"manet" poems
"Here Made of Gone" for Isabella Stewart Gardner
Lyrics By Randy Vera
Music By: Randy Vera and Anthony J. Resta
http://bopnique.com/anthony-j-resta-and-randall-vera-finalists-john-lennon
LYRICS :
Vermeer, Rembrandt, Manet, Degas, from my three thousand year old Chinese KU, I toast you.
Mrs. Jack, I am your Bronze Eagle. I cut the painting at the frame – thieves by any other name.
Mrs. Jack with handcuffs and ***** I overcame your walls. Your collection’s complete.
Titian's Europa still hangs. The mirror to my:
Piece de la resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert.
Here, made of gone.
Mrs Jack, I’m your new William James. Through your kindness, you support me, in Dutch Room empty frames.
Like John Singer Sargent, I toil between your walls. I am Vermeer’s "corn flower blue," indescribable.
The metaphysical: Known unknown!
St Patrick’s Day 1990, I’m in Boston in the Fenway. For my penance, I’ll go to Saint John’s, drop to my knees, and like you, scrub the tiles clean.
Titian's Europa still hangs, the mirror to my: piece de La resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert. Here made of gone.
Where language fails that where art triumphs. The interloper between camps of reason and dreams. I’m an event not cognition. Like any event stored in canvas, paper, pen ,or ink.
Oh Mrs Jack I so love your "Head Band." I’m also a Redsox fan. I loved the Champagne and donuts, and thank you for the paintings.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:22 AM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Aye, Montecelli, that's the name.
You may have heard of him perhaps.
Yet though he never savoured fame,
Of those impressionistic chaps,
Monet and Manet and Renoir
He was the avatar.
He festered in a Marseilles slum,
A starving genius, god-inspired.
You'd take him for a lousy ***
Tho' poetry of paint he lyred,
In dreamy pastels each a gem: . . .
How people laughed at them!
He peddled paint from bar to bar;
From sordid rags a jewel shone,
A glow of joy and colour far
From filth of fortune woe-begone.
'Just twenty francs,' he shyly said,
'To take me drunk to bed.'
Of Van Gogh and Cezanne a peer;
In dreams of ecstasy enskied,
A genius and a pioneer,
Poor, paralysed and mad he died:
Yet by all who hold Beauty dear
May he be glorified!
2.6k
Monet, Manet, Morisot, and the tortured Vincent
a long century or more ago,
filled their palates with color,
their canvases with impressions of life, love and loss.
And we, the great masters of civilization,
have treasured these like newborn babes.
I wandered through the polished halls
of antiquities to see them—
some hidden even from the harsh light of day
to protect their precious prinking from decay.
I strained my eyes to see their soulful strokes
and wondered why artists carried such painful yokes
McMurtry’s ranch has no paintings
but sculptures from a vanished sea.
A quarter billion years it’s been,
and yet they’re here for all to see
Rocks carved by patient scratching time
and stock tanks covered with putrid slime.
No lilies float on pools of blue
and no guard carefully watches you
Their sentries are the desert rattlers
and the sun scorched prairie lands,
but these ancient masterpieces
are safe from filching hands.
When I kneel on hard rock soil,
I forget my daily useless toil
and dig in clean eternal dirt
with no canvases to belie the hurt
of gentle men who felt the call
to let their heart be seen by all
Monet, Manet, and Morisot
are now laid to rest, with their burdens set aside,
but their colors are a reminder
that beauty and suffering abide
McMurtry’s rocks no longer feel,
but who could say they are less real
than colors fading from the light
and lonely artists’ painful plight.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
O,
to be
Manet
with Nana
on that morning
before the stroke
of brush did touch
her cheeks with blush
of immoral immortality.
r ~ 6/11/14
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
I’m not afraid to admit
very few things
she thinks,
head nestling on the window,
over the sleeping Atlantic, eyes,
like drowsy oceans, swelling
over combers of clouds:
she watches herself
drift away
*do I arrive
or depart
(a return or restart)
to the city of light
that has warmed,
since girl dreams were born,
the tomorrows
of my lamp lit heart?*
yet what could I do,
but dawdle and pine,
write this and offer art:
and hope it speaks mine,
am I not a wonder?
keen, sonorous in stride,
industrious, strength,
brimming with pride; bonafide,
–zut alors
you and me,
divided. I abhor
the wind that blew (your delicate cloud)
from my Rhine.
is your love sewn in guilt,
cold repentance and blame,
is your sweet foolish heart,
here chained to mistakes?
what if you are a photograph,
captured among many,
held by each but for one fleeting frame,
(will you forget my antiquated name?)
which of your colours:
Manet unsentimental,
or Impressions in variation,
french vanilla in tumble,
or, contours, postcards, and maps,
shall fleshen our past–
these stilted
and dwindled days.
I think, for me,
forever in evening,
in fear of
the fast falling night,
or moving slow, pale
window glow,
afternoons, sunlit
in the space,
between grace, clocks,
and tunes: I fumble like a stone
to breathe l’espirit of you.
I know and you know. I suppose,
unfurl in a brave new start,
above bonds of looming crows,
blankets of Western valley snows,
the beating red of my radio spire;
think of a lingering dusk,
when you see that Eiffel tower
on the lush fields of March,
but imagine us as that point,
over fresh Champs du March,
a glimmer at the peak,
on the flat earth,
apart.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
Tempus pro nemine manet
It's the day there comes
a knock on the door
and you open it to find
a government agent
with a glowing, hot iron.
You drop your drawers
and OLD is eternally
branded on your ***
It is painful, sad,
absurd and funny.
Sweet relief, too.
Never again must you
worry about getting old
or dying young.
You are old. It is official.
From now on there is
only older and older
until there isn't
and then the mystery.
Merrily, merrily,
merrily, merrily,
life and death,
but the same dream.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
he wasn't born a begging man
he'd take you out in his trans-am
and parallel park next to your favorite art museum
he'd give you every alibi
he'd look manet right in the eye
and exemplify all that you didn't know
and the only songs he'd listen to
were all by dead blind blues musicians
and to you all of them sounded just the same
but when you told him wait a minute he just rolled his eyes and sighed
and so the thieving beggar man condemned himself to die
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 10:07 AM UTC
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if
framed
paused
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.
The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!
I celebrate the intellects that created these.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
When you imagine
the straight red
lines you could
carve on your skin,
you do not see
how they will
fade to pink, then
silver-white
and still mark you
years later.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
it's because i love you, you idiot.
that's why.
that's the reason for the lingering hugs,
for the long gazes,
for the secret smiles.
that's the reason why my camera roll is filled of pictures of you and none of me.
why, when we went to that art museum i *********** you about what I thought of those stupid paintings because they meant nothing to me and i couldn't even look at them when the most beautiful piece of artwork was standing right next to me:
You.
that was why i wouldn't let you see the photos i took that day because my lens never did find Van Gogh but instead found you.
but no matter how much i secretly write to you it will never be the same for you.
i bet your camera roll is filled of Picasso and Claude Monet and Édouard Manet because to you, they were the only artwork in the room.
they were what you stared agape at, head tilted, disbelief in your eyes,
when for me,
that was You.
― j.r.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Michelangelo I look at your work
Davinci to and I'm in awe
Dali, Picasso saw in their own way
Blake magnificent and Turner as well
Degas, Monet, Manet to
To many to mention or view
All I ask is this half term
You go to a gallery
Help your child learn
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
you're a real piece of work
all rothko
and no manet
boring lines
keeping the colors
from conversing
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
Her name’s Jane I think
said Jupp
standing beside you
in the school hall
as the girl on the school bus
went by with a slow walk
carrying a bag
over her shoulder
and her dark hair
flowing down her back
anyway he added
how are you getting on
with that maths work
chisel face gave us?
You watched
until she disappeared
into a crowd of other
girls and boys
like watching
the sun go down
on a fine summer’s day
and entering
a dull night
huh? Said Jupp
how you coping
with the **** maths?
All Greek to me
you said
carrying the image
of the girl off with you
as Jupp and you
made your way
along the corridor
to double metalwork
and this metalwork
Jupp moaned
it really ****** me off
what do I care
about making
a frigging tea caddy spoon?
And passing by
a print on the wall
of some Manet dame
you thought
how you’d love
to have a print
of the girl
to carry about
or have pinned
to your bedroom wall
at home
huh? Said Jupp
what’s with spoons?
