Concert on a Grand Canvas Mozart came... Tamara Guglielmi
Concert on a Grand Canvas
Mozart came in gleaming laughter,
like a stroke from Monet’s hand,
in the hall he shone thereafter
like the twilight on the land.
Beethoven made thunder roll,
dark as Caravaggio’s shade,
his fury shook the soul,
like a shipwreck’s cry conveyed.
Bach rose through soaring stairs,
with his hymns of crystal glow,
da Vinci in the airs,
made the sound a sacred show.
Debussy played ocean tides
in Turner’s hazy gleam,
his harp moved time’s strides
in a light-and-color dream.
Tchaikovsky, the sorrowed pace,
turned snowflakes into ballet.
Degas twirled with such grace,
as applause swept them away.
---
Van Gogh painted with flame
the stars in endless flight,
like Schubert, whose acclaim
is a silent, screaming light.
Frida, thorn and grace,
sang the woman’s aching tune;
was an aria with embrace,
like Puccini’s aching moon.
Dalí, the absurd crowned king,
with surreal mustache flair,
was a Liszt—bold, wavering,
vague and genius laid bare.
Picasso, in cold-cut strokes,
tore forms with burning flame,
like Stravinsky’s rhythmic yokes,
where no beat stayed the same.
Basquiat, of concrete sound,
scratched jazz in paint and wall,
a subtler Parker found,
in a fury future-call.
---
Warhol echoed in a choir
the banal as prayer's tone,
like a dreaming Satie’s lyre
in the bare repeat alone.
Banksy, shadow on the street,
speaks through walls with no word said,
like Cage, his silent beat
is what happens in its stead.
---
🎵 Final Coda
In the rhythm or the painting,
there’s a gesture that conveys
the pain, the dream, the aching,
shades and light in quiet ways.
For art — sound or line —
is the language of the unseen,
crossing time and space in sign,
with a silence so serene.
