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i met a genius i met a genius (it was more painful than pleasant) who of course was misunderstood by everyone but me (but i don’t count) anyway, for those who think there is purpose: his paintings were burned (he lived on a farm, that was easy) except for the one i stole, which told of the harshness of Russia in winter, and convinced you strawberries were a dream and captured the shadow of an angel (don’t ask me how, you have to see it) i met him, this exiled painter (more than once) and now i write poem so i guess he made a difference. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2014-07-05 10:47:34
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Splendid Mark, simply so. I have to wonder if the “stolen” piece is the impact the image had on you, (or the writer, if so) or is an actual, hanging in your living room oil.
It really doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter if the entire piece is a self-portrait, a metaphoric illustration, or more, a simple abstract that is there to elicit soulful drivel from the likes of me. It doesn’t matter- because, as with the painting- this piece made a difference to me.
I have been gone all month on business trips, with little time to play and absorb. This made the last minute indulgence, a worthwhile endeavor. I have also been reading a lot of Russian poets lately; so it is a bit providential to read this at this time.
Thank you.