Michael Vitaly

theatre maker, writer, artist

Category: ART

Lines on Claude Monet’s “Water Lilies”

Looking at this world through the eyes of others,
I prefer to lose myself in the in between
to gain for myself what I may glean.

Alone no more but quivering with life,
The sun so strong through clouds resplendent,
into your eyes deeper I delve
only to skim only the surface.

What collects on the surface is muck,
green from the air and yellowed from sun,
blossoms of youthful spring
and obfuscation around the edges
you are but lines and shapes and times of day.

Rectangles like bodies of work
at work and at play.

Lilac whispers in coming summer breezes,
while dusk coos me quiet.

The water never is still,
and always full of life.

Living for others is the all.

Where I stand and peer into “now”
I’m pressed by space beyond me –
far off, unreachable distances –
and I only move on
in between.

Claude Monet (French, 1840–1926)

1914-26. Oil on canvas, three panels,
Each 6′ 6 3/4″ x 13′ 11 1/4″ (200 x 424.8 cm),
overall 6′ 6 3/4″ x 41′ 10 3/8″ (200 x 1276 cm).

Moma Link to Water Lilies

Lines on “Agapanthus” by Claude Monet

So alive and free
yet part of all around,
flecks of fire
and fountains of youth
explode and caress,
engage and detract.

Temporal beauty,
fleeting wisdom,
down from Heaven
lost in you.
Teach us to live
but once forever
in and out of this world’s view.

            Moma Link to Agapanthus

Just a stanza.

Coasters fall from hands of youths
Like petals from white blossoms,
Stolen by a summer wind
Far off long ago.

This little grey book

I’ve carried so long,
This little grey book I dropped and lost
Some time ago.

Lines on Richter

20120522-140941.jpg

Washed aside and blown asunder,
In between the rolls of thunder
And the cries of languid heaven,
You stand there lashing at my heart.

Smoke and ash and bitten memory,
Bitten off more than I could chew,
Bitten by the love we once knew,
Your face and heart, like smoke and ash depart,
Linger for a time and then become sweet rhyme.

Etched into my memory,
Like a simple melody
Fiery, pure, and fleeting,
Like constellations unconnected,
You stand there washed away
From the future unprotected
Though safely locked inside my heart.

I’ll hide you there for God knows how long,
And then one day Time will take you,
Wrestling my heart to the ground
Setting you free little by little,
Washed away though etched for always
Inside this tender heart of mine.

Mandla Reuter. Lines on The Gate.

Mandla Reuter

Mandla Reuter:  The Gate. from Galerie Mezzanin

Caught between you and your memory
And now caught on the other side
of what once was a threshold
you slip now from seen and unseen,
in and out of focus,
here and then not.

Like the long heavy closed eyed yawn,
now here and now gone.

You, always there,
never coming or going,
standing still but separate
the both of you
not facing each other
not wanting to connect any longer.

You, old and new,
Did you one night,
with Lorca’s dying Orange Tree,
cut the shade you used to cast?

No more in life if no more with her?
Is that the end you choose for you?

To welcome interruptions
but  never anyone home,
To welcome interruptions
but never anyone home?

There you stand ready and waiting,
and yet I walk through you
and through you, and through you.

——————–

Grown apart
older now
both have bled
both are rusty,
one seems closed off.

One seems empty.

Both led home,
Now they stand apart like
grandparents
but not quite
themselves.

 

 

VanGogh’s Oleanders

Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) Oil on canvas

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaning towards the breezy open window
Open faces do greet me cheery so.
Rose-cheeked crimson faces and blood flushed
Caressed by silken pinks and puffs of white
Like clouds on green agave
Cling embraced inside your favorite pitcher.

There’s your book of lines and my book of words
Precariously set on the corner of carelessness, nap time, and
nonchalance
Bathed in afternoon reaching towards dusk

Somehow begging to be sought after in a furious state of inspiration
Together forever united in time.

April. By Lucien Pisarro

N04747_9.jpg

Lines upon first viewing.

With the whisper of Queen Anne’s Lace against the tall grass of the pastures the Spring had sprung and I was off to your house once more. Your town greeted me as I rounded the hill to the road that led me to you. The trees danced on with fervent fibrous velvety buds biding their time and loving life. I see them once more but you no longer are by my side. #TheOne

@Tate: Spring has sprung… our Work of the Week is Epping, April by Lucien Pissarro http://t.co/VeugBtMW Read more… http://t.co/LSvBGT4w

The Kitchen

You Don’t Know Where Her Mouth Has Been

Lines Upon Visiting the exhibition for the first time.

Satellites

Satellites
weapons of war
at the teet we watch,
pointing at me
I can’t look away.
The blistered conch
split at the seams
empty inside.
Jaws at the ready
or wounds opened dried?
Together they hang
stone’s throw
from each other
like prisoners of war.
Blue roses tightly wound
ready to breathe and hatch
laying still on its small
pedestal for a survivor of antiquity.
Rock candy chandeliers
hanging low
like sagging breasts.
Pink cotton candy
memories on the façade
of sandy days now
measured in glass.
Simple bliss under porcelain
Roses like a crown
A Queen in Sheep’s clothing.
Arms stretched wide
like an ancient
bird lay forgotten
petrified span
of once fruitful wings.
Condor Crystal Crustacean
headless hunter here and now nary a sign
of power or majesty.
Soft and wrinkled
brittle and wasted
What once was
will never now be
but something new shall be formed.