My books were always full of ink blots, always stained and covered with smeared sketches and pictures, which one draws idly when his attention wanders from his task.
quote by Pierre Loti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I carry a notebook full of sketches of pictures I want to take - they are really scruffy sketches, but at least I am going out there with a clear objective.
quote by Nigel Dennis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Second Hand Books
Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.
Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.
Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.
Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.
Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.
There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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It was 1966 by the time I started taking pictures seriously and books, newspapers and magazines of the time were full of great pictures that helped to inspire me.
quote by Fay Godwin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Distraction
Distraction
~
My attention wanders
Leaving me unable to concentrate
To focus on any given task
Pages half littered in words
Fail to bring any poem forth
I look to the window
To music or any distraction
Escape is evasive
The mind frustrated
Love is calming
I'll write about love
But love is mysterious
I lack the necessary strength
To sit and write about it
My levels of attention
Fail to complete this
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Marcus Varro
Marcus Varro went up and down
The places where old books were sold;
He ransacked all the shops in town
For pictures new and pictures old.
He gave the folk of earth no peace;
Snooping around by day and night,
He plied the trade in Rome and Greece
Of an insatiate Grangerite.
'Pictures!' was evermore his cry --
'Pictures of old or recent date,'
And pictures only would he buy
Wherewith to 'extra-illustrate.'
Full many a tome of ancient type
And many a manuscript he took,
For nary purpose but to swipe
Their pictures for some other book.
While Marcus Varro plied his fad
There was not in the shops of Greece
A book or pamphlet to be had
That was not minus frontispiece.
Nor did he hesitate to ply
His baleful practices at home;
It was not possible to buy
A perfect book in all of Rome!
What must the other folk have done --
Who, glancing o'er the books they bought,
Came soon and suddenly upon
The vandalism Varro wrought!
How must their cheeks have flamed with red --
How did their hearts with choler beat!
We can imagine what they said --
We can imagine, not repeat!
Where are the books that Varro made --
The pride of dilettante Rome --
With divers portraitures inlaid
Swiped from so many another tome?
The worms devoured them long ago --
O wretched worms! ye should have fed
Not on the books 'extended' so,
But on old Varro's flesh instead!
Alas, that Marcus Varro lives
And is a potent factor yet!
Alas, that still his practice gives
Good men occasion for regret!
To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go,
And by the 'missing' prints and plates
And frontispieces you shall know
He lives, and 'extra-illustrates'!
poem by Eugene Field
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Every artist wants his work to be permanent. But what is The Aswan Dam covered some of the greatest art in the world. Venice is sinking. Great books and pictures were lost in the Florence floods. In the meantime we still enjoy butterflies.
quote by Romare Beardon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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A World Yet Saved
When | you look at me...
...here's what I see:
a world without hate,
a world without fear,
a world without hunger and sickness and sin.
a world full of love,
a world full of cheer,
a world full of plenty and healing and joy.
When | God looks at us...
...here's what He sees:
a world stained with bad,
a world stained with wrong,
a world stained with blood debt of many a man.
a world filled with filth,
a world filled with soot,
yet a world saved by naught but the blood of Jesus.
Pictures Of You
Pictures of you
Its just pictures of you, through the bedroom door
With that sly little grin, says you want it some more
But theres people around, and they dont look so nice
Tell me why dont they move, this has happened before
This has happened before
Its just pictures of you
In darkness
Pictures of you
Id been sleeping for hours,
When you came to my house
Youd been lost in a crowd, said you had to get out
You were covered with tears and you said you were sad
So you wanted to play
Yes, you wanted to play
Well you touched me and smiled, as you let yourself go
Oh, but something was wrong, cause your touch was so cold
Like youd been in the ground and you asked if you could
Stay
And I said no!
Its just pictures of you
In darkness
(pictures of you)
In that lovely white dress, oh your skin was so white
With the moon in your eyes, on that cold winter night
When your lips were so soft, that I though they would
Melt,
And the sound of your breath and the way that you felt
And I said yes
And I said yes
Its just pictures of you with a knife in your hand
With a rose in your teeth lying nude in the sand
Its just pictures of you, standing high on a cliff
With the wind in your hair, and a smile on your lips
And your eyes were so wild, when you started to laugh
Blending in with the wind, sounded just like a scream
Why do pictures of you
Come to me when I dream
In darkness
Pictures of you
Pictures of you
Pictures of you
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Stained the Earth
When white clouds filled the land
Red stained the earth
Thunder roared and lightning struck
Red stained the earth
Darkness devoured the soul
Red stained the earth
Smoke choked the air
Red stained the earth
Cries were loud but never heard
Red stained the earth
Words misunderstood
Red stained the earth
A compromise was in vain
Red stained the earth
Land was stripped of its beauty
Red stained the earth
Raped of dignity, honor and trust
Red stained the earth
Language lost, stories untold
Red stained the earth
No more tradition, no more culture
Red stained the earth
When white clouds filled the land
Red stained the earth
poem by Ema Bovoro
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Sketches Of Pain
Daylight Saved
Daylight Saved
To spite the dark
In spite of the darkness
There I'll crave
There I'll crave
To get to the heart
In spite of the darkness
Great wide stretches of canvas
Signed by a godless name
Strange bright colours of madness
Only a fool would frame
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
Some cry shame
Some cry shame
We tore them apart
We failed to imagine
God might claim
God might claim
The works of art
We failed to imagine
Great wide stretches of canvas
Signed by a godless name
Strange bright colours of madness
Only a fool would frame
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
Sketches of Pain
song performed by by Tears For Fears from Raoul & The Kings Of Spain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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People who are too concerned with how well they are doing will be less successful and feel less competent than those who focus on the task itself... Some psychologists call it a conflict between ego-orientation, or between extrinsic and intrinsic motivation... but in all cases, what counts is whether attention is turned away from the task at hand and focused on the self and its future rewards, or whether it is instead trained on the task itself. The latter attitude seems the more fruitful.
