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The dawn of 1881,
A revolution had begun,
But did they know their son to-be,
Would make it into history?
At San Telmo he taught his art,
With passion from his autumn heart,
And as with time his talent grew,
His name became a parvenu.
Admittedly, his drawing class
Was something no one could surpass,
And still with time his name became,
An arriviste to class and fame.
With skill no one could supersede,
Picasso drew with heart and heed,
Then came the Spanish civil war,
And thus, a painting I adore.
A canvas wide- a canvas black
A scene alas and both, alack,
It tolerates the moniker,
This reads the name of Guernica.
It cries with solemn-mock-dismay,
At how the pain of that one day,
Roused hurt within Picasso’s heart,
To formulate this work of art.
After times like when at war,
Pablo drew of what he saw,
His pictures filled with pseudo-rage,
But still with something rather sage.
During Pablo’s cubist reign,
From nothing did his art refrain.
Encompassing such heart and strife,
This work embodied Pablo’s life.
He turned to art of other forms,
Revolting to the fashion norms.
He delved in sculpture, card and clay,
But with the paint he chose to play.
He married young and lived a life,
Which wasn’t filled with pain and strife,
Instead he pined away in love,
And never did push come to shove.
His love for life was never waning,
Wherefrom his name is still remaining,
Picasso- loved for skill and art,
As what he gave was from the heart.
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Writer Profile
Lou Chaps
I am usually seen writing comical, eccentric poems about the most bizarre of forms. From Fruit to School Teachers, from Tragedy to plain truth. Enjoy my poetry, laugh at my eccentricity.
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