Tag Archives: art

Dim

Pixels, organised in rows and columns
Charcoal, pushed by dark and light
Acrylics, messily patterned by colour

I still don’t know what she thinks

Today’s prompt on napowrimo.net: “I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that looks at the same thing from various points of view.”

I looked around my room for inspiration, and noticed a drawing I worked on yesterday. It is based on a picture, and I’ve also painted her. Writing this poem made me realise what’s missing.

Juna Lady Charcoal

Juna Lady picture

Wounded angel

The angel was blindfolded, but she knew her fate

“Why do we bury her alive?”
the boy asked
“What did she do?”

The angel was grateful to be carried

“Why us?”
the boy moped
“I wanted Beelzebub,
not a stupid girl.”

“She wounded him pretty badly”
his companion said
“I lost money on that bet!”

I know I wanted to write a poem when I saw this painting. What I don’t know is how I came across the painting. Was it a prompt somewhere? Was it on the app on my phone called Daily art (highly recommend if you’re into art, they come up with both well knows and unknown masterpieces)?

There’s more I don’t know. Did I read A Time to Every Purpose Under Heaven (called A Time for Everything in the US) by the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgård before I wrote this? That book is so strange that you can’t look at an angel the same way after reading it.

The painting holds a sense of mystery, so I guess it fits that my memory is blurred. I’m posting this poem for #NaPoWriMo say 28 in the hope that as many people as possible get to see the beautiful painting by Hugo Simberg: The wounded angel (1903)

Outside in

Outside the clear glass bowls
are listening into space
collecting rain water

Inside a colourful noise invites me
to go inside, dig deeper
and find what’s within me

The visions compete
though their frames warn them
to mind their own business

Visitors avoid digging
by taking the audio tour

Goosebumps in the shade
The wind chills my thoughts

The glare of the glass bowls blinds me

IMG_1961

I was happily surprised to find myself the featured participant on napowrimo.net today (day 17). It’s an honour, and it brought new readers to my site, so I was thrilled!

Thank you all for visiting here, reading and for leaving your likes and kind words. This has been a happy day!

—————

I was away for much of the day (the sauna, yay!) and haven’t had the chance to work on today’s promt: to use a special dictionary as a starting point. Hopefully tomorrow. Look at how beautiful thsi prompt can work out: https://benitakape.wordpress.com/2016/04/17/back-when-i-napowrimo-2016-day-17/

Today’s poem is one I found in my note book. In my own handwriting, but I couldn’t remember writing it. But the glass bowls got me thinking, and after a while I remembered a visit to the Singer Museum in Laren. This picture shows how this poem started. Sitting in the beautiful museum garden, looking at my beautiful surroundings.

The picture shows the art work Drie Balansen by Bert Frijns. The beautiful picture of it was taken by a blogger called Maria-levenin Almere.

There’s no art in that

napowrimo1I guess it’s too late to be a farmer
now that my hands are tied
to the hind legs
of a raging bull

He’s constrained now
but he won’t be
in a minute
when the gates open
after they’ve prodded his balls
with a pitchfork
to

Well, do I need to explain that?

The peasants did not take my art too well
They mind pictures of naked women raping bulls
in their butt hole
more than they mind real life violence

Ultraviolence?
There’s no art in that

I guess it’s too late to be a farmer

sculpture-rape-europa-out2

On day 12 I wrote a palinode for this poem:  a poem in which the poet retracts a statement made in an earlier poem. It’s called There’s art in that.

More images on this subject can be found on http://www.fscclub.com/muse/sculpture-rape-europa-e.shtml

She craved vision

Her eyes were thirsty
for paintings
she knew she’d die
if she didn’t find some soon

Where in this desert
were paintings to be found?
She looked around and saw
nothing but mirrors

Here eyes ran dry
the headaches began
it became harder to swallow

If only
the hallucinations
would come soon

She’d be saved

Until she opened her eyes
and the thirst
returned

(This came 5 seconds after He craved poetry)