I saw this painting on the top floor of the Louvre last summer, and she’s been sitting on my camera reel ever since just waiting to be written about. Painted by French Landscapper Jean-Baptiste-Camille Carot, “Veleda” is the name of a Germanic seeress, which I discovered after writing my petite pen. If her mystery speaks to you, I invite you to join me in penning a bit of brevity, 25 words or less. If you post to your own page, please be sure to ping back here so everyone has an opportunity to enjoy your work.
Happy Tuesday!
The Forest’s Edge
Poems read at forest’s edge
are soon to be forgotten,
as I await the lover late,
with our unripe begotten,
barely veiled by stockinged trees.
© 2022 | K.Hartless
Last week’s petite pens were fabulous. If you didn’t get a chance to read them all, please do so. They are each so lovely and unique.
- “Foolish Pride” by Judy Dykstra-Brown
- “Unwanted” by abigfatcanofgorms
- “15 June: Petite Pen” by Misky
- “Nothing Left to Say” by Debi
- “No Long Summer” WritingWhatNots
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Lovely poem! I love the stockinged trees, the unripe begotten. And I hope against hope that the late lover doesn’t fail to show.
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Thank you, worms. Yes, I wondered that also. Then she would be left with those poems to console herself with. Hope there’s some good gems hidden within.
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a stunning opening to a sensuous, beguiling poem: ‘poems read at forest’s edge/ are soon to be forgotten’ — a capacious metaphor —
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Thank you, John. Was hoping to find that forgetful place this morning, but …plans change rapidly around here.
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with kids they do 🙂
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Exactly. And the big kid that you’re partnered with as well. 😂
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LOL. I know all about that one; I’m putting up a post now touching on that matter 🙂
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Oh, terrific. I can’t wait to take that in.
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In deep contemplation
I see
a breathe of tranquility, and
sadness enveloping the trees
within a heart bequeathed
with a love that will never be
Always so much fun, K. I adored you poem, “barely veiled by stockinged trees.” That’s an amazing line. 💜
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Oh, how did I miss this before my prance around the woods? I love the layers here and the trees surrounding her almost guarding her in a way. Sad but serene. Thank you for penning some brevity with me. I feel very lucky to have you as a writing companion. 💜
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Ah, I’m glad you found me. It’s always my pleasure to write with you. Maybe one day, we’ll write something a little longer together, though these petite pens are quite fun. 💜
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That would be wonderful. 💜
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A shame you left the image for so long. Corot is my favourite artist. I hope you felt something of what I felt when I discovered him.
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I did. Only discovered him because of you~that’s why I was wandering around the top floor of the Louvre, remember? I’m sure I sent her your way before, and if not let me know. I have a few more of his still waiting to be featured.
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possibly you sent it, but it is wasted on my eyes now. I copuld lose myself for a day at a time in the Louvre, particularly that top floor.
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It was my favorite part. And I wouldn’t have made it there without you. Thank you for suggesting it.
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Most people don’t make it that far, unfortunately, so well done. But I do like the realists, for example we have Constable here. I have seen lots of his in the London galleries. Though prefer Corot’s subject matter. CXould be a Tuscan thing going on there.
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[…] this to K. Hartless’s petite pen prompt (https://khartless.com/2022/06/21/the-forests-edge/). I saw this after hearing the Roe v Wade decision in the United […]
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She does look woebegotten doesn’t she? Love how you encompass all of the image in your poem – the first four lines are a poem on their own, resting on the last scenic line.
No prizes for guessing what prompted my train of thought:
https://writingwhatnotsblog.wordpress.com/2022/06/26/regress/
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Marion. Thank you again for commenting and writing to me on this prompt. Yes, your picture captures it brilliantly. The constitutional document lacks equality and the words that have no meaning other than bleakness and despair. Bravo.
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The painting seems to reflect it so strongly. Thank you K.
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