"millais" poems
Love is this...
.......
............
,,,,,
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night under a casino wheel of stars
..........or else a Tempest of Soul loud as a fishmonger
...............99p cola bottles & lonesome underdogs
.............that time you laughed on helium
... 'fuck me' neon signs in the street
...................sweet onion breath delirium
.................Millais's Ophelia all wasted & peeling from suburban billboards.
......................the time Virginia Woolf drowned & all the birds
forgot how to sing in Greek.
..............are we there yet
..............are we feeling the beat, beat, beat
..............of this raindrop
.........................do we need postage stamps.
................................why is your neighbor called Pete.
.........why did you kick a dog, Mamma.
............nothing is that which is understood
............why are you staring at this poem.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Desires vs. Reality
4/14/2014
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather, I'm starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad.
There's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to notice that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean, I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I suppose I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town.
In these walls.
In me.
However, now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it, for now.
Potential.
I want, so badly, to be able to paint like Millais.
I want, so badly, to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want, so badly, to explore, and be ever so determined and inspired, as Darwin.
I want, so badly, to dazzle and dance across the screen, like Hayworth and Astaire.
But, alas, I can do none of these things.
I am just a girl. Nothing special. Least not to anyone else.
I cannot be what I long to be, and it breaks my heart.
I cannot paint, or dance, or sing-
but I can breathe!
and live!
and write!
Though maybe no good at all, by God, I will write!
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God, nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights, and fifty eyes on upon me.
I may not be who I dream to be, but ****** I will continue to be until the stars pluck me from the Earth and dance with me.
Until my feet are lifted off the Earth, and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter.
Or Venus.
Or Saturn.
And there, I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer!
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn!
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson!
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly!
And I shall dine with a thousand queens, and lay in the silkiest of sheets!
But until then, I shall simply live.
I shall live a life devoted to words, and I promise to write whenever inspired, and dance whenever music plays, and sing, as loudly as I please, simply because I can.
And I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And I promise to be kind to the universe.
And lastly, I promise to live,
and breathe,
and be,
because,
well,
the universe does indeed have plans for me.
Copyright © 2014 Scarlet Van Allen
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Of every death
Preceding this moment in time
As I stand before a painting
Of a young woman hanging drowned
In a scene inlayed
With thoughtless flowers,
Which death is it,
Exactly,
That renders Millais' Ophelia
With its beauty?
The work alone has form:
Flora, depth, the colour of minute lights
And the image has concept:
A woman, dead in water.
Ophelia lives in an image and a play:
One moment, one story
Resting on the temporal slopes
Of this painted pinnacle of signs.
Why did Shakespeare write
About a woman pushed to suicide
By the death of her father,
At the hands of a heroic lover feigning Spiritual vacancy
At the request of his own undead parent?
Does every woman share this fate,
Or is it fantasy -
Attaining psychic substance
Through a kind of impossible insanity?
In other words:
Is Ophelia's death,
So chosen by Millais
And Shakespeare in turn
(Whose names are poetry)
A mimetic echo of a million mortal moments?
Or is it the prophecy of a time yet to come
For which death has been moulded
In a looping narrative cast,
Made into a word describing
Some sacred foreseen feature -
Which is it:
Does meaning sink into the past
Or fly into the future?
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Take my hand in yours.
Show me Nocturne: Blue and Gold.
Comment on how the blue of the Thames fading to grey
Reminds you of my sad moods.
Slip in the fact that Whistler was born in the state where I grew up,
And died in the country that you call home.
Make it seem like fate, not coincidence.
Show me Newton.
Talk about Blake’s offense at deism.
Watch the mention of religion skitter past my ears
And right over my head.
Show me Norham Castle, Sunrise.
We’ll squint to make out shapes hidden by sun rays,
But it will only blur more.
We’ll take a few steps back and will see it clearly,
Before strangers obstruct our view.
I’ll comment on how the colours look like that of a child’s nursery.
Show me The Awakening Conscience.
I’ll ask you what you think is happening.
You’ll say that you don’t know.
