"matisse" poems
Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.
All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.
Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.
The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.
4.3k
We visited an art museum today
“The Guggenheim” with it’s white spiraling architecture
I felt slightly cultured as I flipped through a book detailing an artist whose last name I vaguely recall started with a Q
Conveniently forgetting the very reason for my presence in that room being to charge my phone
Feeling educated as I recognize the names Matisse, Lautrec from my brief intro to art history courtesy of our overly enthusiastic design teacher
Basking in my elegance, taking petit little bites, of a macaroon in a cafe outside the museum
...Before noisily slurping my blood red ice tea
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 7:48 PM UTC
i was walking around
in the Tate
on the Thames Embankment
London that day
it was hot hot hot
the heat haze
shimmered
above the river
like the sweat
that rose off my back
i saw you
all mixed up
with Picasso's
misplaced eyes
in Malaga blue
long necks,
curved limbs askew
morning balconies
the sculpture of a goat
made of a basket
***** ram
with a bicycle seat
we weren't allowed to ride
i kept thinking
of painted naked flesh
Velasquez, Degas, Matisse
and flying to Malaga,
Barcelona, Granada,
Paris, Venice, New York
all the cities we could **** in
over and over and over
if we ran off
together right then
any cheap hotel room
with a bed
and a shower
would do
we could give up
on looking at art
completely
screaming
meaningless
poems
words
endless
passionate
words
consumed
by life
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
The calm rolled over our bodies, a lake with no waves,
the birds sang their song.
It was in that crystal moment that I realized that this wasn't going away.
The feeling grows, the song is a chorus, the evening sky
a Matisse, vivid and dynamic.
The cupids dance.
Your hair and skin radiating and me with a grin.
You are Venus and me, I'm the moon.
Venus, I love you.
KT April 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
4 little steps to one.
8 little steps to his two.
Rustling leaves, and
A full harvest moon.
The price of walking late at night,
Or early in the morning -
Freshly spun cobwebs,
Dew on your shoes.
Little leaf shoots,
Springing into view.
Stillness, and quiet
That honors the day,
Frames the fear and
Freezes the anxiety,
Transforming them into
a vibrant Matisse.
Expressions of self are
On the way. Freed from
The frenzy of coffee brain
By fresh air, and nature.
Because each meme has value,
and brought together,
they are profound.
All tasks have a purpose,
All things have a sound.
The woosh of the wind,
The crackle of dry leaves.
The crunch of cold
Beneath my feet.
This is not a straight path.
This path is cyclical -
Living one day at a time,
One walk at a time,
These moments are mine.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
When my daughter asks me to French braid her hair
I will smile with my eyes and tell her
to sit criss-cross applesauce on her bedroom carpet,
letting silk tresses flow down her back,
beckoning to be weaved into everything
I still do not know
how to tell her
I will paint her the colors of the past
upon the beaming canvases of her eyes,
the colors of Matisse, and Monet,
Rembrandt’s best,
I will teach her to find devotion
in the security of her own skin,
music in the way she weeps quietly to herself
when she gives away all her love
to a world who cannot accept it
And one day,
long after the braids have been released,
I will wipe away her tears and tell her
that the masquerade is over,
that sometimes, baby girl,
the festivities will hush
but the carnival always comes
around again in the summer
She nods
with inherited apprehension,
she does not believe me
Darling, my darling,
you do take after your mother
after all
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Artists and models,
pimps and prostitutes,
writers and muses,
the noted and the nameless,
in stark black and white.
Under the street lamp,
A stout woman with a dangling cigarette,
her shadow trailing into the dark.
I need a warm place to stay tonight.
On the banks of the Seine,
The lamplighter, making his rounds,
creates the mystery of night
Stairs leading down the hill,
into the fog, into the night.
Gas lamps lighting the way,
for someone who is yet to come.
Lovers in a brightly lit cafe,
sharing a drink and a kiss,
a stolen moment,
oblivious to all else.
Rain and the street glistens
adorned by umbrella blossoms.
Long shadows cast by a rainy city garden.
Matisse and his models.
The Four Arts Ball,
Henry Miller, Picasso,
The Follies-Bergere,
The master himself,
eye to camera,
cigarette dangling,
snap-brim in place,
calf length overcoat on a Parisian street,
recording life as it passes by
A time machine, a graphic history,
all is there for us.
