How can anyone paint the English weather?
Those dull undulating landscapes beneath a tower of cloud,
shroud starry nights, take the shine of sunflowers,
endlessly showering lovers under watery moons.
She said, “I could lose myself for hours
among the oils in Monet’s garden. Sharing nectar
with the bees, while his wife calls through trees, “Its time
for café noire mon cherie.” when I would be longing for tea.
Tar and caulk the roof of his studio, just to make
myself useful, so he would call, “Over there, above the damp
patch near the corner of the wall.” ”
“How I would have loved to have been Van Gogh’s assistant,” I replied.
“Holding a large umbrella, while trudging through wheat fields on the stellar
days when he always expected rain. I would direct his palette
away from browns and greys, while later, in the midnight café,
throw matchsticks down the drain.”
That night the rain hammering our canvas tent seemed heaven sent
and we knew once more what these things meant. How weather washes
people away in rainy England, where an artists shadow sprayed,
would shrink inside the wet patch on a crumbling stucco plastered wall.
25 Aug 09
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I know a man who paints the english rain as it is, on the moors, moving across the landscape like an oncoming animal. I love your poem, it has the quirkiness I have come to expect, which I suspect will make you just a little annoyed with me! I thought this poem would be yours when I clicked on the title, is that good or bad? Anyway, to make me think of the wonder of being alive, on a summer morning , is a deed well done.
do you have to lie?
I know a teacher with amazingly poor communication skills.
Today my prodigy has mostly been watching the rain, what do you think of that then eh?
^that's my impersonation, i'm being ironic.
I love this , the unexpected rhymes, hiding in the overgrown gardens of the stanzas.
careful, you'll go blind.
Like Lennon's line "you get a tan from standing in the English rain"
this is totally not poetry, and it makes me uncomfortable -- squiggling in my chair in my hanes whites -- to read this and think that poetry has been reduced to blog, in a day of 'twitter'!! can one protest? can it go to the UN?
really, though, this is maybe justifiable if the author had just come out of coma and were trying to put her language back together. the therapist cum sixth grade teacher might suggest that 'writing it out as a poem' might help, and the author, not remembering 'poem' would say 'what is a poem?', and the therapist reply, "it's just saying what you feel like saying, and then, in a merry way, breaking the sentence and starting a new line just for fun".
that would be the only 'fun' in this one. i'm sure you said wonderful things though, to people who don't like to wonder.
ah, mr. lark -- it's you. i suggest you listen to V-W's 'the lark ascending' and get some music in you.
how can anyone drink
the 'english leather'?
80 percent alcool, yes,
but, all that parfum --
i'd rather eat a broom!
Larry, larry, quite contrary
how does your garden gain?
With silver spells,
and doodly dells,
from the English rain.
I feel so uncomfortable squiggling and sqirming in my chair that my whites have turned the sort of shade a man does not like to contemplate. I think I'll phone up the UN (United Nutcases) after I've been to the blog to get rid of my spare gas and detrius. I feel like I've just come out of a comma and ground to a halt against a full stop as my sentences of life crumble into strangled syntax. I need therapy but am too stupidlly arrogant and patronising to ever let it do me some good so instead i shall struggle free and try to devise some more bile ridden balony to bore the pants off some PC's who are daft enough to read me. Isn't it fun being moi.
Here Here. Well said Trash puddle, I think at last you are starting to gain insight into your self inflicted malaise
Micheal blame it on the weatherman Fish
Thanks justine for taking the time and trouble
This does not rise above adolescent journaling except when for reference to the painters, though not enough to save the poem, if it is a poem. More like a conversation cobbled together and framed by a cliche' intro and a camping for real close.
should be english pain.
OOPs I didn't mean about the poem itshelf
sorry Larry meadowlark. poem is OK
conversation bits were most effective here. good rhyming.
I am very influenced by cobbles and cobblers the latter word which in North of England parlance means rubbish, and the former a road surface that shakes your body so bad when riding your little red bycycle that your teeth don't stop chattering for hours afterwards, so there you have my little tit, we are all influenced by something but in my case its all so unfortunate.
Larry unblessed Lark
I shall be conversing with you soon listen
larry my back pages Lark