I’ll point out the absence of a ring on her finger,
A mistress, she was.
She longs for something else.
Annie Miller’s beauty encapsulated in a single painting,
Her own life reflected for a moment.
Show me Beata Beatrix.
I’ll gasp with pleasure,
Recite bits of my favourite Rossetti poems for you to hear.
I’ll tell you the story of Rossetti and Lizzie Siddal,
And though you’ve heard it before,
You listen as though you haven’t.
Show me Ophelia.
Kiss my cheek as I gaze upon it, wide-eyed.
Tell me that I am as fair as Ophelia herself,
And I will smile while I marvel in Lizzie’s grace,
Better depicted by Millais
Than by her own husband.
As we leave
And pass the statue of Millais himself,
We shall embark on our own Shakespearean adventure.
To meet Ophelia’s fate,
Content and unaware of danger
Then drowned all at once,
I pray we refrain.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather,
I'm,
starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad,
there's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to realize that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean,
I suppose I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town,
in these walls,
in me.
However,
now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it.
For now.
Potential.
I just,
I want,
so badly,
to paint like Millais.
I want,
so badly,
to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want,
so badly,
to be ever so determined and inspired as Darwin.
I want,
so badly,
to sing and dance across the stage like Hayworth and Astaire.
But alas,
I can do none of those things.
I am just a girl.
Nothing special.
Least not to anyone else.
I cannot paint,
or dance,
or sing.
But I can live,
and breathe,
and write!
Though maybe no good at all,
by God,
I will write.
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights,
and 50 eyes upon me.
I may not be who I dream to be,
but ******
I will continue to be,
until the stars pluck me from this Earth and dance with me.
Until my feet are lifted off the ground,
and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter,
or Venus,
or Saturn.
And there,
there,
I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer.
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn.
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson.
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly.
And I shall dine with a thousand queens,
and lay in the silkiest of sheets!
But until then,
I shall simply live.
I shall live a life devoted to words,
and I promise to write whenever inspired,
and dance whenever music plays,
and sing as loudly as I please,
simply because I can.
And I promise to be kind to the universe,
and I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And above all,
I promise to live.
And breathe.
And be.
Because,
well.
The universe does indeed have plans for me.
© 2014 Rembrin Hawke
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespeare’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lie here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia’.
That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.
Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.
Shall we poetize?
I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.
It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.
A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, ******** clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
.
Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 3:50 PM UTC
Music background:
Mendelssohn Violin Concerto no.2.
Figure: two beggar sisters
Background: autumn, double rainbow, butterfly, accordion, birds, horses, cattle, and sheep
Scene: a large meadow
_________
Not far from the painter’s window
two beggar
sisters sitting in a large meadow
He whistles the birds’ melody,
the distant mountain,
he sees horses and cattle lowing,
after thunderstorm, autumn day
The painter silently watches the two sisters
Has she finished playing and dropping her little accordion without noticing?
Will her sister tell the blind girl double rainbows in the darkening sky?
Wind heavily blowing at the worn-clad pair
And he sees the red haired blind girl gently hold her sister
Can you tell me of these autumn colours?
The painter sees the double rainbow across the eastern sky
He swiftly sketches through the window
He paints his heart sympathic love
Will the blind girl feel joyous like yellow?
Perfumes dark green,
vibrant like red enrich their hope
Where the double rainbow appears in the eastern sky
The painter paints his inner calm,
butterfly tranquil mauve.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
The dame in front of you
in the Italian cafe
with the Pre-Raphaelite hair,
stirs memories
of the Brotherhood
and college,
and the tale
of Liz Siddel
posing for Ophelia
in a bathtub
full of water
in winter,
afterwards getting
very ill and severe cold
or pneumonia;
her old man
blamed Millais
and threatened
legal action,
so Millais paid
the doc's bills.
The dame is slim,
slim hands,
fingers holding
the mug of coffee.
You study her
momentarily,
sipping your latte.
Tale bellezza,
tale bellezza.
Then some older dame
comes in,
and they hug
then they both leave.
You sip and stare,
wishing
she was still there.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC