Poem: The Way of All Beauty

The Way of All Beauty

Somehow he captures it far better
in his mish mash of blotted paints
than any photograph you have taken.
The color of dusk. The water.
the solidity of walls built in the fifteenth century.
The romance and danger.
The color and call.

It is what you see, Monet’s Venice.
Not the place it has become
with its cruise ships and crowds
and massive advertising banners hanging
in Saint Marks.

No, you sit at the cafe table
and see something different. Past the commerce
to the romance and mystery.
Eyes that see through a veil of art and books
and the poetry of love,
not exactly accurate, but then perhaps it is,
more so than the world would have us believe,
the way of most beauty.

About this poem.

Actually about women I have known and know today, who miss their own beauty, Or about how I seem to see the world. And of course, about Venice itself, my favorite place in the beautiful world we live in.

And yes, the painting is one of Monet’s. There is a group of them in the National Galleries in Washington DC, that I go visit every chance I get. This is one of those.


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