I like to think of myself as kind of a sculptor, only I sculpt people.
quote by Kathleen Quinlan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
I am a sculpture
I am sculptor and I sculpt all day
To make a man, a corresponding man, resembling those who were first
The zenith brought us light, brought us food
The zenith brought us heartache a broken charm not soothed
I am a sculptor and I sculpt all day
Carving, sculpting bits of common
It looks fashionable, it’s like ordinary
It looks like a conventional man, he will be popular
Ten English men
Ten English women
Everybody is cool
Everybody is true
Wearing the same clothes
As the sculpture wears to
Battle the outsiders their animals
Raging pit bulls with chains
Look they have a different face
Let’s us murder them a great golden genocide race
The battle passed
And so did the time
But one thing changes and changes and changes and changes and changes and changes
The sculpture really enjoyed their style
He had new clothes
He had acceptance
Battle the outsiders their animals
Unwanted souls shaken from their cage
Look they have different accents
Let’s us murder them drag their tongues from their foolish sayings
The battle passed
And so did the time
But one thing changes and changes and changes and changes and changes and changes
The sculpture really liked that accent
He had new sayings
He had acceptance
Battle the outsiders their animals
Loaded guns with reasons to shoot
Look they have different smells
Let’s us murder their nose’s, piecing through, let us destroy these things they do
The battle passed
And so did the time
But one thing changes and changes and changes and changes and changes and changes
The sculpture really liked those smells
He had new scents
He had acceptance
The English gang turned around and witnessed a changing slant
The sculpture had changed but how
That’s cool, that’s it
We need to be like the sculpture is
I am sculptor and sculpt all day
To sculpt a man
An intelligent man
Living life and giving all he can
We can’t undo reality
Were pressed hard down on fast forward
There was never a pure bred
But there still isn’t a pure acceptance head
poem by Joe Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unintelligent Design
An hour a day,
sometimes more,
I chipped away
with mallet and chisel
on a block of marble
I found in Carrara
and shipped to New York
on the deck of a trawler.
I offered the marble
to a famous sculptor
who told me he works
in granite only
so I grabbed his beret
and one of his smocks
and said I'd sculpt
the block myself
with whittling skills
picked up as a kid
from a drunken uncle
named Whittling Sid.
Several weeks later,
to my surprise,
I finished the bust
of a chimpanzee
simply by wielding
mallet and chisel
the way I wield
pencil and eraser
when hewing a poem.
Working with marble
or working with words,
a sculptor or poet
proves less is more
by chipping away
until something emerges
upright and walking
with a soul of its own.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Show-Piece
Behold! knees curled up to his chin
Head down, his empty bowl shaken
Fatigued and languished with weary mind
On penniless status for his bread...
Pity, even unaware of somebody playing upon
Poor beggar, a pose of hapless repose
An act of begging on loss
But an utility for a sculptor behind
The chisel shaping up poverty well formed
Benefitted is the sculptor in bucks
Soiled emotions to the beggar glue
His concaved belly nothing to pursue
Unnoticeably trespassed the sculptor to crop
A faint sitting target artistically on whop
Sold off by re-makes, the sculptor's ooh!
In a rich man's house seated respectfully
Is the pauper carved carefully
Out of a heavy stone looking meaningfully
With unshaken bowl for pennies hopefully!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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No person who is not a great sculptor or painter can be an architect. If he is not a sculptor or painter, he can only be a builder.
quote by John Ruskin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For a Statue of Æscalupius
Far as Miletus travelled Paean's son;
There to be guest of Nicias, guest of one
Who heals all sickness; and who still reveres
Him, for his sake this cedarn image rears.
The sculptor's hand right well did Nicias fill;
And here the sculptor lavished all his skill.
poem by Theocritus
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The Sound of Silence
I’m walking down the street
and I hear the sculptor in his house
working on his statue of Krishna
and the chisel rings out on the stone
like a bell that wants to tell you something:
the stone saying, I am perfectly made for this;
the chisel saying, I am perfectly made for this;
the sculptor saying, this is prayer;
Krishna saying, I shall enter this.
And I hear in the sound of the chisel on the stone,
as sure as I know my own name,
that the sculptor is listening to all this too.
The bell-like sound lingers in the air
as if the air would keep it for ever
as the air’s prayer. It’s music.
The clearer the sound
of his striking chisel on stone,
the deeper the silence
as if sound and silence between them
know a secret: that sounds like this
can do anything in the world;
even call Krishna with their music
to play at being stone for us.
The stone’s laughing also:
playing at being Krishna.
They’re both laughing.
The sculptor is smiling too.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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That Delicious Throat
Inescapable from the forceful arms of dreams,
I fall ecstatically on soft silk sheets,
My heart is pounding wildly
Thinking of her gorgeous body
Relenting to my pursuit,
Becoming one with my desire.
There is nothing light or shallow
In my fantasy to entwine my fingers in her hair,
To breathe her every feminine scent,
To possess her completely,
To kiss her lips and then dissolve
Into her soul.
I am captivated by her throat,
That delicious throat that I have seen
Wrapped in fashionable scarves
Or displaying the most hypnotic necklaces,
A throat designed for a master sculptor to sculpt
And then preserve majestically in the Louvre,
A throat for gods to touch,
And for a humble man to worship.
I cannot be released from devouring thoughts
Of her spellbinding loveliness;
I could walk frozen wintry streets
Shivering like a naked man,
But my heart and mind would glow
With the eternally burning embers
Of this ceaseless obsession.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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It's Kind of Funny
It's kind of funny how those who want life get it taken away,
while those who loathe it wander around.
Almost as if a waste.
It's kind of funny how those who try to do right get it spit back in their face.
The bad walk among us as if to be common people.
They, they get your respect.
It's kind of funny the people you love, they're usually the fall of you.
They say they're there for you but always somehow make you feel worthless.
It's kind of funny how everything can end so fast.
Everything can just disappear.
It's kind of funny how I wish I never met you.
I wish I could tell you.
I wish we could be.
And I wish that everything wasn't so funny and that everything could be what it is.
It's kind of funny how me and you,
we don't matter.
What I say and do will always be funny to you.
It's no longer funny.
poem by Elina Fields
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Don't Ask Me to Blubber About 9/11
We're the kind of people who would kill 100,000 Japs
(Hey; come on; they're only Japs) to find out if a weapon
Works. We're the kind of people who would kill
A million Filipinos so we'd have some colonies,
And we're the kind of people who would help
The Guatemalans to exterminate the Mayans so
Bananas wouldn't rise in price, and we're the kind
Of people who would lay waste to an Arab nation
Because we were angry that a group (of very clever)
Guys, who weren't from there, brought down some
Buildings here. I have to tell you this: in view of all
That we have done, I'm okay with those guys.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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We meet people all the time....
We meet people all the time
Rich people with nothing
Poor people with the world
Kind people
Not so kind people
Funny people
People who think they are funny
People who laugh at other peoples pain
People who change the course of our lives
People whom we change their direction
Inspirational people
Caring people
Intelligent people
History tells us of people who create World misery
And the ones who end it
People who charm the socks off us (while we are wearing our shoes!)
People who steal our affections
People who give us undeserved affections
All the time we meet people
Wouldn’t it be nice if this poem didn’t label them though?
poem by Wanelisa Albert
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I paint and sculpt to get a grip on reality... to protect myself.
quote by Alberto Giacometti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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L2,7,22
people are playing games
often they fight, the rules are
changed without notice,
people are killing each other,
the dead lose, the winner is
the living, there is no more
argument about this,
case is closed.
they play their games over
and over again, time is a
room, there are no referees,
no one is just, inherent is
the fraud, the swindler is
the hero, the rich ones have
always crimes behind their
great fortunes,
sometimes they go to court,
judges are made by them
in accordance with their genes,
and those who mold them from
their own clay, are those that
always win
such is the state of affairs,
to cover all these, these twisted
ways, those that have the gold,
invent religion, create society,
write their history, proclaim their
deities, codify their laws, print
the books, carpenter their
own kind of teachers, sculpt
a civilization,
i am a small man, i do not have
many years in my cells, i simply
watch, i do not say much, i keep
my mouth shut, i write a diary,
i keep a journal, i have a blog,
i do facebook, i fit in, i am not
that twisted somehow, i have
objections, i protest inside my
square head, i write in ciphers, i do
not want to be understood, neither
do i want myself to be used.
if you read me, you get nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Kind Of Town
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of people too
People who,smile at you
And each time I leave, Chicago is
Tugging my sleave, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of razzmatazz
And it has, all that jazz
And each time I rome, Chicago is
Calling me home, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town
Chicago is
The Wrigley Building, Chicago is
The Union stock yard, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my
My kind of town
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You find me at work; excuse the dust on my blouse. I sculpt my marble myself.
quote by Camille Claudel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every Kind Of People
Every Kinda People
Robert Palmer
Words & Music : Andy Fraser
Notes : Aussi interprte par "Mint Juleps"
Said the fight to make ends meet
Keeps a man upon his feet
Holding down his job
Trying to show he can't be bought
Ooh, it takes every kind of people
To make what life's about, yeah
Every kind of people
To make the world go 'round
Someone's looking for a lead
In his duty to a King or creed
Protecting what he feels is right
Fights against wrong with his life
There's no profit in deceit
Honest men know that
Revenge do not taste sweet
Whether yellow, black or white
Each and every man's the same inside
It takes every kind of people
To make what life's about, yeah
Every kind of people
To make the world go 'round
You know that love's the only goal
That could bring a peace to any soul
Hey, and every man's the same
He wants the sunshine in his name
Ooh, it takes every kind of people...
song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Needs-Potreba
some people need a deep thought
with which to embrace the world
some people need a stone
as deceptive as a sculptor's shadow
some people need the water
with which to bathe the memory
there within against the depth of a secret
life has drowned
nekome je potrebna duboka misao
da njome zagrli svijet
drugima kamen varljiv ko vajareva sjena
trećima je potrebna voda
da njome okupaju sjećanje
u kom se spram dubine tajne
utopio život
1996.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Kevin, as the whole cast is, just wonderful people and great people, and people who are attracted to this kind of material and accepting the idea of going to Newfoundland and knowing the kind of lack of amenities.
quote by Lasse Hallstrom
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shoehorn With Teeth
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
People should get beat up for stating their beliefs
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
Because he knows theres no such thing
He asks a girl if they can both sit in a chair but he doesnt get nervous
Shes not really there
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
Because he knows theres no such thing
Tour the world in a heavy metal band
But they run out of gas
The plane can never land
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
People should get beat up for stating their beliefs
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
Because he knows theres no such thing
Whats the sense in ever thinking about the tomb
When youre much too busy returning to the womb?
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
People should get beat up for stating their beliefs
He wants a shoehorn, the kind with teeth
Because he knows theres no such thing
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Love Above Loves
When I think of you
I think of a certain kind of love
When I hear your name
I hear a certain kind of love
When I look at you
I see a certain kind of love
When I hold you
I hold a certain kind of love
When I kiss you
I kiss a certain kind of love
When I touch you
I touch a certain kind of love
When I fell in love with you
I fell in love with a certain kind of love
When I'm with you
I'm with a certain kind of love
When I'm wrapped up in you
I'm wrapped up in a certain kind of love
This certain kind of love
Is stronger than love
It is a transcended state
A love that can only be gifted from above
A love that is greater than any other love
This certain kind of love
Is strong and true
This certain kind of love
Makes two people stay true
This certain kind of love
Can never be extinguished
I believe that we have this kind of love
A love so true
Maybe not love at first sight
But I do believe that I was meant for you
Do you believe it too?
This certain kind of love
Is a love above loves
This certain kind of love
Is a true love
So true
poem by Alex Fischer
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That Space
I remember the space
that where
we like to be
calming jittery fingers
paint sculpt writing
indelible intangible
between eternal hours
this
here is now:
leaving the fleeting
poem by Randy Resh
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