Warhol–Pop Art in Words

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Warhol

Maybe Andy was on
to something.
One-after-another
screen-printed cans—
Campbell’s soup:
red and white,
silver and gray,
navy blue with a gold seal.
An icon of comfort in
the midst of so much dismay.
Tomato, Chicken Noodle,
Split Pea,
Bean with Bacon, Pepper Pot.
Mother’s Milk, Mother’s Comfort.
Bring it on.

Did you ever stop?
Really look at art?
I mean art in a grocery store?
“Wake up!”
Andy would say.
“Look.
Listen closely.”

I pick up a navel orange.
Its dimpled skin
leaves a scent-mark
on my fingers.

“If you want to know me,
look at my art,”
“I’m a deeply superficial person.”

So I stare at him,
but he doesn’t glance back.
Eyes drifting to some
far-away place where
wholeness waits,
or to a party where
touching never held room
for emptiness.
The pull of gravity so great
the Mass collapses in
on itself,
Black Hole. Black Whole.

All that sparkles is
not diamond dust.
Even that wouldn’t adhere.
Your world
became glittered in so
much plastic.

Redemption plays in
pink and yellow
electric chairs.

Curl up,
snuggle in its lap
and die alone
while the nurse who
was there for you,
wasn’t.

Oh my God,
I am heartily sorry,
hardly,
heartily.
So much pain.
I repeat, I repeat.
Marilyn in
black and gray
and brown,
blue and pink.
We are heartily sorry
who we aren’t,
what we are
and what they made us.

The woman handed
the boy
a piece of dense bread.
“It’s dry,” he said.
“Dunk it in your soup,”
she answered.

I wrote this poem way back in 2010, around the time the Nevada Museum of Art hosted a Warhol exhibit. Many, perhaps unknown details underlie this writing. Here are a few of them.

• As a child, Andy was sick a lot. His mother sustained him on Campbells soup.
• He surrounded himself with celebrities, but never found self confidence or the ability to fill that empty space within himself.
• He pursued adding diamond dust to his work, but had problems with making it stick.
• He painted a rather grim series of electric chairs.
• He died at a young age of complications from gallbladder surgery. The private nurse who was supposed to be with him had left the room.

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I would love to have you join us for dVerse MTB where I’m hosting. The theme is Pop Art.

 

Listen–dVerse MTB

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Listen

In silence…

I will hear the birds—
the calls of crickets and of doves—
and a far-off trill where water flows.

I will hear the moan of loneliness—
the groan of pain
and you—
whose voice was quashed so long ago

I will hear the song I’ve yet to sing—
and prayer of breath divine.

In silence…

This week’s prompt for MTB has Bjorn asking us to consider the need for silence in poetry. There are many ways to demonstrate this ever-so-important tool.  It’s coming down to the last few hours to join in, but I’m hoping there is still time.

This Tunnel Has No Light at Its Ending

This Tunnel Has No Light at Its Ending

Black notes hang
in a barren equinox sky,
fade into a cry of
wonder that echoes
as though in a dark tunnel.

You balance the cup
of deep water before
a moment of stolen hope emerges
then abandon yourself
to pure gravity

before ripping apart the
warm core of your being.
Can you taste
the texture of wind,
that carries cries of forgiveness.

The memory of a crowing
cock haunts you
constantly, doesn’t it?
Life ebbs slowly when you
break your promises.
Doesn’t it?

Today, I am hosting for dVerse Meeting the Bar, Critique and Craft. We are playing with symbolism as used in poetry and literature. Can you identify the emotion I am attempting to express in this poem–a very old one that I rewrote?

Photo: racrapopulous” Free Usage

Requiem–dVerse Poets, Erasure Poetry

Requiem

Bring me back the thought of you
as the sun comes to shine,
the grain, also golden,
hair, the color of gold,
the sound of a step
different from all others.

My heart is ready to greet you.
Only with the heart can one see.
But I shall cry.
(I shall cry.)

An Erasure Poem
Taken from the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry

Written and posted for my prompt at dVerse Meeting the Bar, where I’m offering up a prompt for you to write an erasure poem.

I had chosen one of my all-time favorite inspirational reads: The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and opened it to a page that seemed to offer a fair amount of printed text (as you probably know, the book is illustrated with watercolors.) When I began to cull phrases, somewhat randomly, a theme emerged which is pure serendipity–next Tuesday is the first anniversary of my sweet mother’s death.

Please stop by the pub with a poem of your own, or even just to read. We are a welcoming community.

Photo: David Slotto–Taken in 2011, on the occasion of Mom’s 90th birthday.

 

The Poet Looks Out the Window

The Poet Looks Out the Window
Minute Poetry

Oh, bless this tree outside my room—
a home, a womb
where words are born,
a page adorned—
poet’s enclave,
creative cave.

These branches beckon many birds
with songs sans words.
They bring us joy,
distress destroy,
plaintive cries, too,
to mourn with you.

And there above, I spy a nest.
Robin Redbreast?
Perhaps a Jay?
Oh look! Today,
sweet finch I see.
Inspire me!

Photo: Victoria Slotto
View from My Office “Treehouse”

Today at dVerse MTB Frank Hubeny invites us to try Minute Poetry. Don’t be afraid of this very fun form. It seemed daunting to me at first, but when I diagrammed it, I found it to be easy enough with the help of Rhymezone.com. My ornamental pear tree looks a bit shabby right now because the harsh winter and severe winds was causing it to damage our house and we had to have it pruned. But when it’s at it best, in autumn, it is truly a delight and the migrating birds love the tiny pears that are just for them, not humans.

Please join us–give it a whirl. BTW, this poem is also inspired by Lillian’s window prompt from Tuesday Poetics.

 

I Must Poem–dVerse MTB

Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

I Must Poem

of color
how the blur of blue and mauve
the melt of orange and red and gold
fold gently into summer skies

of sunshine
the way sun slips above the eastern horizon
pulls himself up on a span of lenticular clouds
to wink-wake me through half drawn shutters

of movement
of spindly-legged spiders crawling ‘neath a rock
and birds in flight that soar up to the moon
or human dance that stretches my imagination

of water
its touch, so sensual, immersed in crystal lakes
the battering of rain upon the window pane
or cooling draft upon desert-dry tongue

of texture
the roughest touch of eucalyptus bark
or satin-smoothness of a marble slab
and wonder-wrinkle of my weathered life-worn face

of music
the bounding bass of basso-nova beat
or lilting flute that fills the air with joy
and steady cadence of a Requium

of silence.
of silence, I must poem.

Today I have the pleasure of returning, after a rather long hiatus, to offer a prompt for dVerse Meeting the Bar/Form for All. I’m going back to a form I first gave in 2013–List Poetry. I hope you will join in today with a list of your own.

Limerick II

Limerick II for dVerse MTB

There once was a damsel from Kerry
who dated a bloke oh-so-hairy
when they kissed she would flinch
leaving him was a cinch
since the hair on his back was quite scary.

I once knew a lad from Killarney
Who had a good buddy named Arnie
In spite of his name
His golf game was a shame
But the scores that he posted: pure blarney.

Couldn’t resist a 2nd one for dVerse MTB. The rhythm gets stuck in your head.

Limericks–dVerse Meeting the Bar

Now for a bit of whimsy as Frank treats us to a limerick prompt at dVerse MTB. I could go on and on.

Limericks

There once was a dragon named Tony
he fell like a rock for a pony
she got such jolt
she took off like a bolt
now poor Tony thinks romance baloney.

There once was a guy who loved money
But could never impress his true honey
‘Cause he spent it on wine
and she saw not a dime
so she left him alone—what a dummy.

Here’s one I posted for one of Madeleine’s prompt:

A woman who always felt free
Burned her bra when she turned twenty-three
Now at age sixty-eight
She is rueing her fate
As her boobies keep knocking her knees.

The Artisan Paints Morn

Photo: Victoria Slotto

The Artisan Paints Dawn

Ensconced upon my chair,
blanket-cocooned from cold,
I wait for Artist to appear.

In the East, first ray of light
peaks over hills,
dabs brushes heavy with pastel hues
upon my water-washed world.

Gold blurs into rose, blurs
into violet, periwinkle, blue
as night blurs into day
and I to wakefulness.

Then, in the distance,
a flash of white
flares ‘cross the lightening sky
and egret alights upon the bank
in prayerful waiting pose.

And I, to life, arise.

Oh, I hope you take a few minutes to visit dVerse Meeting the Bar where Bjorn treats us to an artistic prompt on Impressionism, a school of art that arose in the late 1800’s and endures to this day. He shares the best, most succinct explanation of the art form that I remember, and I used to be a museum docent.

Anger–dVerse MTB

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Depression is Anger Turned Inside-Out
A Narrative Poem

She hadn’t touched her paints for a while. In the other room an unfinished canvas lay propped on an easel. Orange and cerulean blue paint danced in cacophonous colors and screamed at her in taunting ecstasy. One evening she’d smeared a palette knife of black paint in a thick wavy line down the middle of the canvas—the result only heightened the drama. She abandoned her work for now—she couldn’t paint and wouldn’t write—not since he told her he wouldn’t see her anymore.

Today, dVerse Poets, hosted by Frank Hubney, invites us to submit a narrative poem–as I see it, a bit of prose that is written poetically. That implies incorporating poetic elements such as metaphor and sensory details, active verbs etc. This is a tiny piece that I adapted from my novel “The Sin of His Father.”