"vermeer" poems
You
Have
A
Complicated
Smile
He
Informed
Me
Why
Is
That
?
How
To
Answer
A
Question
So
Simple
While
Truth
Is
So
Complex
How
Do
You
Explain
VerMeer’s
Obsession
Light
And
Dark
Einstein’s
Spooky
Action
At
A
Distance
Is
It
All
Intertwined
Or
Separately
Defined
Explain
Pain
Or
Fear
Anger
Or
Shame
Does
My
Loneliness
Look
Like
Yours
Or is it
Unique
In
All
The
Universe
When
I
Think
Feel
Want
See
Love
What
Does
It
Mean
Seem
Is
Be
To you
Is
It
Like
Mine
Or
Will
My
Dark
Conflict
With
Your
Light
Will
My
Truth
Scare
You
Off
Or did my
Smile
Already
Tell
You
All
You
Need
To
Know
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
"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
I wish I were Frida Kahlo's vibrant Mexican flowers
Or Salvador Dali's dripping watch
Van Gogh's maleficent moon
Warhol's saturated polaroid
Klimt's ****** lips
Or Vermeer's cornflower blue and singular pearl
But I am yet to make a stroke in ones historical
aesthetical
eye
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
when you're out of work
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined
take the respite resort word
the "weekend,"
when you are unemployed,
it starts on a Monday,
and runs seven days consecutive,
and the words
"week"and "end" can no longer be married,
for each,
just a new cuss word
when you're out of work,
the sweet small spaces of your home,
revised by the architect
of the mind,
somehow sudden, two sizes smaller,
fewer doors and windows,
light and air, hesitant to enter,
no Vermeer here,
staleness re-covers everything,
new is worn, and worn is
you
when you are fired,
you comprehend the word's meaning clearer,
now, your every thought feels like twelves cylinders firing,
you've become
furnaced, tempered,
dressed daily in an orange yellow colored
jumpsuit, with UNEMPLOYED
across a bent back,
self-censoring the spoken and the unspoken,
when you have no work,
everything important is twice the work,
believing, now a chore,
loving, a labor lost
when you're unemployed
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined,
many words excised,
so few required,
so few desired,
they as well,
rank, and unemployable,
and everything reads
left to right
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Kuharap ingatanku tidak
Berjalan mundur perlahan
Dengan keteguhan
Lalu berdiam
Melebur
Hancur
Seperti
Jam
Jam
Di
Ran
Ting
Ranting
Lukisan Dali
Kuharap aku
Disalib
Melayang
Tanpa
Lihat
Duka
Mu
Hantu-hantu
Vermeer
Dalam
Ruang
Ter
Tutup
Menjelma
Meja
Menopang
Detik
Demi
Detik
Dali,
Mungkin begitu
Seru dunianya
Tanpa kau di dalam sana
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
I want to fold up Constantinople
And tuck it in the crease of my pocket
With a rock and a harlequin opal,
Nestled against your map of Nantucket —
A keepsake framed by a tired locket.
Sunlight pours past panes like gold tapestries,
Blue-sky-checkmates belonging to Vermeer
And his Woman with a Balance — trophies:
A man crowned a chivalrous cavalier,
A gentleman of this tremendous sphere
Misunderstood by societal norms,
And expectations set by precedent.
All while a bird coos cucurucu, warmed
By yellow light, freed from discontented
Murmurs with song. I want to read segments
Of the map on the curved back of your hand,
Knuckle-mounds like the knees of a woman
You once said you loved between shorthanded
Compliments and the words of Walt Whitman —
Blanketed by a bible and a man.
Maybe our web-tangled thoughts coexist
With the sky, place our feet firm on the ground.
Or maybe they’re a window that insists
On temptations, the mind, rewritten sounds,
Coming alive, and wanting to be found.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
2nd to rise, she enquires
you ready for coffee?
it's only 6:22am
if you're having, I'm having...
she quiet disappears
thinking coffee's coming,
when to this layabout,
it occurs,
she's making
coffee in the ****
get up, make myself presentable,
track her,
the coffee aroma pulsating,
radar signal emitting
sure enough,
coffee in the ****
grinding, dripping...percolating
but what I see is
contrast and
definition
appliance white
stainless
steel chrome gleaming,
walnut wood cabinetry warming in
Vermeer sunlight window in-streaming,
a Chagall and Botticelli duet,
freshly filtered
thru a Manhattan sky
and flesh,
freshly filtered
flesh
is not a Crayola color,
or
if it is,
it's more a spectrum,
than a single shade
but this moment morning
flesh is more realized,
as if recognized for the first time,
by a newborn old timer,
who senses the
comprehension tension of circumspection
circumcised differentiation,
flesh knowledge gradation gained
this poem,
a first attempt at
painting a ****
in words
appreciating task enormity,
for there are currently
insufficient words,
too many striations,
all cannot be straitjacketed to the
vocabulary palette
this then,
but my first definition of many,
of
flesh
so many canvasses,
so many undiscovered shadings
awaiting
****** recognition definition,
composition
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:27 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
crowds and
paintings on the wall
each of it comes
as a background
to her prodigious story
even Vermeer can't stand out
because only her
slightest movement
catches his eye
in every
frame of existence.
she is
the best form
in a room full of art.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Teach me art
Teach me art appreciation,
Line and Texture,
Light and Composition,
Collage, Montage.
