Poetry in art

I take famous art and give it a story.

[poetryinart]

“Keep your eye on the donut, not on the hole.” - David Lynch - 20th January 1947 - 16th January 2025

[poetryinart]

Girl with Pigtails - Samuel Henry William Llewellyn - (1910)

She sat on that secluded garden bench most days with this novel in her hands.

Although she was classed almost as royalty living in that vast family mansion, She did not feel like it. Loneliness beckoned within those gilded walls so she often needed to get out into the beautiful grounds to breathe in fresh, crisp air and hear the comforting bird song from the willow trees above.

Although she appeared deep in her book, Emily wasn’t reading a single word on those musty pages for she had her mind on forbidden fruit. Her family hired a gardener who would prune and shape the topiary, mow the lawns and sow wildflower seeds in the patch just near the bench. He was about 19 with mousey tousled hair and amber eyes which would sparkle in the morning sun. 

His masculine defined arms would often be perched on a shovel as he dug to plant shrubs and seeds. She slyly eyed his behind as he knelt on a mat and smoothed the earth with his soft manly hands when he turned and asked her what she was reading. Emily looked at the page she was on fast hoping she could blag it this time. The whole book was written in Hebrew and she didn’t know an ounce of the language so she replied; “Oh! If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

[poetryinart]

Nighthawks - Edward Hopper - 1942

The streets were desolate, not a single soul in sight, but in Phillies bar Ken drank into the night. Drowning his sorrows one after another, sailor Bill behind the bar had to call his Mother. Ken refused to go, he wanted to join in, in the conversation between Lisa and Tim, a pair of lovers hunched over their drinks, laughing and joking about lots of things.

You see Ken was only in town, to admire Lisa draped in her silky red gown. Tim was surplus to all requirements, he always did have the worst kind of timings as just as poor Ken was about to strike, Tim would so angeringly arrive with his charm and his looks, his sharp black suit like a heart throb from romantic books.

So all Ken did was watch them grow closer, as he drank more whiskey while Tim was a boaster, way too shy to make his move, he saw the pair kiss and nearly boo hooed. But then as Tim stepped out into the empty street, he was suddenly rushed right off his feet as a road sweeper came from just 'round the corner, and as Lisa screamed, Ken was her supporter. He held her close and covered her eyes, finally for him the most wonderful surprise, as Tim lay dying in the road, Ken bent down and pinched his nose. He tried to make it look like he did CPR but was actually breathing into thin air as he covered Tim's nose and he stifled his head before finally turning and saying "I'm so very sorry, but I'm afraid he's dead."

[poetryinart]

The Lovers (1928) Rene Magritte

When we kiss, I close my eyes and my heart slides down an endless helter skelter. It's no longer about the way you look, or your questionable personality because in this moment, passion is encapsulated and frozen in time.

My senses are taken by the way that you smell, the way that you slink your hand down my back and then grip me securely around my waist.

In this moment we could be anyone but our affinity with each other is unquestionable. Nothing is cold anymore. Nothing could ever hurt us while we are shrouded, blinded by the depth of our love.

[poetryinart]

Waterlilies and Japanese Bridge - Claude Monet (1899)

Some days, when it’s all too much, When reality slips out of touch,

I come here to see you. When the city lights are blinding, The road ahead is winding,

It leads me here.

In one foul swoop, all my worries melt away.

[poetryinart]

Café Terrace at Night - Vincent Van Gough - (1888)

I went down memory Lane tonight, Sat at the café terrace under starlight. Although so many years have passed, It hasn’t changed since I saw it last.

The accordionist still plays our tune, Under the mystic glow of the moon. Life is sweet under this canopy, The best side of humanity.

I sip my tea, embrace it’s heat, Gently rock upon my seat. Now I’m at a table for one, It’s been a while since you’ve been gone.

[poetryinart]

“The Scream” - Edvard Munch - (1893)

My feet grow heavier with every dreaded step that I take down that rickety old promenade.

A couple are walking in the distance and I spot they are synchronised in perfect unison as if they are being powered by clockwork.

Nothing about this place feels the way it does in the daytime, as children dart up and down in sunhats and shorts while their parents are lumbered with buckets and spades, grease soaked bags of donuts and billowing clouds of pink candyfloss on sticks. As the sun sets you begin to imagine what this place once looked like many years before now as Victorian people dressed in frocks, bonnets, top hats and breaches enjoyed the beauty of the beach in the same way we do today. The wind whistles through my ears like tinnitus and pulls me out of my daydream, the two clockwork people are drawing nearer and it is at this point I grind to a painful halt. It has been so violently gusty, I find myself temporarily blinded by what must be sand, scratching at my corneas. I instinctively close my eyes, trapping the sand under my eyelids and outstretch my arms as a guide. There is a public toilet a few yards away so I aim to get there as quickly as possible to wash my eyes out in the sink there. 

All of a sudden, my eyes miraculously stopped stinging so I opened them and blinked a few times.

Life stood still. The sea paused, the passers by froze and as my eyes pivoted to the centre of my vision, a foreboding figure draped in a dusty black cloak and tatty hood stood silently.

Without warning, the hood slid backwards revealing a ghastly, slimy disfigured face with only holes for nostrils. I shuddered as it boar a hole right through my soul as if it knew all of my secrets. Slowly, it raised it’s flipper like hands up, clutched it’s face and let out a mighty wail which physically rattled my eardrums and instinctively I cowered to the ground, shielding my ears and head until the scream rung no more.

Hesitantly, I rose from my crumpled state and the shadowy figure had vanished. The sea was gently splashing against the rocks and the sky was now a pleasant lilac and pink, the sun peeking over the horizon.

I felt the gentle warmth of it and an ultimate calm washed over me, I knew that what I had just experienced must have been nothing more than all the stresses of my life mangling together and resulting in a nasty panic attack.

Fumbling for a couple of seconds for some small change, I approached the paper shop at the end of the prom, ready to treat myself to a much needed chocolate bar.

The meshed news stand outside the shop read: “LOCAL YOUNG COUPLE MISSING” with a photograph which churned my stomach and made my blood run cold. 

I’d just seen them.

[poetryinart]

“The Kiss” - Gustav Klimpt (1907)

Veiled in his embrace, The human embodiment of love and purity, Flowers in her hair collide with the ivy crown he wears. Golden light surrounds her face.