The unfair act
An object draws one's attention.
Both are culpable.
A woman draws man's eyes.
Both are culpable.
Blaming man is unfair.
21.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I was gagging on poetry
was gagging on poetry
And nothing could help:
I was gagging on poetry
So they let me lay my head
On Emily's desk
And her inkwell spilled.
I was gagging on poetry
And they covered me up
With Whitman's army blanket
On which I promptly threw up.
I was gagging on poetry
And the Poet Laureate
Sent me a get well bouquet
Of forget me knots.
I was gagging on poetry
And all my poems
Kept getting rejected
For Selective Service.
I was gagging on poetry
And they performed
The Heimlich maneuver
And up came
Twelve autobiographical
Sketches of poets
Thirteen anthologies
Three missing manuscripts
Two thesaurus books
One rhyming dictionary
And my good luck eraser.
poem by Patti Masterman
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Tinted Images
I remember tinted images
yellow and stained
in old wooden frames.
The glass was scratched and wavy.
They sat on a table next to a lamp
painted with naked cherubs.
The couch and chairs were covered in plastic.
I never asked why.
One day my father spilled his beer
no one panicked and I understood.
There were stories after dinner
with coffee and cigarettes.
I was young and don't recall them now.
We don't tell stories after dinner;
no one smokes anymore.
I have pictures in polished frames.
My couch is stained and the chairs are worn.
On a table next to the lamp
the one with naked cherubs
are the tinted images in the old wooden frames.
When the lamp is lit
I can see myself in the glass.
poem by Ronald Shields
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In Them
Another promenade of a sorority,
Bringing out their show around their water fountains,
Preening and attempting their peonies—
They love their football teams—
Entire parking lots of them,
And there elbows bend away like the hemisphere—
Growing through the stained glass of the churches
Of their universities—
To end up as trophy wives—
Somehow there are too many of them to number,
And they sing together in the afternoon on
Weekends—
They know nothing of astronomy, yet they are up there—
Like vanishing pictures in the coloring books
Of girls who are too old now to find
Any understanding in them at all.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Without Looking
Either at my friend's daughter's
sixteen-year-old body dumped
on the morgue slab, T-shirt
stuck fast to one ripped
breast I identified quick, and then
got out of there
or at the old gentleman
with tubes in the living room, spittle
stained in his wispy
beard, out of
the corner of my eye I hardly
notice it, how
could I, drink in hand
at five-thirty, at the least
sign of pain one of us always itches
to turn away, another turns
over in sleep, groans
O, we who are so lucky
just to be able to
ignore, go back
quick, to our books, to
have books, even, how
difficult it is to look
hard and head
on has not been said
often enough, if prayer
is an act of attention
even to dropped stitches, blood
dangling beneath the lines, the
poem? I said,
what prepares us for what
will never save us?
Anonymous submission.
poem by Patricia Goedicke
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I don't work from drawings. I don't make sketches and drawings and color sketches into a final painting.
quote by Jackson Pollock
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Drawing
you draw a map
you make a landscape
there are people and children
and there are houses and trees
you put the wind
sketches of lines and shadows and
shades and blots
you pour this black ink
to make a night
and then you make waves to form the birds
flying away
you situate the fence upon an edge
they all fall down upon an abyss
you try to find
where you are
you are not there
and if somehow you are there
you are but a dot
you have no heart
there is no space where you can put it
there is no place
where you can make it beat
you do not hear it
they say that is correct
for you have long been dead
you refute
you take the revenge
you hurt
you write more words than they can think of
you tell them
this is poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On a Voluntary Basis
Oh...
I can get dark and thick with it.
I can pluck your nerves...
And nit pick.
I can be all of that which you ask.
I am up to any challenge you have as a task.
Oh...
I can be very sensitive and insincere like you.
And all of those things you have done to me?
Guess who can do them too.
I can be all of that which you ask.
I am up to any challenge you have as a task.
Oh...
I can be full of myself sometimes.
Those times that are mine...
To come along when you are being self centered.
In a constant attention grabbing whine.
And when I begin getting dark and thick...
You will not escape the hold my hands have on your wrists.
Getting ready to deep throat your breath away.
With you much aware...
I am not begging you to listen!
I demand it.
Unless you agree,
To do that on a voluntary basis!
With your mouth shut...
And ears perked up and open!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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