I 'll pay you in kind.
Teach you to write without saying
****
Teach you to see that beauty
You possess,
That it does not you,
Own,
Unless you let it.
Paint your nails,
Ask your therapist,
Does your coach know what I know?
That the talent and the vision swamped
Neath the necessary but overwhelming anger.
Write easy, be easy,
Let the light enter and fill the space
Like a Vermeer, open up by letting in,
Just one tiny window, all that's needed,
So if you teach me art,
I will teach you how to write a poem
About painting beauty buried within,
About anger, letting go.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
More paintings,
sketchings
copper plate etchings
I look and see them all,
and fall into
those hand picked scenes,
paintings,sketchings,
etching dreams.
Landseer,
Constable,
Turner,
Vermeer,
they're all here
selling their scenes
making my dreams
come true.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:59 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
Through the towns and country lanes
fortress walls and ancient stains
Roman treasures, aquaducts
the running bulls, a stroke of luck!
Cobblestone and feudal cracks
the culture weaves and summer smacks!
enchanted ramparts, medieval ruins
coliseums and communes
Aigues Mortes to Avignon
the rolling hills and castles strong
fields of grape and olive trees
cicadas singing on the breeze
Tranquil rivers, lost lagoons
horses prancing at high noon
flora and fauna in lofty decree!
say the sycamore and cypress tree
De Lumières in tomb-like calm
illuminating sounds of Brahm
Vermeer, Picasso and Van Goh
the ghosts of Voltaire and Rousseau
Les Baux-de-Provence's immersive stage
brush strokes wide from another age
chambers deep at quarry rock
the mesmerizing notes of Bach
Sacred figures, holy shrines
monestries in grand design
blocks, arches and polished stone
gladiators at the throne
Castle turrets and dungeon bars
the ancient bridge of Pont du Gard
chapel bells across la ville
spiral stairs where time stands still
Scrolls and chronicles filled with scars
church and state with dark memoirs
scholars, artists and dignitaries
in pursuit of God...and all his glory
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 12:00 PM UTC
I see you by the fence
Under the yellow Gulmohur;
The summer wind rustles the leaves
And your raven hair has come loose.
Is it night already?
In your orange dress and blue scarf
You have walked out of a painting
By Vermeer; The Street is silent.
If only I could kneel at your feet
And tear open my sorrowful heart.
But you turn to me and smile
And say something about the weather;
All I can do is mumble and nod
And say in a matter-of-fact way,
“It is going to be a fine day”.
Diptesh Ghosh
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
you need a moment, sometimes,
a moment can be a series
of seconds that add up to forty winks;
a moment of quite, time away from
the clamor and the crowd and the hungry
away from the brightness, the lights
and the demanding, and the conversations
and questions, and queries and routine
just away from people to think a little perhaps
to drop into the quiet of oneself
a moment in the chair, elbow on the table –
could have shut the door, you know,
so the creak will wake, alert you, maybe;
could have had a fruit (did you?),
or could have moved the spare chair round
so any intruder would have to move it
which would have served as ample warning
and you could’ve said: “Oh, how dusty in here,
just cleaning up, nearly finished…”
but maybe you’ve your own devices and stratagems
whatever, we’d just say now, looking at you
the way Vermeer’s left you for us, dear girl asleep,
you sleeping, retired into this quiet, into this room
in your corner, elbow on the table,
you in the chair, leaning sideways
we’d say, seeing you:
*you need a moment, sometimes,
a moment of quiet, time away –
hey, good on you…*
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
If you were Any Other Girl......
I wouldn't be writing this
If you were Any Other Grl......
All of these thoughts that stumble around my head like drunk men trying to find their way home wouldn't exist
And I say drunk men because it's easy to understand sober men
Yet these thoughts seem inexplicably intricate....
If you were Any Other Girl......
I'd be able to decipher all of these emotions and realize that after seven drafts of a poem I should probably give up on trying to explain that if I could I would nail my hands to the very stars themself if only it would give me a tongue crafted of pure gold....
Maybe then I'd be able to explain to every passing stranger how I can see a masterpiece in your very smile
If you were Any Other Girl.....
I wouldn't stumble over wanting to kiss you
If you were Any Other Girl.....
I wouldn't want to brush your hair back slowly, acting like a walking cliché in the desperate hope that your smile would inject my pitiful heart with enough courage to lean in and just be close to you
If you were Any Other Girl....
I would have kissed you a hundred times over
But you see the truth is that......
