Two poems today. First, a silly little piece about writing. Then a nonsensical A to Z poem with each letter of the alphabet the first letter of an artist's surname.
If you're looking for Music Monday, it is the previous post.
In the village square
they’re selling metaphors.
The stalls are full of farmers
peddling their fresh-cut similes.
The merchants barter with passers-
by. Two insinuations for the price
of one. That allusion can be yours
for half-price – it’s tainted
by cliché. The skilled craftsmen
offer their shiny themes,
their finely woven plots
to only those who are wealthy
with words. Their clientele
are the select few, rich
in grammar and syntax.
In the distance,
in the fields,
the peasants observe the bustling
market with the jealousy
of the illiterate.
I filled Archipenko’s void.
I trampled Bosch’s garden.
I called C.M.’s bluff.
Degas attended the ballet. Escher
Climbed the stairs. Lucian stepped
From his grandfather’s shadow.
I escaped to Tahiti with Gauguin.
I was Hopper’s solo diner.
I sided with Itten at the Bauhaus.
I buried Jorn in Stalingrad.
Kirchner, on the bridge, watched
Lichtenstein drown. Michelangelo
Did his best work on his back.
I plowed Newman’s color field.
I burned O’Keefe’s flower.
I mourned with Picasso in Guernica.
I died with Quay in the Barbus.
Rivera turned left at the crossroads.
Seurat soaked in the tub. Long story
Short, T-L got drunk at the Moulin Rouge.
Utrillo haunts me in a forgery.
I went mad with Van Gogh at Arles.
I wasted Warhol’s fifteen minutes.
I came, I saw, I heard Xenakis at Expo ’67.
Yalter ironed my wrinkles.
Zadkine rebuilt the destroyed city.