Coming to understand a painting or a symphony in an unfamiliar style, to recognize the work of an artist or school, to see or hear in new ways, is as cognitive an achievement as learning to read or write or add.
quote by Nelson Goodman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Style
Style must not be underrated
Style is often overlooked
Style is never in the papers
I read it like an open book
Style
If you cant see the substance
Style shows how its organized
Style is looking for your money
Its in the way you paint your eyes
There is always a way
A way things are done
Ive been learning my abcs
I know what is 10, I know what is 1 in
Style is a naked look
Underneath your style
Style of a different place
Talking through your style
Even the way you hide it
Reveals the thing you hide
Your style may never cause a riot
Its still a style to have no style
There is always a way
To light up a lamp
Its been a crazy year all around
The check never came
I cant let it cramp my
Style is a world for sale
You cant buy this style
Style that you cant resist
You wont cramp my style
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Did I Know
Little did I know forty-two years ago
when I put pen to paper
after getting off a fairground ride
at sunset that day.
That what I was about to write
would be a crowning achievement
in my writing life.
That what I wrote would be read and used
in all the four corners of the world.
It would be used to compliment
photos, painting, and memorials
to those who had passed away.
A piece of writing
which would evoke so much in many.
For everyone who reads it
get their own impressions from within it.
Little did I know
more than any other of my work,
it would make my name.
Although I have written poems
for one reason or another
that have become favourites of mine,
Just Beyond The Sunset is a dream
and beyond that sunset
my dreams have come true
in a lot more ways than one.
For little did I know
what I was writing then.
21 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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In School
In school so much go's on
You read
You write
Friends are there to help you make it through
Teachers are there to help you learn
You got books
You got computers
In school
You get away from parents
In school
There are people that understand you
There are people that hate you
There are people that look up to you
In school
There are bad lunches
There are packed halls
There are smelly locker rooms
All in school
poem by Sally Minns
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Unpainted Painting
Unpainted Painting.
I found a painting on the dump by the road, heads of many colours
seeking shelter, under a colourful umbrella, against coming storm.
It is an original painting signed and dated 2052, who threw it away?
A black fly walks across the computer screen, when I shush it away
it only indolently moves and settles on the edge of the virtual page.
I look for a newspaper to swat it the devious fly reads my thought,
take lift and disappear Into the painting. Now I can read the name:
FEMA. I got, it the date, the work is not yet made by an artist not yet
born; I’m seeing into a future and if the sad faces are anything to go
by, it doesn’t look too promising. Before the darkness swirled into
the village I put the picture back on the dump, as it wasn’t painted
yet and not for me to see. The black fly was buzzing around my head
whispering words in a in a future language I shall never comprehend
In the morning dustmen came and took away the trash.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Try to Understand Me Too (Autism)
Today might not be my day,
You might understand what I want to say.
There are times that I want to wave my hand,
And you might think it is something that I am trying to demand.
Can you hear the soun
ds as I pound my feet,
Well maybe not, but all I am doing is trying to sound a beat.
Do you remember when I read the book with you?
It was about the ghost and you made me laugh when you said BOO.
I love to hear it when we whisper and shout Lullabies, songs and rhymes,
To me I wonder, if they can hear us while we do this during school time.
This is one reason why I always say things over and over again,
And when you try to stop me, I get mad every now and then.
I only wish I can understand everything that I'm being told,
But to me it feels like I am always being controlled.
Can you remember when you asked the class a question and I wanted to answer it when was not my turn,
All I am just trying to do is show you that I can remember things that I learn.
I try to understand why I get so mad and I cannot control myself and I hurt you,
When I think about it I get sad and cry because I wish someone could, Try to Understand Me Too.
I wish the other kids would let me play,
If they took the time to talk to me, they might understand things my way,
I also love it when you want to teach me how to pray,
And you ask the Lord to help thru this day,
I know that you understand me and even, if no one ever wants to even take a guess,
So, this is my ways of saying thank you and telling you that I will always try and do my best.
poem by Frank Pulver
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I think it is important for software to avoiding imposing a cognitive style on workers and their work.
quote by Edward Tufte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Doin' What Comes Natur'lly
ANNIE OAKLEY and FEMALE CHORUS:
Folks are dumb where I come from,
They ain't had any learning.
Still they're happy as can be
Doin' what comes naturally (doin' what comes naturally).
Folks like us could never fuss
With schools and books and learning.
Still we've gone from A to Z,
Doin' what comes naturally (doin' what comes naturally)
You don't have to know how to read or write
When you're out with a feller in the pale moonlight.
You don't have to look in a book to find out
What he thinks of the moon and what is on his mind.
That comes naturally (that comes naturally).
My uncle out in Texas can't even write his name.
He signs his checks with "x's"
But they cash them just the same.
If you saw my pa and ma,
You'd know they had no learning,
Still they've raised a family
Doin' what comes naturally (doin' what comes naturally)
Cousin Jack has never read an almanac on drinking
Still he's always on the spree
Doin' what comes naturally (doin' what comes naturally).
Sister Sal who's musical has never had a lesson,
Still she's learned to sing off-key
Doin' what comes naturally (doin' what comes naturally).
You don't have to go a private school
Not to pick up a penny near a stubborn mule,
You don't have to have a professor's dome
Not to go for the honey when the bee's not home.
That comes naturally (that comes naturally).
My tiny baby brother, who's never read a book,
Knows one sex from the other,
All he had to do was look,
Grandpa Bill is on the hill
With someone he just married.
There he is at ninety-three,
Doin' what comes naturally (doin' what comes naturally
song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don't Play Me A Symphony
Don't Play me a Symphony
A simple song will do.
Diamond rings
Sparkling Bright
Gold and silver things
Candle lights
But I wish you bought
Real light
One day you understand
The meaning in my eyes.
Don't play me a symphony
A simple song will do
Don't buy me no jewellery
Won't make my dreams
Come true
Fancy cloths I never wore
And books I never read
All I want is your
Love is all I need.
Don't play me a symphony
I'd rather hear a song
Harm a note and melody
So I can harm along
Love is all I have to give
And love is all I need
All I want is your
love is all I need.
sympathy is not allowed
when you talk to me
you don't shout
if you gave more
more of your life
I could easily
One day be your wife.
Don't play me a symphony
A simple song will do
Don't buy me no jewellery
Won't make my dreams
Come true
Fancy cloths I never wore
And books I never read
All I want is your
Love is all I need.
Don't play me a symphony
I'd rather hear a song
Harm a note and melody
So I can harm along
Love is all I have to give
And love is all I need
All I want is your
Love is all I need.
Love is all I have to give
And love is all I need
All I want is your
Love is all I need.
song performed by by Baccara
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When is a Painting Finished?
I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.
I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.
But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.
Painters have different opinions
about this.
Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.
However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?
And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.
Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.
Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.
A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.
I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”
He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”
poem by Paul Hartal
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Learning language
Hear and hear to learn hearing.
Speak and speak to learn speaking.
Read and read to learn reading.
Write and write to learn writing.
They are four ways traffic.
04.02.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Theme for English B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
poem by Langston Hughes
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I don't know what makes someone hip. The goal is artist achievement and the best work we can do with no limitation.
quote by Rick Rubin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The speculative part of my work is that these particular cognitive tasks - ways of thinking analytically - are tied to nature's laws.
quote by Edward Tufte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My School Days
Now-a-days where is that cheer,
unless i call up friends to have a beer,
Just like mist gone we are apart in many ways,
But where are my School days.
Now-a-days where is that enthusiasm,
for i bump into people with only sarcasm,
we sail world over on a ship,
unsuccessful even to strike a good friendship,
We have indeed drifted in many ways,
But where are my School days.
Now-a-days where is that laughter,
I hear just laughs to flatter,
true friends were those who where just there,
to say 'Hey we really care'
Scattered are we in many ways,
But where are my School days.
We are born with faces,
and now with a 'book',
we are now connected in many ways,
Where i come to cherish my School days.
poem by Deepak Calyampoondi
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This Art Work
The love of a muse,
The pen of an artist,
This ink work will teach many yet unborn.
This art is from a realm to guide you,
This art work is like a mustard seed aroun you;
It is original!
It comes from a realm unknown;
It will inspire you.
This art is real to abstract your minds,
The innovative nature of my mind to you all;
It is the act of my dreams beyond imaginations!
This art will teach many,
It will inspire you all that love the muse.
This art work,
It is like a mustard seed;
It will grow to give you joy!
It is like the muse next door,
It will touch and influence you;
This art work ia sll that i have as an artist
This art work is never known,
It is called, 'Pen-Painting Graphics Abstracts'.
This art will teach many,
My innerself from the realm of imaginations!
This art will teach you;
But, the artist is never known.
This art is from a realm to guide you into my heart,
This art is from a realm to bring you into my world,
This is the love of a sweet muse to you all;
This art is from the pen of an artist who,
Is yet to be known.
This art is here to stay,
This art is all that i have for you all;
Cos', he who proves his skills proves his realms.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Symphony Of Music
music has away of projecting
your every-emotion that you
have to give, the art of music
lives inside every-one that wants
to follow it.
the sorrow that it has
gives a symphony of words,
to express the inner-emotions
that music has to expose to
us as we listen to it.
the symphony of music
impacts us as we listen
and compassionately take
it to heart, as we start
becoming involved with
the symphony of music that
is being produced to us.
some-how the art of
music takes us by the
hand and moves us in so
many different ways that we
can't even explain to any-one
that is around us.
we take the symphony of
music as it moves through
us, as we listen with an open
heart and an open mind, and find
the boundaries that combines our
very emotions, thoughts, and feelings,
with the symphony of music that reveals
to us a whole new world of music to
us and being the people of the world.
but what people don't
understand and realise is
that the symphony of music,
goes deeper than what they
had imagined it to go, and
some-how not to show this
bittersweet side of me and
what the symphony of music
does to me and my feelings.
and to have it some-how
over-flowing inside my
veins is some-thing that
i will never-ever talk about
with any-one who knows and
loves me.
poem by Erie Diane
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R.I.P Declan
You are no longer on the Anson
you are in a brighter place that is far better
if you can hear me,
I want you to know, you may be gone
but you will be missed for ever.
And I have been trying to write this for days
but I can't find the right words
I have tried it so many different ways
In my mind I paint the picture of your smiling face
because in reality I know you have gone to a far better place.
We went to the same school.
I believe you are still here, that's why you will never be forgot.
I keep expecting to bump into you on my way to the corner shop.
I know I have to understand you are gone but know it is not the end
I know you are looking down
I love you friend.
poem by Daniel McCann
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If I Were A Painting
If I were a painting
Captured on canvas
Alone in the portriat I would stand
And brush strokes bold
Yet soft as a whisper
The work of a feminine hand.
Caught in a still life
Surrounded by shadows
And lost in a background of blue
If I were a painting
My price would be pain
And the artist would have to be you.
I imagine the colors
Would all run together
If you ever allowed me to cry
So don't paint the tears
Just let me remember me
Without you in my eyes.
It's only the frame
That holds me together
Or else I would be falling apart
If I were a painting
I wouldn't feel
And you wouldnt be breaking my heart...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A look at the state of education in our society today or The New 3 R's Of TodayLearning, Education, and School
Learning, Education, and School
Many years ago, education was much simpler, or so it seemed!
You had the Three R’s, a red brick school house, and it was clean!
Then we added courses like Latin and Greek- of how awful- hard to speak,
Never fear, let us add courses that will help art, shop and Home Ec- for something to eat.
That’s right, food for thought,
After all isn’t that is what school is all about.
For forty plus years we followed that rule,
We cooked up a great education until finally in the end we listened to the political correctness fools
We discarded the ingredients that made our school great only to add new programs and policies which promote racism and hate..
What happened to our vocational programs, places where we taught our students trades,
What happened to learning work as part of the dignity of man?
What happened to learning is easy to see, instead of learning correctly,
We are learning to fail because we are failing to read,
Sstudents are porous and need to be reached.
Essays, standard tests, and computer programs are great, but can they replace touch of loving parents?
Listen to me, just a cry in the dark, it’s not our schools that are falling apart.
We have lost our direction and maybe our focus.
For you see it not your test score that count one, two, and three
It simply must be the students who learn their A, B, and C’s
They apply what they learn, not with paper and pen,
but with hands, hearts, and mind and souls.
So we can all learn to live together happily once and again.
poem by Nadalia Bagratuni
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Plenty Of Shared Lip Service
Those unfamiliar with leadership,
Should not be expected
To understand it.
There are more accustomed,
To being followers.
And it can be annoying,
To hear them whining.
Bickering amongst themselves,
In footsteps from behind.
One who leads,
Hardly sleeps or properly eats.
Thinking of the whole as one entity,
And not several pieces to see pleased.
One who leads,
Had to learn to listen.
And those who have no idea what this means
Often pass judgement,
With a seeking to do it.
At every given opportunity.
Those unfamiliar with leadership,
Should not be expected.
To understand it.
What 'can' be expected from those unaware,
Is plenty of shared lip service.
And a volunteering of their mocked despair.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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