Another poem by me. In all honesty, it's pretty bad. This is a first draft of an idea I have that revolves around the painting "The Treachery of Images" by Rene Magritte. It's made in 14 couplets and based in iambic pentameter, which I play around with for effect.
The Treachery of Exploration
A mother takes a day off work to help
The woeful teacher whose poor lot was dealt.
Her daughter’s class was going on a trip.
Excitement spewed from rapid-moving lips.
The grand production is about to start –
Enter the famed Museum of Modern Art.
Each child, first amazed, now seemed jaded, bored.
This too confusing art was soon abhorred.
The mother felt a tug and gandered down
“What does that say?” asked a girl with a frown.
The caption read, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” –
The Treachery of Images – Magritte.
She knew her French but failed to understand
The meaning as much as the questioner had.
At home she ponders what she saw that day.
How could Magritte so boldly dare to say
This pipe is not a pipe? If it is not,
What word or image was the one he sought?
Of X-less treasure maps of language, of
The deaf and blind one feeling ‘round for love.
Some semblance of familiarity –
It all escapes her in her sanctity.
Alone, her frozen wasteland spans for miles.
The rogues answer eludes her all the while.
Tearing up earth, she searches for her treatise
Of writing pen-scratch, screaming gibberish.
You will not find the answer underground;
The meaning isn’t looked for – it is found.
The Treachery of Exploration
A mother takes a day off work to help
The woeful teacher whose poor lot was dealt.
Her daughter’s class was going on a trip.
Excitement spewed from rapid-moving lips.
The grand production is about to start –
Enter the famed Museum of Modern Art.
Each child, first amazed, now seemed jaded, bored.
This too confusing art was soon abhorred.
The mother felt a tug and gandered down
“What does that say?” asked a girl with a frown.
The caption read, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” –
The Treachery of Images – Magritte.
She knew her French but failed to understand
The meaning as much as the questioner had.
At home she ponders what she saw that day.
How could Magritte so boldly dare to say
This pipe is not a pipe? If it is not,
What word or image was the one he sought?
Of X-less treasure maps of language, of
The deaf and blind one feeling ‘round for love.
Some semblance of familiarity –
It all escapes her in her sanctity.
Alone, her frozen wasteland spans for miles.
The rogues answer eludes her all the while.
Tearing up earth, she searches for her treatise
Of writing pen-scratch, screaming gibberish.
You will not find the answer underground;
The meaning isn’t looked for – it is found.
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