poetry
poems in response to pictures
This is what I see in my dreams about final exams:
two monkeys, chained to the floor, sit on the windowsill,
the sky behind them flutters,
the sea is taking its bath.
The exam is History of Mankind.
I stammer and hedge.
One monkey stares and listens with mocking disdain,
the other seems to be dreaming away–
but when it’s clear I don’t know what to say
he prompts me with a gentle
clinking of his chain.
–Wisława Szymborska
two monkeys, chained to the floor, sit on the windowsill,
the sky behind them flutters,
the sea is taking its bath.
The exam is History of Mankind.
I stammer and hedge.
One monkey stares and listens with mocking disdain,
the other seems to be dreaming away–
but when it’s clear I don’t know what to say
he prompts me with a gentle
clinking of his chain.
–Wisława Szymborska
Mona Lisa
Mona Lisa
the teacher teaches the girls
how to smile
preserved with colours and canvas
a thousand year old italian smiles
Mona Lisa
a young thousand year old smile
greets my old forty year old smile
mona lisa
mona lisa
a smile that makes
a world of difference
mona lisa
the smile that makes
a world of difference
mona lisa
the joy is art
in a smile
mona lisa
a smile that makes a world
of art
mona lisa
so soft the smile
softer than my heart
so many painted
since cave days
- impressionism, realism, modernism
a woman with a simple smile
takes top spot
John Tiong Chunghoo
the teacher teaches the girls
how to smile
preserved with colours and canvas
a thousand year old italian smiles
Mona Lisa
a young thousand year old smile
greets my old forty year old smile
mona lisa
mona lisa
a smile that makes
a world of difference
mona lisa
the smile that makes
a world of difference
mona lisa
the joy is art
in a smile
mona lisa
a smile that makes a world
of art
mona lisa
so soft the smile
softer than my heart
so many painted
since cave days
- impressionism, realism, modernism
a woman with a simple smile
takes top spot
John Tiong Chunghoo
Nighthawks
NIGHTHAWKS:
AFTER EDWARD HOPPER’S PAINTING
It is night
and the city is deserted.
The lucky ones are at home,
or more likely
there are none left.
In Hopper’s painting, four people remain
the usual cast, so-to-speak:
the man behind the counter, two men and a woman.
Art lovers, you can stone me
but I know this situation pretty well.
Two men and one woman
as if this were mere chance.
You admire the painting’s composition
but what grabs me is the erotic pleasure
of complete emptiness.
They don’t say a word, and why should they?
Both of them smoking, but there is no smoke.
I bet she wrote him a letter.
Whatever it said, he’s no longer the man
who’d read her letters twice.
The radio is broken.
The air conditioner hums.
I hear a police siren wail.
Two block away in a doorway, a junkie groans
and sticks a needle in his vein.
That’s how the part you don’t see looks.
The other man is by himself
remembering a woman,
she wore a red dress, too.
That was ages ago.
He likes knowing women like this still exist
but he’s no longer interested.
What might have been
between them, back then?
I bet he wanted her.
I bet she said no.
No wonder, art lovers,
that this man is turning his back on you.
~ Wolf Wondratschek, born 1943, German writer and poet
AFTER EDWARD HOPPER’S PAINTING
It is night
and the city is deserted.
The lucky ones are at home,
or more likely
there are none left.
In Hopper’s painting, four people remain
the usual cast, so-to-speak:
the man behind the counter, two men and a woman.
Art lovers, you can stone me
but I know this situation pretty well.
Two men and one woman
as if this were mere chance.
You admire the painting’s composition
but what grabs me is the erotic pleasure
of complete emptiness.
They don’t say a word, and why should they?
Both of them smoking, but there is no smoke.
I bet she wrote him a letter.
Whatever it said, he’s no longer the man
who’d read her letters twice.
The radio is broken.
The air conditioner hums.
I hear a police siren wail.
Two block away in a doorway, a junkie groans
and sticks a needle in his vein.
That’s how the part you don’t see looks.
The other man is by himself
remembering a woman,
she wore a red dress, too.
That was ages ago.
He likes knowing women like this still exist
but he’s no longer interested.
What might have been
between them, back then?
I bet he wanted her.
I bet she said no.
No wonder, art lovers,
that this man is turning his back on you.
~ Wolf Wondratschek, born 1943, German writer and poet