. stages of parkinson’s:
rapid eyelid movement: got a joke coming
with the tourists, find your face in the throng
and give it four walls, a floor and ceiling and a campfire.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
(tripping gracefully over her gory visage,
she bashfully, covertly unveils her
untruthful veracity,
invisible in all things seen)
her phantom form surrounds me and
slides her arm between my lips, into my mouth
finger - after - finger;
i slowly swallow her whole
(she leaves me no other choice)
the quick fog forming in my eyes
threatens to spill
(i think it does)
i choke, my teeth grazing her entangled marble limbs.
my once untarnished tower of a neck
now a blemished python, bruised by suffocation
finger-painting, hand-print impressionism in
russian red and prussian blue and palatinate purple
my angry lungs drink her in
the space between my thoughts and veins becomes considerably smaller.
(i am crowded,
i am
o
ver
whelmed.)
exhausted, i gasp for words
but those too have left me a while ago,
when her impact carved that permanent indent on my chest:
i can never rest.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
On a train.
Inside, a mosaic of faces
Eternal strangers
Passing by, changing places
Pace increases
My heart races.
Outside, life flashes by
Blurry instances and faces
A melange of random places.
Pace increases and in flashes
Shadowlights traverse my lashes
Leaving imprints on my soul.
Akin to impressionism
Colors, forms and spaces mix
Unifying to become
A prism of the Unknown.
Brake.
Stop.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
These spills of ink tore the sheets of fantasy which wrapped my eyes from seeing reality. Splotches of heavy ink drops created pieces and problems I wish I could sew back together, repairing everything from the past. What I’ve come to realize is that each spill brought awareness into my life, giving me a new-found appreciation for things I would have never seen or discovered before. My life begins to form an impressionist painting, each dot coming together to form a beautiful life. Some pieces may not be pretty or meaningful on their own, but they each bring along a dot or more around to build a significant part of the painting. I am still under construction.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
Curious about
the way
you built this
solid ground
==============================================================================
so strong, so strong, so strong, so strong, so strong, so strong, so strong, so strong, so strong, so fast
===============================================================================
Won't deny that
It is so much easier to walk, think, smile, laugh
live
There is no crumbling world around my ears
there is no pouring salt water
flowing freely from fallen faces
HOWEVER
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
questions questions questions uncertain uncertain uncertain doubtful doubtful doubtful real real real
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
I can see that rose is red
I can see it grows
I can see it bend
I can see it snap
It looks like a **** to me
A **** that makes your fingers drip
Rose seeds
so red
it all depends on how tight you hold the stem
##################################################################################
I boarded a train, it zig zagged--quick, unstoppable uncontrolled. It was nice. It was, steel
###################################################################################
peered through the window
of this train
(slightly fogged, slightly blurred)
But I managed to make out the image of
this girl
(this woman?)
whose back rested against the cushion, eyes wide, face open, shoes tied
she mirrored
impressionism
I noticed
the small details
her coat was covered
her hands were covered
~ with red rose seeds~
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
*Was there ever anything in nature
So sweet or so exquisite that it must be
Resisted before it can come to fruition?
Within natures covering malice cannot blacken
One’s heart nor shall ignorance misrepresent it.
Even such as it is I must slave for nineteen
Hours out of twenty-four with the remaining
Time to be spent reckoning for the first nineteen.
There is nothing in the world that I loathe more
Than to be interrupted in the middle of a story
Except and unless the same interruption happens
While I am dreaming the end of a story
Before I have ever written the first verse.
This is not a distinction without a difference.
For Instance ...
If I had on my head a three-cornered hat
With one and a half brims turned up
And one and a half brims turned down
Would you say that I went off half cocked?
What if I had two brims turned up
And one brim turned down would you then
Say that I was two-thirds cocked?
If this is true then if I roll all three brims up
Then I suppose you’d say that I am fully cocked.
I tell you that I can be neither half cocked,
Two thirds cocked or fully cocked
As long as my hat is on my head.
For ‘tis only when my head is bare as a
Baby’s backside can I even begin to ponder
The gray matter uncovered by some old hat.
In any event it matters not a bean’s stalk
Whether the old hat is half cocked
Or if it’s a half cocked old hat.
The difference is in the definition of
An old hat as well as in the definition
Of what cocked really means.
And you’d best be careful how you mix the two
Otherwise if I laid my old hat on the bed
And cocked it just right somebody could
Get the wrong impression.*
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
minaret, matte in haze
an illusion of detail
you, Impressionism
your bricks clasp each other
intricately, intimately
without hesitation or sense
lips of red and suave craft
tilt:
pyre suddenly
I step back
I can fathom you
from here only
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 2:02 PM UTC