The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
I have been struggling again of late to keep up with my visiting and commenting etc. The latest inroads into the time available for the keyb...
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Dreams of Reality
Do you see Picasso there,
sloping off to paint the world,
to show the world the way it is?
A painter of reality
is what he's set himself to be.
I'll paint that clown, Picasso says,
and that small horse,
the way they are.
I'll really be a painter then.A real one - of reality!
He does not know
the clown is masked.
The horse looks on,
looks on askance.
The clown will not reveal himself,
the horse is kicking up -
the horse it seems,
just won't play ball.
Appearances are all
I've got, says Pablo to himself:
A mask, a dance - and that is it,
for life is nowt but chance.
Picasso sees, as in a flight
of mirrors in some wizard's Hall,
a flight of visual metaphors.
Picasso has a ball.
The shapes and hues on the clown's face
he sees could be a bowl of fruit,
the jerks and jumps of little horse,
rats in a sack of jute.
Incomprehensibly he shows
the clown asleep, his eyes fast closed,
who in his sleep dreams this strange dream:
that he's Picasso painting him -
him and the little horse, of course.
His painting done, the clown's awake.
Picasso needs a second take.
He knows the man, the scene grows dark.
Saludos, he greets him then,
Buen Día, Señor Braque!
And that is how my friends, you see,
they came to launch their rivalry.