The Paris of our dreams.
Nov 15, 2021
Nov 15, 2021 at 10:50 AM UTC
There is nowhere to hold this, and it is heavy.
We drink coffee in white, square mugs
on the fifth ***** step.
I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach.
You do not care about hydration.
You are covered in so much paint
you look like Matisse in a fender-bender.
You look sore all the way down to your fingers.
The bed in the opposite room won't be yours,
but could be.
I lope around nauseous on the mornings
I don't work. I light candles that jump
with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark
unholy early.
I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there,
the newly living.
The loud neighbour,
the considerate neighbour,
the ******* dogs.
I open the bedside drawer.
No Gideon hotel bibles.
Condoms, picture frames,
instructions for a washing machine.
No Bibles.
Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy -
or in my pockets.
And sometimes I drag it behind me,
like wedding cans on a bachelor's car,
filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware,
threaded cotton of towels
too often used without washing
and wine bottle bones.
And somebody once told me not to paint a
room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime,
and I could **** well sleep in here,
and sometimes do.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC
He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.
Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.
And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;
And some objected: "Well, I'm jiggered!"
What price Picasso and Matisse?
The artist sensitively quivered,
And stifled many a bitter sigh,
But day by day his hopes were shivered
For no one ever sought to buy.
And then he had a brilliant notion:
Half of his daubs he labeled: SOLD.
And lo! he viewed with queer emotion
A public keen and far from cold.
Then (strange it is beyond the telling),
He saw the people round him press:
His paintings went - they still are selling...
Well, nothing succeeds like success.
1.4k
Solid in his darkness
Surrounded by stars
He is attempting to soar
He has little grace
Maybe the determination of wings
And his head fixed on his anticipated launch
But perhaps he has already fallen so many years before
Maybe he is old now
Failing to fly so many times
Feathers melted by the starry furnaces
Falling, Falling
Still his heart,
His glowing soul
Has not yet abandoned
Hope for the skies.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 3:43 AM UTC
Bold simplicity
Bright and soft flowing tendrils
Aquatic glory
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
HEART GALLERY
You step forth
from your bath
as if you were
a Bonard
come alive
spread yourself
across crisp cool sheets
as sensationally
sensuous
as a Modigliani
****
or a Noguchi
sculpture.
Here, you
Matisse
if only
for a brief
moment now so
Ernst!
Now so
playfully Picasso...ish!
I smile
as you Vermeer!
"Come here
& kiss me!"
You my Magritte!
You my Dali!
You my laughing walking talking
'art gallery!
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I've never been much of an artist,
but I will paint a portrait
of kisses on your chest,
if you let me.
Matisse has nothing on
the beauty the comes from
the collision of
my lips and your neck,
your lips and my neck.
We are paintbrush and canvas,
both.
The curvature of your lips
belongs in a museum.
I'm keeping it
for my private collection.
My awe cements me
to the bed.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
I wish I could run to end of the cosmos
Just reach the reluctant intellectuals
Just so I could catch a glimpse of them ducking out of the limelight
I wouldn’t bother asking them
It wouldn’t do any good
They wouldn’t have much to say
They’d be a bit focused sticking to their morals
And criticizing the museums
Tell them to open up just a little bit
So that way everyone could rush in
Empty canvas in hand
Or typewriters
Or a marble slab waiting for them
They’d rush in
Bringing a beautiful fire to everything else
Explaining themselves to Matisse and Greco
Mona Lisa and Caravaggio would understand though
At least I think so
Van Gogh laughing in utter delight
The fire would burn all the glitz and convention
But all the passion
Emotion
Angst
Uncontemplated beauty would shine brighter than ever before
Some observers would go insane
Climbing up to the top of skyscrapers
Jumping off
Screaming, on their way down
DUCHAMP
Conning the police out of their guns
Putting it to their head
Walking into the middle of the street
Welcoming the buses with open arms
And I know you want to save those people
But it’s not up to you
We’ll see them again someday
Hopefully they’ll understand it then
Don’t cry for them, though
Look at all the others
Running through the streets
Naked
Without shame
Greeting their friends from so many years ago
As they stand in front of Rothko and he looks into both of their eyes
And they stare back trying to let themselves be encircled
With smiles
That shine like halos
As they look at their sisters
Without lust
And with compassion
While they express their enthusiasm for jazz
And sing as loud as trumpets
Dancing as fast as a piano
I’m finished crying for the dinosaurs
Or feeling guilty for Christ
I jump into the smile of the moon
I spread my arms wide open in front of the sun
Just to let him know that he’s welcome
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:06 AM UTC
My curves are not mad.
