Apparently in the write up I read about this, the artist painted this a little bit tongue in cheek. If you enlarge the picture you’ll see she has a smile on her face and he himself referred to it as the woman being ‘love sick’….so, I went with that.
I never knew my father
He died before I was old enough to
have too many memories
but, my mother told me he could
play a piano accordian like an expert.
Although he’d never been taught
he learned to play by ear
and, just as an elephant never forgets
neither did he.
He’d pick it up and music would
soon flow as he’d squeeze it
and, like a woman being played
would make those bellows sing.
The Title Dirty old Town is taken from an old folk song about the city of Manchester, which inspired the painting, and became famous in the 1950’s and 60’s sung by various artists including Rod Stewart.
The maid had cleared the table
and it was just as well
for, you could cut the atmosphere
with a knife.
Keeping the poise befitting a lady
she tried hard to hide her mood
but so far, it wasn’t working.
Nothing could convince her
through all his smoke and mirrors
His willingness to work so many
The complete change in his character
so cavalier now
He was not at all the man
nothing would convince her
that he wasn’t having an illicit affair
perhaps more than one, maybe two
After all, his patients seemed to
fall for his magnetic charm
just as she had once too.
There was something very different
about him lately
She couldn’t quite put her finger
on what it was, but when she did
woe betide him!
She’d be sure to divorce herself
from this Dr Jekyll and
whatever he was trying to hide.
As this artist also painted Robert Louis Stevenson (thought to be while he was in the process of writing the Dr. Jekyll & Mr Hyde story, Although I know it isn’t, I thought it might be a nice twist to have this painting by John Singer Sargent called ‘A dinner table at night’ be about the Dr Jekyll character and his wife.
In love’s first fresh bloom
her letters were fragrant
from her favourite perfume
sealed with wax against
prying eyes, lest they
read of her deepest desire.
She was Helen to his
long after she’d ended
their illicit affair
he cannot let her go.
He paints her in cameo
along with lists and
book of Troy they once shared
with hurried scribbles
on paper scraps she then sent
but they are all things that matter
because it’s still life and
this, he treats as
He paints it all upon canvas
her words are now immortal.
A sudden streak of lightening
burst through the open wood shutters
of his studio
its flash hit the sculpture square on
quickly followed by a loud crash of thunder.
The surprise caused the elderly man
to miss-strike with the hammer and chisel.
He saw it pierce and split his skin
and knew there would also be a bruise
Too on edge to sculpt anymore
but the night was still yet young
his old bones groaned at the crouch
as he picked up then shook a layer of dust from
pieces of parchment which lay in a crumple
on the cold stone floor
and, without missing a beat
of wasted time
Leonardo lit more candles
and ‘neath their flickering glow
As soon as I saw the Sunday Whirl words, I knew I wanted to find an artist but because of the word chisel, someone who also did sculpture too. Who better than Leonardo da Vinci. A remarkable genius with so very many talents. Leonardo da Vinci
Shared with Poets United Pantry #101 The Sunday Whirl #59 12 random words. Make a poem with them. This is a lot of fun each week. If you haven’t ever paticipated, please join in.
The prompt by Dani today at Poetry Jam was to use art/painting for our inspiration.
I wanted to write something to do with Tibetan wind chimes and, Googling it came across this artist’s stunning work. He has so many lovely paintings at his website. Wai Ming
Look at those eyes!
You just know for sure
they won’t ever tell you lies.
An intense stare
she shows you her dreams
in thoughtful pause
before preparing to dance.
With subtle nuances
here and there
fingers touch her cheek
as if to say:
‘Let me daydream for two
more minutes, please.’
The flower stem
is almost forgotten
(but, not quite)
as she remembers to
keep a tenuous hold of
its beauty because it
reminds, she too is
Life as a gypsy is hard
and yet she is proud
of who she is and
from whence she came.
She doesn’t care for all
your airs and graces
for there is a purity
in belonging to her clan.
She knows the history of her
of who and what
she is and, has no need of
ever wearing shame.