You're not Any Other Girl
You're gorgeous
Your smile seeps into me like water soaks into the parched land and gives it new life
Your hair seems to have a life of its own and I can't help but think that if you were Medusa's daughter, being turned into stone would be worth it because the last thing imprinted on my vision would be a walking artwork
And what I want you to know is that when you smile I feel the precious bud of bravery blossom within my chest
And I manage to convince myself that I will kiss the most beautiful girl I've ever had the privilege of knowing
Yet when confronted with a face as pure as a Mondrian painting
And more beautiful than a Vermeer or a Botticelli
Massive waves seem to form over me and I stand beneath behemoths of beauty and I laugh.....as these waves crash over me
My inconsequential bravery is washed away in the face of your beauty as I realize for the first time that this girl is....... worth the frustration
She is worth the wait
Worth the energy
Worth the embarrassment of letting an awkard attempt at a kiss melt into a more awkward hug....
But the simple truth is.....
You are not Any Other girl
You.
Are.
Worth.
The.
Journey.
And I can not wait to savour as much of it as I can with you
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
the flame that bends,
drawn by a vacuum,
kindle that carefully,
the nose of a dog,
with more glands,
and more glands,
than the human nose,
shows,
there are so many things,
too, where we are not the pinnacle yet
we thrive on and can be,
a guess at best, and include the unknown,
there is a foil
the unknown
has it as a foil,
but beware,
this one is a killer,
just ask the cat...
Have I got you ...
Or are you furious,
At how easy this was,
Try painting a Vermeer,
Using a mirror,
don't rush, use a brush too,
Do illusion, with light
refraction and reflection,
Tell me, after you see Penn and Tell..er,
Magic... illusion ...
Genius...all find a home,
it could fill a tome,
to define,
to expand,
on curiosity,
like thermal dynamics
and liquid viscosity,
or how do bumble bees fly?
and why are they dying,
I find this very trying,
in their hives, are they lying,
waiting for some human,
to ask the right question,
with a taste for sweet and honey, of creativity
so Dorothy Parker,
has said she is
better without these
love,
freckles,
doubt and
Curiosity?
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Alice had attitude.
Alice chose the wrong
Kind of men who ripped
Her off and beat her up
Now and then. Alice had
Her own wonderland, took
To drugs in a big way, saddled
Herself with bad health,
Brewed a baby inside,
But then it died, was
Scrapped and cleaned,
Brushed and groomed,
Sent to hospital for those
Unwell in mind, couldn’t
Fix her, couldn’t find what
Made her tick, nothing did
The trick. Alice had illusions.
Alice talked to angels in
Her room, conversed with
The dead inside her head,
Made love to phantom men
Who roamed her bed at will,
Wrote letters to her brother
Who lived with their mother
Who was ill, but he never replied
Because he’d died four years
Before and her mother had
Got better and went off
With her lover to Spain
And Alice never saw her again.
Alice painted pictures.
Alice painted in oils,
Painted the view from her
Window over and over,
Changed the colours,
Added things, altered
Shapes, signed her paintings
Vermeer or Van Gogh,
But never cut off her ear.
Alice had attitude. Alice
Chose the right kind of
Ghostly men who accompanied
Her around the hospital
And made love to her
In her head now and then.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
EEN GLAS MELK
(A GLASS OF MILK)
Here - the lady stops
pouring milk from her pitcher
turns and gasps
to see me see her
as she
is!
"Shooo!" she says in Dutch.
"You are not allowed in here!"
"Je bent hier niet toegestaan!"
in a blue and yellow voice.
And there a lady pauses
to read her letter
stops to see
me stare.
"Go away!"( she mouths )"Ga weg!"
But I am a child
and can enter anywhere
my mind takes me
inside this Vermeer
or whatever
paint offers.
I see them both
in the before and after
the moment
captured
not merely being
what the title says.
I put first one foot
over the gilded frame
then the other and
follow where
they go
I go
becoming molecule by molecule
the pigment that they are
living the life
of paint.
"Gee honey see
that shadow that
shadow there
looks like that little kid
that was here
only a moment
ago I
hold my breath
stand perfectly still until
the obese tourist
moves on
to the next(click!)pic.
"Oooh you!"
scolds Vermeer's lady
".You nearly got us caught!"
("Je hebt ons bijna betrapt!")
Then she laughs
toussels my curls
pours me
a glass of milk!
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
OF THE BEHOLDER
The eye
looked me in the eye.
I couldn't take my eyes
off of it.
It was a fine brown eye
sitting there in the pale sunshine
that grew paler by the second.
I knew I knew the eye
...somehow, but
- not how.
It seemed more
that the eye recognised me.
A fat raindrop
spattered on it.
Followed by another and
another.
Suddenly it seemed
that the eye that couldn't cry
was doing just that.
He picked the eye up
put it in his blazer's top pocket.
Only when he had walked
for an hour or more
did he know
who the eye belonged to.
It was a Vermeer.
That Vermeer with
the young girl turning
as if you had just
called her name.
Where the mouth is slightly open
as if she would answer you.
He wondered how
the eye had come to be
gazing up at him
begging to be
not abandoned.
He wondered where
the rest of the jigsaw
had gone and
why the eye
had seen him
as its only saviour.
He put the eye
in a clear glass frame
where it seemed
to float happily
a suspended being
staring back at me.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 6:58 PM UTC