This isn't a watercolor, it's a mural.
quote by Erich Segal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The procedure was that an artist got a mural and then he would have anywhere from two to ten assistants depending on the size of the mural and how many assistants he needed, or she needed.
quote by Lee Krasner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Madonna on a wall
It’s another thing to see
how a mural,
gets a life of its own.
I see her measure and draw
the outlines and I wonder how,
she calculates the image that unfolds
With a palette
on which she mix different colours
and a painter’s pencil,
she paints an image
[See picture of the madonna mural at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1420_Madonna_on_a _wall.htm]
that comes out of a wall.
.
I am struck by what she’s doing
and how her fingers,
perform magic with a brush
and the art and beauty
that unfolds almost without bother.
It’s as if the Madonna’s eyes
follow me as if she’s alive,
to where I move
all over the room
There’s something of her soul
and a new presence,
that’s caught on the wall.
poem by Gert Strydom
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If London is a watercolor, New York is an oil painting.
quote by Peter Shaffer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Watercolor sky
Painted by Master of Art
Creator Supreme
haiku by Dorothy Holmes (09 October 2008)
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Painter Named William
WILLIAM THE PAINTER
With a great smile that always shines,
he is a great painter, he paints art real fine.
William makes paintings with acrylic, oils and pastels,
he is a realistic painter, muralist and cartoonist as well.
I went to William’s art event,
it was at a church is where I went.
He did a mural on their wall,
it was huge, it wasn’t small.
William has a great eye for shape and form,
he is an original artist, not in the norm.
Now I just saw William today,
he was happy to see me and we talked away.
I will do a mural with him in Lake Worth soon,
we will paint a wall with some cartoons.
Looking forward William to see more of your art,
your art is unique, it sets you apart.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Garden in my inner square
I planted a vegetable garden
in the inner square opposite a mural
and next to it there are flowers that only in the morning hour
spread their cups and spiral up against every side,
where it finds a holding place and grow hillock on hillock
over every thing with purple flowers that only last a short time.
I planted a vegetable garden
in the inner square opposite a mural,
where mountains tooth out blue in the background
and field after field of purple lavender bushes stand at the front
and there’s a shop owner sending his servants on bicycles around
and at the bottom in fruitful red sand
a vegetable garden was planted by me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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If you look across the valley, you can see exactly what I mean: about four beautiful houses, and you think something is happening in each of them. It's like a mural.
quote by Jilly Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To me, that's one of the things that I love about doing this stuff. One day I can work on this piece in watercolor, and then work on something else on the computer, or work on something else that's a completely different approach.
quote by Bill Sienkiewicz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What is it about possessing things Why do we feel the need to own what we love, and why do we become jerks when we do We've all been there-- you want something, to possess it. By possessing something you lose it. You finally win the girl of your dreams, the first thing you do is change her. The little things she does with her hair, the way she wears her clothes or the way she chews her gum. Pretty soon what you like, what you changed, what you don't like, blends together like a watercolor in the rain.
quote by Jeff Melvoin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have often thought that if photography were difficult in the true sense of the term -- meaning that the creation of a simple photograph would entail as much time and effort as the production of a good watercolor or etching -- there would be a vast improvement in total output. The sheer ease with which we can produce a superficial image often leads to creative disaster.
quote by Ansel Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fractured Time
He would set them free,
words. On cityscape.
For extended release of connotations.
Part of him, not his way,
and become weaponless.
Once the silence descended,
nothing was left to be known.
Between doubt and belief
anguish was palpable.
Truth was a capped fossil.
The rumors and denials
were similar. Fractured time.
From lie to lie watercolor ticks the clock,
fells the tribe of seekers
and breaks the mirror.
poem by Satish Verma
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Before an Old Painting of the Crucifixion
I ponder how He died, despairing once.
I've heard the cry subside in vacant skies,
In clearings where no other was. Despair,
Which, in the vibrant wake of utterance,
Resides in desolate calm, preoccupies,
Though it is still. There is no solace there.
That calm inhabits wilderness, the sea,
And where no peace inheres but solitude;
Near death it most impends. It was for Him,
Absurd and public in His agony,
Inscrutably itself, nor misconstrued,
Nor metaphrased in art or pseudonym:
A vague contagion. Old, the mural fades...
Reminded of the fainter sea I scanned,
I recollect: How mute in constancy!
I could not leave the wall of palisades
Till cormorants returned my eyes on land.
The mural but implies eternity:
Not death, but silence after death is change.
Judean hills, the endless afternoon,
The farther groves and arbors seasonless
But fix the mind within the moment's range.
Where evening would obscure our sorrow soon,
There shines too much a sterile loveliness.
No imprecisions of commingled shade,
No shimmering deceptions of the sun,
Herein no semblances remark the cold
Unhindered swell of time, for time is stayed.
The Passion wanes into oblivion,
And time and timelessness confuse, I'm told.
These centuries removed from either fact
Have lain upon the critical expanse
And been of little consequence. The void
Is calendared in stone; the human act,
Outrageous, is in vain. The hours advance
Like flecks of foam borne landward and destroyed.
poem by Navarre Scott Momaday
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Sick-bed
My head throbs from a headache
and the flu gnaws
burning at my throat,
but the blue of the air
seeps friendly in through my room’s window.
Outside at the Tuscan mural
and the small bubbling fountain,
sparrows are washing,
splashing and chirping.
The garden’s odours vapours
through my blocked nose
and lavender and rosemary
lies snugly against me.
While illness bring my day to an end,
outside the day carries on
and the tranquillity
comes in from outside and surrounds me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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This Juvenile Rope
Well—so this juvenile rope
Hangs us as we won't go out and light the wicks
With the dragons coming home
Over the equinoxes—while our fairytale fathers fish
And look up at Saturn,
And can never be resolved if this is actually the place—
Maybe a beautiful uncle paints a mural in a trailer park
On the other side of the canal,
While something else plays on our television—
And the ghosts leave the burned wings of our paper
Airplanes—and go outside between the cypress and
Melaleuca to explore
And explore.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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On a Drawing by Charles Tomlinson
By a swath of inks the eye
thinks it sees solidities
which alter with the watercolor
way his brush washes its dye
in distance, though even this
finds a faraway fixed not
by the surveyor's plumb but
by the action of the thumb
delaying all the fingers meant
to draw out of the paper,
splashed dry. The clean grain
catches what it should retain
if enough pressure pleasure
is applied to the stain to lie.
Note: Tomlinson is not only a distinctive poet, but a visual artist of repute. His graphics grace the covers of many of his books. This Homage attempts to imitate his verse style, or rather one of his verse styles.
poem by Bill Knott
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Freewrite
the vigilance of the snowy owl
hunting high above the tundra
the grace of the great egret nesting
in the branches
the prescion of the pelican swooping
diving fishing in the ocean
the secrets of time studied in the soil
noble face of stone tough weatherd crust of the earth
mosaic of life mural of beauty
all floods my vision
reading in the public library
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Our Mural
We all will leave our footprints
Upon our planets dirt
As we daily live our lives
Upon our home upon this earth,
From the places that we've been
Or from where we had came
From the happiness that we felt
And even the sadness and it's pain,
The people we have known
That became part of our life
And the laughs that we shared
With the tears that we cried,
As these are part of our footprints
That we placed upon this world
And every soul will leave them
As that will become our mural.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Lighter Shades Of Blue, Green And Brown
soon the flower puffs
and spreads the softness of its seeds
this wisp of the winds
this call of the ground
to perpetuate life
to kill the ugliness of death
to resurrect the hope of the grasses
the ideals of the flowers
leaves dissolve like watercolor dampness
in the canvass of life
so soft, soft green meadows
pastel woodlands
light green horizons spreading
diffusing against the fading light of dusk
meeting once again
the blueness of the skies
like baby's breath to mother
lips kissing meeting
in the cradle.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early one afternoon
Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.
a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.
There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.
Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.
At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.
The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.
In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.
I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.
When I got back to myself
I was at the fountain
in front of the mural
in our garden
and the golden Persian cat,
watched me from the top of the wall
with a woolly tail that curled down
and it looked with golden eyes at me.
[Reference: Tuscan mural by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1417_Early_one_af ternoon.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bubble gum pavements
City pigeons make street art under bridges
A Jackson Pollock, something organic.
It could be Mural 1950s and look—here?
A bubble-gum pavement is this urban street art.
The pointillist canvas does it mimic the universe
And all that's still, to ‘comet' through there…?
I love all kinds of art but a dead carcass.
In formaldehyde stretches that to the limit.
I'd rather see some burnt-out Wreckage!
A car, where no-one got hurt or died.
I'd rather see pigeon excrement's…
Than a human anatomy, artist:
Using, someone's once living flesh and bone
I'd rather see bubble-gum pavements.
Than; this great new modernistic art of nothing at all…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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