Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen.
quote by Pablo Picasso
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Canvas (Part 2)
We last left off with such the fright,
She paints—but gasp! —that's not quite right,
For every story has a twist,
And every painting is done on her wrist.
She paints with—sorry? —with little regard,
To what may bleed and what may scar,
But oh, she paints a lovely spar,
Despite the way that most things are.
Some find it funny and watch as she flees,
Others feel sick the moment they see,
Because a painter, she can't have much of a life,
If all of her painting is done with a knife.
This painter—in fact—she thinks she's alone,
Because of the burden of problems at home,
And then there's her mind, a nasty old place,
It's mostly the cause of the paintings she makes.
But one can be trapped, or one can be freed,
Though most painters like her find this hard to believe,
Yet this very painter broke free of her sadness,
And if she ever wonders 'why? ' she can look at her canvas.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
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The Fortune Teller
There's a fortune teller
that tells it like she sees it.
But how do I know that
what she sees is true?
Maybe it's all hokum
and then what will I do?
She tells me I will meet
the man in my life
that will sweep me off my feet
and make me his wife.
She tells me I'll have babies,
that they will make me proud.
She tells me she sees sunshine
and not a single cloud.
And so I feel better,
better than before.
But before I leave,
before I leave your door
Let me look into your eyes
to see if these are lies.
Oh fortune teller let it all be true.
My time is running out now.
It's all up to you.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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July Paints of Winter
July paints masterpieces
kissing my canvas with lively breezy strokes
July paints what she sees
adding intrigue to yellow folks
She paints a cold numbing winter
adding icicles on Christchurch trees
She paints a briskly Tasman salty sea
Sitting at a window overlooking her muse
July can't see colour til summer’s shines it's hues
poem by ArmourQuill Hunter
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Maybe
Maybe
Maybe Im wrong
To go on thinking, to sing my song
Maybe
This worlds falling down
Call up the trumpeters and knock the walls down
Someone who needs
Someone who feels
Someone who sees can find you
Slowly
Slowly we walk
No harm in crying, no sense in talk
Slowly
The ice melts away
Call on the choir to sing
And turn no-one away
Someone who needs
Someone who feels
Someone who sees can find you
Someone who needs
Someone who feels
Someone who sees can find you
Maybe
Maybe Im wrong
The river holds its breath
The sea will keep its calm
Slowly
Slowly we turn
A look at where weve been
The juggler has to learn
Someone who needs
Someone who feels
Someone who sees can find you
Someone who needs
Someone who feels
Someone who sees can find you
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Artist
An artist paints with brush so old
Makes his painting worth gold
He paints the nature's gifted gifts
The flowing rivers in the midst
Of all he paints is a pretty face
A girl dressed all in lace
Portraying her beauty he is lost in time
The beauty she possessed is hard to find
Was it her beauty he tried to captivate?
But what a pity time doesn't wait
For she has gone so far away
Leaving her image with the artist to stay
Who paints her all through day and night?
Seeking pleasure deep inside
poem by Meena Mustafa
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The artist should not only paint what he sees before him, but also what he sees in himself. If, however, he sees nothing within him, then he should also refrain from painting what he sees before him. Otherwise his pictures will be like those folding screens behind which one expects to find only the sick or the dead.
quote by Caspar David Friedrich
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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You know, the way art history is taught, often there's nothing that tells you why the painting is great. The description of a lousy painting and the description of a great painting will very much sound the same.
quote by Chuck Close
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Plath versus Ted Hughes
he paints the
most beautiful pictures
with his words
she scraps words
out of a piteous painting she
is trapped
he props himself up
with his words of finesse
she tries to mend a
broken world with all the words
she could muster
tearing up a painting
into bits and pieces of her gems
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Crying In The Rain
(coverdale)
A black cat moans
When hes burning with the fever
A stray dog howls
When hes lonely in the night
A woman goes crazy
With the though of retribution
But, a man starts weeping
When hes sick and tired of life
I keep on dreaming dreams of tomorrow
Feel Im wasting my time
Lighting candles in the wind,
Always taking my chances
On the promise of the future
But, a heart full of sorrow
Paints a lonely tapestry
The sun is shining
But, its raining in my heart
No one understands the heartache,
No one feels the pain,
cos no one ever sees the tears
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain,
Crying in the rain...
I can never deny
All the sweet things I have tasted
Tho Ive been mistreated
I keep coming back for more,
I know where Im going
Theres no hope of absolution
I cant seem to separate
The good times from the bad
The sun is shining
But, its raining in my heart
No one understands the heartache,
No one feels the pain,
cos no one ever sees the tears
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain
The sun is shining
But, its raining in my heart
No one understands the heartache,
No one feels the pain,
cos no one ever sees the tears
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain,
When youre crying in the rain
Crying in the rain...
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kyoto Song
A nightmare of you
Of death in the pool
Wakes me up at quarter to three
I'm lying on the floor of the night before
With a stranger lying next to me
A nightmare of you
Of death in the pool
I see no further now than this dream
The trembling hand of the trembling man
Hold my mouth
To hold in a scream
I try to think
To make it slow
If only here is where i go
If this is real
I have to see
I turn on fire
And next to me
It looks good
It tastes like nothing on earth
It looks good
It tastes like nothing on earth
Its so smooth it even feels like skin
It tells me how it feels to be new
It tells me how it feels to be new
A thousand voices whisper it true
It tells me how it feels to be new
And every voice belongs
Every voice belongs to you
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paints Life Theme Canvas
research scientist
paints water colours
paints poetry brush strokes
paints poetry beaker pigment
paints life theme canvas
research insistent
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Painting is self-discovery. Every good artist paints what he is.
quote by Jackson Pollock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Earth Safe
Death paints darkness at noon
Earth not feared of death
Death paints darkness at noon
Sun shines sky so bright
Death paints darkness at noon
unkind eyes dark so blind
Volcanoes erupt, whirl winds kill
Towers collapse thousands peril
Terrors kill, humans destroy
Death paints darkness at noon
Earth not feared of death
Rivers flow, Oceans flow
Nature green, universe calm
Earth safe, safer than ever....
September 4,2008
poem by Rema Prasanaa
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Blind Sight
I look but don’t see the real world in front of me.
Moments waste away with the details of my day.
Do I have enough? How can I get more stuff?
Can I have another win or fit in one more sin?
When I look I can’t see
What’s important to me.
I worship things and seek pleasure.
I can’t see what I should treasure.
Then a blind man told me, he lost his sight so he could see.
He sees why he conquered grief since his life is all too brief.
He sees that everlasting love is true language from above.
He sees that darkness is for sleeping, not sorrow and weeping.
His spirit senses kindness and thanks to his blindness,
He knows that with vision of heart and mind,
It’s only his eyes that will be blind.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The first hope of a painter who feels hopeful about painting is the hope that the painting will move, that it will live outside its frame.
quote by Gertrude Stein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The tiger and the deer
The tiger rises up before the pounce
a few seconds of complete visibility
and the deer sees no more
The tiger feels no sorrow
feels no pain
just the warmth of success
The deer feels no heat
feels no cold
just the piercing dullness of death
poem by Joanne Tasker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feels So Good
Feels good
Im stranded on a spaceship hideaway
And something makes me think Im here to stay
Im so happy where I am
Feels good
Ive journeyed to the other atmospheres
And every breath I take just makes it clear
Im holding heaven in my hands
Its automatic baby and it feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
These extra-sensory sensations
Are causing me some complications
Electrostatic information
Feels good
Im playing with a pleasure trafficker
Arriving soon intergalactica
Im holding heaven in my hands
Its automatic baby and it feels good
Feels good
Feels good
Feels good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
Feels so good
Feels so good
Feels so good
Feels good
Feels so good
Feels so good
Feels so good
Feels good
Im stranded on a spaceship hideaway
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
Feels good
And it feels so good
song performed by by Jamiroquai
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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White... is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black... God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.
quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The City With Eyes
The city with eyes
Sees everything,
City with eyes
Hears everything
Feels everything
The city with eyes
Sees people living on the rough side of the streets
Sees people eating crumbs from the floor
Sees people with ripped clothes and no shoes
Watching other people wearing lubatones walking past
It cries not one but millions of tears
For them
Tears which touch every one
Which soaks everything
Rain, they call it.
The city with eyes
Watching
What has happened to my city?
It cries with sorrow
The city with eyes
Feels the sadness
Of those in need, sad, hurt, …
Watching what was happy
To what is sad know