Category Archives: Portrait poetry

Portrait of a Young Poet

I am thankful for the interesting people I meet as I travel down the road of life.

Someone like you,  Alex Gohde:    poet,  actor, musician,  college student, all-around creator.  I was glad you became my daughter’s friend, so that I could meet you too.

Your poetry inspires me, and takes me by surprise, not unlike the unique face you turn to the world.

What a beautiful facial structure, such gentle green eyes, and every feature so classically spaced!  Thank you Alex, for letting me share your poetry in word and form.  Thanks  Be Giving.

_____________________________

Broken Bottle and Styrofoam Cup

In ruins from our wreckless collision
Listless from crashing into you

But I bet you have a few honeydews
Packed away in your purse
Wish I could be your avocado,
But it seems for fruit I’ve turned the worse

Sour sort of wine
The product of pits and rhines

You’re lips will have no touch to my glass
In fact I’m sure you will never thirst again
And here in this cheap carton, I ferment
No desire have you to break bread or share a drink between
Who we once were, friends.

~Alex Gohde (c. 2009)

“The Statues”

The Statues by William Butler Yeats
dream statue

Pythagoras planned it. Why did the people stare?
His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough,
And pressed at midnight in some public place
Live lips upon a plummet-measured face. ~

The statue at left is a lovely lady that I have sculpted, soon to be cast as a candle. What fun to have a nude candle!

I am currently preparing the piece to be molded. CHECK BACK SOON for the finished product.


“The Portrait” by Stanley Kunitz

Stanley Kunitz in his garden

A difficult but touching portrait of familial tragedy in a poem by American poet lauriet, Stanley Kunitz:

THE PORTRAIT

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2006/05/15/obituaries/16kunitz_ready.html