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Array ( [sid] => 10037 [catid] => 1 [aid] => Mick [title] => Monet whispered [time] => 2003-01-09 04:40:00 [hometext] => [bodytext] => Massive bronze castings twelve feet high
Waited at the top of the marble stairs.
Doors you enter wondering, wondering if you will ever emerge.
No one to open them, no smiling face to welcome you,
Just eerily silent hinges swinging the great doors wide.
The national gallery is chiseled in the marble high above
And as you pass under and the doors swing shut
Light and dark play at your vision, with shadows and slashes
Of window lit marble and glowing white columns
Which reach to ceilings distant in the darkness.
Hallways stretch left and right, with more marble columns
And stone floors draped in red woven rugs.
Even the flowers surrounding the fountains seem cold,
As people pass in silent wanderings wearing
The emotionless faces of morticians with rolled up sleeves.
The stark early American exhibits are black and uninviting,
And the Dutch masters softly warn you away.
But to my right Monet whispers
“Quickly, you fool, before they see you smile!”
And with his hand pressed upon my back
I stumble into the lightness of day.
I am a young man at a Mexican brothel
And all the senioritas smell so sweet!
Transfixed at the joy right before me,
Yet yearning for the painting two steps away.
And so I moved, and moved, measuring my time
Between two hundred year old mistresses.
Finally, having tasted each kiss, I sat
Between the two that smelled like morning.
On my right, the Japanese footbridge.
The water lilies draw you in,
Into reflections a moment from night.
Colors and shape Filtered like memories into the essence.
The flowers on the right Creep upon the bridge,
A blemish of perspective.
Time steals, so beauty is forced to rush.
Patience is impossible when your mind is maddened by the undone,
And His unfaithful brush Lusted new canvas Bare but for his dreams.
And so he left a beauty mark. Something to show
It was man and not Nature’s doing.
It is a smile for the next painting
And a plea that he might paint it.
To my left was the woman. The love, joy and fire.
The woman with the parasol, madam Monet and her son.
Of all the intangibles, the things we adore,
What brands itself into the mind as that one defining feature?
Madam Monet had no doubt.
Beautiful, with child at her side,
Parasol held to the sun, she whirled,
Her skirt dancing past center and tickling the ankle deep grass
As she fired him a look that demanded
An end to this pose.
And that was it. The moment he captured, the moment he chose.
Those impatient eyes had captured his dreams,
those impatient eyes were all he could see.
With fury and haste he laid love on canvas,
perfection for her and for all time to see.
You can feel the elation, the rush to end
And see his hand slashing with widened bold strokes
As the clouds take shape and frame her form
And she walks the child with his hands in his pockets
Back to their home without glancing the painting.
As I walk out of the room and smile at the guard
And retrace my steps to the giant brass doors
That you enter wondering if you will ever emerge
I realize only part of me will.
[comments] => 3 [counter] => 193 [topic] => 43 [informant] => darkeyedman [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )

Monet whispered

Contributed by darkeyedman on Thursday, 9th January 2003 @ 04:40:00 AM in AEST
Topic: oops

Massive bronze castings twelve feet high
Waited at the top of the marble stairs.
Doors you enter wondering, wondering if you will ever emerge.
No one to open them, no smiling face to welcome you,
Just eerily silent hinges swinging the great doors wide.
The national gallery is chiseled in the marble high above
And as you pass under and the doors swing shut
Light and dark play at your vision, with shadows and slashes
Of window lit marble and glowing white columns
Which reach to ceilings distant in the darkness.
Hallways stretch left and right, with more marble columns
And stone floors draped in red woven rugs.
Even the flowers surrounding the fountains seem cold,
As people pass in silent wanderings wearing
The emotionless faces of morticians with rolled up sleeves.
The stark early American exhibits are black and uninviting,
And the Dutch masters softly warn you away.
But to my right Monet whispers
“Quickly, you fool, before they see you smile!”
And with his hand pressed upon my back
I stumble into the lightness of day.
I am a young man at a Mexican brothel
And all the senioritas smell so sweet!
Transfixed at the joy right before me,
Yet yearning for the painting two steps away.
And so I moved, and moved, measuring my time
Between two hundred year old mistresses.
Finally, having tasted each kiss, I sat
Between the two that smelled like morning.
On my right, the Japanese footbridge.
The water lilies draw you in,
Into reflections a moment from night.
Colors and shape Filtered like memories into the essence.
The flowers on the right Creep upon the bridge,
A blemish of perspective.
Time steals, so beauty is forced to rush.
Patience is impossible when your mind is maddened by the undone,
And His unfaithful brush Lusted new canvas Bare but for his dreams.
And so he left a beauty mark. Something to show
It was man and not Nature’s doing.
It is a smile for the next painting
And a plea that he might paint it.
To my left was the woman. The love, joy and fire.
The woman with the parasol, madam Monet and her son.
Of all the intangibles, the things we adore,
What brands itself into the mind as that one defining feature?
Madam Monet had no doubt.
Beautiful, with child at her side,
Parasol held to the sun, she whirled,
Her skirt dancing past center and tickling the ankle deep grass
As she fired him a look that demanded
An end to this pose.
And that was it. The moment he captured, the moment he chose.
Those impatient eyes had captured his dreams,
those impatient eyes were all he could see.
With fury and haste he laid love on canvas,
perfection for her and for all time to see.
You can feel the elation, the rush to end
And see his hand slashing with widened bold strokes
As the clouds take shape and frame her form
And she walks the child with his hands in his pockets
Back to their home without glancing the painting.
As I walk out of the room and smile at the guard
And retrace my steps to the giant brass doors
That you enter wondering if you will ever emerge
I realize only part of me will.

Copyright Â© darkeyedman ... [ 2003-01-09 04:40:00]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Monet whispered (User Rating: 1 )
by venkat on Thursday, 9th January 2003 @ 06:14:37 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Wow, The poem it self is a wonderful painting, "the love joy and fire' strikingly beautiful in your poem....keep them coming on..venkat.

Re: Monet whispered (User Rating: 1 )
by OreO on Thursday, 9th January 2003 @ 09:49:05 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Wow jim....i enjoyed this one alot....this was great...thanks for sharing this one...
.:*~*:.OreO.:*~*:.

Re: Monet whispered (User Rating: 1 )
by darkeyedman on Thursday, 9th January 2003 @ 05:22:45 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

thanks oreo, but im going to have to rewrite this. it was a mistake to incorporate the footbridge poem into it. i just wrote it yesterday, and i originally wrote the japanese footbridge poem to be part of a larger work, so i tried. but i think it distracts from the rest. jim

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