I think the reason I always lose ekphrastic poetry contests is because I would say something like this painting symbolizes there being more to life than a nice warm ass.
Holy Moly, Alan! Believe me, I think when I looked at this painting before, my gaze locked onto the man and I never noticed the woman's bare bum. Wonderful poem, and the twist you give me forces me to think things I'm not sure I can articulate. I have to print out the painting and your poem, stare at them both for a long time, as if spinning the wheels of a car and smelling burnt rubber, and this would derail for an even longer time.
Well to me it feels like the erotic has been ‘flattened’ somewhat by Hopper, so it’s not too surprising you might miss the woman’s derrière. The whole atmosphere has a drained feeling, drained of warmth and intimacy. We’re at the end of something. Thank you for your appreciation, Kenneth!
Maybe I was waving a white flag, Alan, or donning a fraudulent halo, assuring the world of my eligibility for comprehensive amnesty with these two options in view?
And interesting to see what women have posted. Hopper's painting (suddenly that becomes a perilous pun) and the woman's sweet. sleeping, immaculate bum, that the creator was displaying a wicked sense of human when designing the female anatomy, but we knew that already.
Sad. Poignant.
I think the reason I always lose ekphrastic poetry contests is because I would say something like this painting symbolizes there being more to life than a nice warm ass.
Even though there isn’t
The poem feels like stepping into a moment where love has already slipped away, but its shadow is still warm.
I love how the speaker moves from Plato to the light, as if philosophy suddenly matters less than the memory of what was shared.
There’s a soft ache in remembering a time when being looked at felt welcome, even cherished.
The torn photographs hit hard such a small gesture, but it says everything about what changed.
Calling the shreds “confetti” is heartbreakingly beautiful, turning loss into something almost ceremonial.
The poem captures that strange space where someone is still present in the room but already gone in every other way.
I’m struck by how quiet the lines are, yet how much emotion sits between them.
The contrast between one person sleeping and the other thinking makes the distance feel even wider.
It’s a short piece, but it holds a whole story love, memory, and the moment it all comes undone.
By the last line, you feel the weight of a future that won’t happen, scattered like confetti that will never be thrown.
So glad you appreciated the 'confetti' image, Adriao!
Interesting Hopper I’ve not seen! Looks like he’s just had a revelation and it’s out in the light. “Plato” as in “platonic?”
That's a good thought, it's apt. Thanks, Carole!
Beautifully and yet sad.
Holy Moly, Alan! Believe me, I think when I looked at this painting before, my gaze locked onto the man and I never noticed the woman's bare bum. Wonderful poem, and the twist you give me forces me to think things I'm not sure I can articulate. I have to print out the painting and your poem, stare at them both for a long time, as if spinning the wheels of a car and smelling burnt rubber, and this would derail for an even longer time.
Well to me it feels like the erotic has been ‘flattened’ somewhat by Hopper, so it’s not too surprising you might miss the woman’s derrière. The whole atmosphere has a drained feeling, drained of warmth and intimacy. We’re at the end of something. Thank you for your appreciation, Kenneth!
Maybe I was waving a white flag, Alan, or donning a fraudulent halo, assuring the world of my eligibility for comprehensive amnesty with these two options in view?
And interesting to see what women have posted. Hopper's painting (suddenly that becomes a perilous pun) and the woman's sweet. sleeping, immaculate bum, that the creator was displaying a wicked sense of human when designing the female anatomy, but we knew that already.