I’ve no idea
you said
all part
of the brainwash
I guess
and did the girl
move you?
you asked inside
oh yes
oh yes
oh yes.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
We walked among
Manet and Degas
and Delacroix
Ran Gucci and Hermes
through our fingers
Rode bicycles
On the Champs Elysees
And wore berets
At rest beneath the Tower
And in a cafe at twilight
We drank too much wine
And we laughed
In the pink glow
Of the city
Until it was dark
And later
Along the Seine
Drops of lamplight
shone on the water
And she spoke of how
Paris was like love
Living only for the night
Its beauty
Vanishing by morning
To return only when day
Again falls into darkness
To caress only others.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
Captain
Is such an abrasive term
Call me zebra instead
Call me every other weekend
Salute the system
Or form a mutiny
As disciples of Moby ****
Just be sure rank and file
Are futile
Everything now is beautiful
Rainbirds
Caged in your barbed-wire heart
Jaded feather friends
In migration
Tasting shapes
And drawing blood
From artistic wings
As freedom of flyway must
Still belong to the rule
Everything now is beautiful
Hopscotch
On sorted sidewalks
Ride the escalator instead
Up one floor
To the mezzanine
That panders to
The perversions of quiet girls
Innocence outshines
Experience
When the hemisphere is
Short on lifeboats
And late for school
Everything now is beautiful
The missing world
Beneath our feet
Is what the ocean
Tells us about ourselves
"From swerve of shore
To bend of bay"
Check the notes
In the margin
Postcards and maps
Depicting these dazzle ships
And the angry waters
They chart
Are always of
Skinny-dipping
Sea vessels
Her mons and ponds
Face-up
And full frontal
Everything now is beautiful
Dove taking
Swan keeping
We've power against dreams
We've articles of war
So this line is expendable
An anguish languish
Deep deep down
Turning with the wave
Against the sound
Where we sailed on from one love
To find another
As usual
Omnes una manet nox
(One night is awaiting us all)
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC
Where has it gone?
This singularity of a heartbeat
A moment of comfort and sadness
In which it was free to be aimless
Wandering in this present reality
There is a silent sign, forever bound
Where does it go?
Every second it passes by
For each and every word that sits
Idly on the tongues of perfect strangers
Worlds apart in heart and mind again
It's still a silent concept of a reality
Where has it been?
Staring down all in wait
Never a move backwards
Never a step to alter its weight
But the worth is far too precious to waste
And there's so little left to give away in this state
Where will it be?
When sought for in vain
Can it be found again to be bought?
Presented to those who have lost too much
To gain back what once was lost;
Well it’s lost, and lost again and again.
© 2014
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
We are as we are,
brush strokes in the
big picture on a
wall far away.
Manet or Monet or
was it Ted Hughes who
painted with words on
that wall
different views,
Do you confuse people with places
and know names
but not faces?
I am
unlacing the boots that
have paced many floors.
If memory serves me and it
probably should
I'd remember it all, the
artists
the wall,
making love at nightfall
as day broke
I'd remember the words that
we spoke.
your eyes so shockingly blue
If memory served me it would
serve me up you
again and again.
And the rain always stops me from drying the tears
they fall and appear on the far wall as
Sun spots
lots of them and
barefoot men,
boots on the rack by
the door.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
We are two Manet portraits,
Hanging in a Parisian gallery,
Expect I think I might be a forgery,
Only worth my frame,
I wish I were the real thing,
But instead, I am just
Your fraudulent imitation,
But I feel fine by your side -
You are Berthe Morisot,
Holding a Bunch of Violets,
And I am the Boy
Carrying a Sword -
And down the hall,
A da Vinci dissipates,
Oh, joy for our youth,
And at the other end,
A Warhol silkscreen
Waits in adolescence.
-Jamie F. Nugent
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Touch on
touch in
so much to think of
a drink to it
Anyways tired out days
pays
the line out
I'm on a time out
in the sin bin
Where does it begin to end?
fascination
Is the patination on the
questing mind.
I wear ear phones
being blind is no obstacle
to this
nor an obstacle to the lips
that kiss these lips of mine.
I thought times were the enemy
relentlessly crushing me
alternatively pushing me
to the fore
before all this
before the kiss
before I began to
become the touch
of a man
I
was a boy
planting dreams in
fields of..
..dreams of
Monet
Manet
can they change this?
I miss lots
but
mostly you when
I sleep
I keep this a secret
she gets it
everytime.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
It already happened
As we Rembrandt
The past
Monet mostly
Manet subtlety
We take a turn at Turner
Mix colors wisely
Coruscating joy
Blue, red; touch of green
Deep hue
Dip lightly
Dab the canvas softly
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC