A Critique of Monet

As a follow-up on last Friday’s commentary on Monet, I thought I’d post one of my favorite poems I’ve written over the years about him.  Trying to capture the beauty of Monet’s brushstrokes is very difficult, in my estimation, but this is my young attempt to do so.  I hope you all enjoy!

How precisely his movement of brush glided over the canvas as he worked.

The beauty of the objects which he saw captures the entire being.

A sparkling lake, a bubbling spring, and a garden filled with colorful, but

Delicate flowers.  Red roses, white lilies and purple asters create a sense of utopia.

It is intense, yet subtle.

The masterpieces transport one to another time and place.  To another century.

It is a place where only beauty remains, though tempered by the reality of the world.

A pastoral, sweet existence for which one yearns.

The man fades, but the image remains of pictorial visions in the sky.

A little girl sitting on a bench in the park, a flower covered wall and a cornfield are

All familiar objects in his imagery.

One is left to wonder if that sense of pastoral passion will every be captured

again.

Or is the spirit too wistful, too unique?