"modigliani" poems
she moving moveless
with big pleading eyes
like fruit orbs
fetched in molasses
full of grace
stretched out her long neck
like a Modigliani
and ravished him
with cautionless lips
lush
and fluted throat
like a scorched desert
deranged for monsoons cloudburst
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing
as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed
the colour, the waves, the
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with
the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.
He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind
her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross
without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress
who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding
an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;
hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.
He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,
the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just
gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,
if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.
They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
He’s only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn’t come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.
She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over
the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother
would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman’s coffee; he notes the
waitress’s fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman
in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,
as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he’s not;
he’s away with that girl from the office,
having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before *** She looks boringly
away. He sips more latte. He doesn’t like
her white hat or black dress anyway.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
#7 from Geo-Bestiary
O that girl, only young men
dare to look at her directly
while I manage the most side-long of glances:
olive-skinned with a Modigliani throat,
lustrous obsidian hair, the narrowest
of waists and high french bottom, ample
******* she tries to hide in a loose blouse.
Though Latino her profile is from a Babylonian
frieze and when she walks with her small white dog
with brown spots she fairly floats along,
looking neither left nor right, meeting no one's
glance as if beauty was a curse. In the grocery
store when I drew close her scent was jacaranda,
the tropical flower that makes no excuses.
The geezer's heart swells stupidly to the dampish
promise. I walk too often in the cold shadow
of the mountain wall up in the arroyo behind the house.
Empty pages are dry ice, numbing the hands and heart.
If I weep I do so in the shower so that no one,
not even I can tell. To see her is to feel
time's cold machete against my grizzled neck,
puzzled that again beauty has found her home in threat.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:47 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 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.
Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.
to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.
Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
Precarious eggs on crooked roads that lead from
The clavicle cleft
of triangle bends and
breaks
Into flesh.
Weighty heads toppling over from
Too much weeping against war
Melancholy Amadeo
mustered from angles and refracted light
The rose blossoms of a youthful cheek
And from cheek to chin, sharp angles reflecting fractal transformations
Triangle
Egg
Snake
The sinewy curve of a young woman’s
Nape
And ever so subtle blushes on ***** and face
How do shadows fall
So subtly?
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 9:37 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 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
my life ends here / on a Sunday’s evening
after the cross and the globe on the church’s steeple became cooler
I have never felt more non-pain non-love non-fear
the asphalt feels empty and dull for my soles / the resounding box lost its echo
I step further asymmetrically / my soul is slanting / I have no better thing to do
than to stare at people right into the whole / the full of them
without any thought
only the shadow of my elbow embraces other shadows
en passant
silhouette after silhouette
Modigliani’s women / Brâncuşi’s magic birds
la dolce morte della luce
everything flows into thoughts / thoughts into other thoughts even Charon’s boat
and right now my lips paralyzed to stop me from proving something
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
shinin' rain fallin'
from a cataract blue...
blind ends on down.
Modigliani's eyes
of Jeanne Hebuterne.
lost in a forehead's
kiss...her eye made
single.
the lamp that lit the
canvas.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
Never painted you
Did not live that long
But would have
Caught your
Perfection
With his imperfect line.
I would have been jealous
Fool that I am
But hung your nakedness
On the wall forever
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
On an island dressing
for a thousand more,
on a beach at low tide
walking the shore,
feeling like Crusoe
or the pen of Defoe
the thoughts come and go
like the days,
and they're speaking German
which
I don't understand
I want my Mother not the
Fatherland.
What love,
A pearl from some Eastern eye
Delhi or maybe Mumbai
like a painting by
Modigliani
she haunts me.
The islands slip into the bays
the days follow on behind.
She's still there on the canvas
with those eyes that shadow
and I become a shadow
too.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
There must be something in modern art to
appease the hunger of this old ****
but I munch on a Munch
have lunch with Picasso
Modigliani joins me
with Manet and Monet
and hey
isn't that Michelangelo
with a chisel in hand
coming
to carve into this little
band.
When sated please dry
under that
marmalade sky
give Lucy, Debussy
and
we shall have music.
there in the face of an old master,
lined by poverty and emotional
disaster
is the world as it was to him
and
to me as I see it.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC