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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Labeled for Non-commercial reuse

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

 

Fall-ing: dVerse Poetics

Today I had the pleasure of hosting dVerse Poetics. The prompt asked that we write a Pop Art poem. One characteristic of this school of art is to see art everywhere. I delight in displays of produce in supermarkets and farmer’s markets. A photo my husband took at a local farmer’s market served at the source of my inspiration:

Photo: David Slotto

Fall-
ing

Tonight—
sluggish cricket songs
falter,
wail a mournful tune,
announce
the demise of summer.

Tomorrow—
season’s final farmers’ market,
offerings
scant, I fear,
squash
green, yellow, orange.

Yesterday—
summer ecstasy
shouting
“taste my intensity,”
flaunting
colors of an artist’s palette.

I hope you will stop by the Pub and enjoy a drink and some fine poetry: http://dversepoets.com

Please Note: It is my intention to visit everyone who submits a poem to this prompt. If you use blogger, I will need to direct you to my defunct Google blog and will include a link to WordPress since blogger is not accepting my comments. Just a reminder of why I switched to WordPress. Arrrgh!

Warhol–One Stop Poetry

Image via Wikipedia

Over at One Stop Poetry, http://onestoppoetry.com Brian Miller gave us the prompt to write to the art or life of pop artist James Rosenquist. Today’s been a day of deadlines, limiting my ability to do justice to this topic, so I hope it’s acceptable to substitute a poem I wrote about another pop artist, Andy Warhol, when we had an exhibit of his work at Nevada Museum of Art where I’ve been a docent.

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.

(This poem was previously posted October 2010) Now I’m off to research Rosenquist. Thanks for the prompt, Brian.

Jingle’s Poetry Rally–Week 31 “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.

Submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Rally; http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.wordpress.com  Stop by and enjoy poetry by seasoned and up-coming poets.