Henri Matisse, Jazz
when silence gives away its name
birds become electric
darkness is no more a story
in their wooden beaks
I stay at the beginning of thought,
decelerate reality
again and again
bread, pain, blindness
truth visits me in my dreams
sometimes
between desire & dying
shortcuts, blind alleys
Shangri-La and Valhalla
Nirvana & the hunting ground
Guadalupe
untitled self-portraits
fast heights
blinds & shutters
Spinoza's abyss
the chasm of reason
Kant's please mind the gap
pits of harmony
barren grounds
Prigogine's broken circle
lost aesthetic qualities
and the bit moves on
when silence is an unfinished canvas
waters, faces make an offering
and their names grow
when I am confused with the possibility
of the sea level
then I know where
my love
is
splitting every single second
is beauty
unadorned
could I remove the decimal point
from my dying breath
?
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
as the sun comes rushing in
through the cracks in the window, with a Matisse-like sheen,
a witch ponders over her natural, self-made enemy;
her trees are topsy turvy,
her entrails are unfurling.
as she careens into arms unfolding,
her breath mist was captured by Rodin
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
Blue **** figuerines
Wonderfully poised and serene
Simple yet perfect
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Give me a Sarie tone poem
like light on a Monet haystack,
or Brazillian Astrud like a Matisse line.
Let me lie down in a half-shuttered room
in the south of France with Matisse
and the soft flutter
of heavy -feathered white doves,
their mild calls.
Only a little time, Henri,
before Picasso will come with his big boots.
We should take our afternoon.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin - find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that that was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
You are my Masterpiece
After you all other inspiration decease
Like the Mona Lisa to Da Vinci
Or the Harmonie Bleue to Matisse
A beautiful work of art
Your perfection is your best part
Name is Michael but I aspire to be your Michelangelo
You're missed in Heaven I can feel the other angels woe
For them i shed a tear
But losing you is my greatest fear
Im every thing with you nothing without you
So valuable that just the mentioning of your name is a taboo
Girl you're more valuable than a Picasso
You deserve the best, so I hang you in my castle
Of my heart, You is the main piece
So I guess that's why I call you my MasterPiece
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 3:01 AM UTC
!HEART GALLERY!
You step forth
from your bath
as if you were
a Bonard
come alive
spread yourself
across crisp cool sheets
as sensationally
sensuous
as a Modigliani
****
or a Noguchi
sculpture.
Here, you
Matisse
if only
for a brief
moment now so
Ernst!
Now so
playfully Picasso...ish!
I smile
as you Vermeer!
"Come here
& kiss me!"
You my Magritte!
You my Dali!
You my laughing walking talking
'art gallery!
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
You are my Masterpiece
After you all other inspiration decease
Like the Mona Lisa to Da Vinci
Or the Harmonie Bleue to Matisse
A beautiful work of art
Your imperfections is your best part
I wish to be your Michelangelo
You belong in the heaven I can feel the angels' woe
For them I shed a tear
But losing you is my greatest fear
I'm everything with you... Noting without you
Your so rare that just the mentioning of your name is taboo
Girl you're more valuable than a Picasso
You deserve the best so I place you in my castle
And of my heart you are the main piece
So I guess thats why I call you my "Master"Piece...
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
It was too silent like as if John cage
were playing the piano
and no one felt safe
someone threw up in the dark
the alcohol in me came to quickly
and stars brightened and the streets turned to waves of light
Monet or was it Matisse
I believe Monet was dead
and Matisse was laughing his
head off while painting the drunk street
into his mind of colours
jazz kills opera
****** becomes a fad
the spider dreams of its
teeth in flesh
little girls dance
on the stage
and the mothers will cry
with their veins popping
out their forehead from cheering
the little girls do not hear
the cheers
it’s silent as john cage finishes
his piece
and now we can hear the clapping
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC