The Artist and the Alderman
'Give us gardens!' said the artist,
'Blatant brick and soulless stone,
Never built a noble city.
Man lives not by bread alone,
Beauty brings, for our enrichment,
Smiling lawn and spreading tree.'
'Bricks and mortar,' said the alderman,
'Bring in more £.s.d.'
As acid and alkali,
Water and fire,
The good and the evil,
Discension inspire;
As the cat and the dog,
And the axe and the tree,
So artists and aldermen
Never agree.
Said the artist: 'Give us gardens!
So to save the civic soul,
Draw aesthetic men about you
Ere base ideals take control.
Let artistic minds advise you,
Lest you pay a shameful price.'
'And who,' inquired the alderman,
'Needs any such advice?'
As the cop and the crook,
As the fool and the sage,
As light and the darkness,
Hot youth and old age
As the lamb and the lion,
The ant and the bee,
So artists and aldermen,
Never agree.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Washed Away Under Work Loads
artists feel frustrated
when achieving not
when producing art not
not realizing images
in shifting vision mind
artists should
be producing art
no time for cooking
no time for cleaning
no time for hair cut
artists should not
not be able to keep up
with fermenting ideas
rain weather changes
haunting wake up calls
not creating art
is wasting artistic souls
is wasting artistic lives
in dry season droughts
withering artistic minds
work income human activities
life necessity farming for wages
dependent on salary climates
fifty sixty wage slave hours
is change devastating for artists
this drought no time for artistic activities
is crop failure starvation of artistic minds
leading to artistic suffering on massive scales
droughts are caused by lack of fertility rains
extended over long periods of wage slave times
slight brief rains slight artistic showers
is normality artistic not enough spring rains
to ground absorb artistic evaporated minds
artist is dehydrated lacking soul rejuvenations
plants animals need sustaining life waters
artists need self generated creativity waters
least art dies death of artistic dehydrations
art is main ingredient in artistic food chains
plants die from lack of water therefore animals
eating these plants will also die in drought cycles
artists true artists deprived of art wither drought dies
in mind soul lacking artistic flowering rejuvenations
without art creativity cycle fades away dies out expires
artists hail festivals sing dance to music in craft minds
artist restoring balance in self social harmony in societies?
artists feel frustrated
when not
producing art
not realizing images
in vision mind
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Value Fever Pitch: An Artist’s Time
Bhoman F Jamhari said
'I am an artist - This does not
mean I will work for free.
I have bills just like you.
Thank you for understanding.'
Polite and to the problematic point.
Anyone who thinks believes
an artist’s time is worthless,
is definitely a person an artist
should avoid; such individuals
cannot comprehend
or remotely understand
aesthetic value of art.
Art takes time to produce.
Vision and artistic skill takes
even longer to realize to attain
expanding horizons. Time costs.
Artists of differing genre value
appreciate each other and art
which suits their temperament.
To create art
is the life blood
of an artist.
The air we breathe
is the home of art.
Creativity is our fevered mind songs
we sing in a legacy of image visions.
What kind of a con artist wants
to steal bread from an artist’s mouth;
therefore limiting the quality quantity
of future works of art, to be produced
by that artist. Answer an enemy of art.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Aldermen and Antirrhinum
I walked out with an alderman, all on a bright spring day.
He was an august alderman, and much had he to say
Of roads and drains and bridges .... Then, as he pulled up short,
His veins stood out in ridges, his breath fled with a snort.
Then anger aldermanic came as the tempest comes;
His aspect grew satanic, his eyes stuck out like plums;
And, as it rent asunder the ambient atmosphere,
Rolled detonating thunder of civic wrath severe:
'Tear down them antirrhium! Tear down them columbine!
Or else, by gum, we'll fine 'em. We'll mulct in a fine!
I won't have antirrhinum! To Tophet I consign 'em!
Surveyors can't align 'em plumb with our buildin' line!'
(They were begonias truly; but that did not unduly
Affect his wrath unruly. The darn things weren't in line.)
'A blot on civic beauty! The Mayor must do his jooty,
An' have them antirrhinum abolished, or resign!'
Then, as his rage he swallowed, and joined the traffic's stream,
I diffidently followed, and sought to change the theme.
'Think you the vernal season,' quoth I, 'grows subtly sweet?'
Said he: 'That ain't no reason for shovin' in the street
Them bloomin' antirrhinum three inches off the line.
Our officers must fine 'em. It's breakin' Bylaw nine,
Part seven. Schedule thirty. Clause eight in Section A.'
He really seemed quite shirty; and so I sneaked away.)
But still, o'er traffic crashes, I heard his strident tones
'Them antirrhinum clashes with our pretty safety zones!
Calliopsis an' eschscholtzia! In streets where soft trams roll!
It's a pitcher that revolts yeh, if yeh got a civic soul! . . .'
And then his fuming faded; faint and far it died away.
'Pon my word, I felt quite jaded; I'd had a trying day.
And, tho' it seem splenetic, from this truth I may not shrink
Aldermen are NOT aesthetic. Not so very - do you think?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bestowers Of Transformative Vision
pathos suffering passion
ripe within bodily experience
pathos of culture artistic expression
artists the 'I give birth to'
shape shifters people creators
bestowers of transformative vision
sentence seen is life vibration alteration
passionate in artistic creation expression
enrichers of web strand seekers beholders
artists hung upon vision quests
artists hung upon life beat heart beats
artists hung upon eyes burning in soul flame
artists historical now you see them now you don’t
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Existential Hopscotch
I see
I see You
You see,
see Me, too
We see,
You and Me
And agree
We see a tree
If You see
what I see
then what I see
is just for Me
I do not see
how You could be
if consistently
We both agree
It must be
successively
You personify
a part of me
If You see
differently,
but still agree
there is a tree
Accordingly,
explain to me
what exactly
that You see
Describe for me
painstakingly
complexities
of the tree
If I believe
and fathom thee,
it is simply
still a tree
Henceforth see,
You're still Me,
just going about it
differently
If You truly
see no tree
could You be,
perhaps, free?
You could see,
or not, maybe,
or think, really,
of how You aren't Me
But whether You be
a contingency
outside of Me,
a mystery
If I see,
and know I'm Me,
then one reality
there must be
Inevitably
and curiously
defined within
intimacy
poem by Jupiter Salt
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The Strange Tree
There’s a strange tree which lives near me,
And this strange tree could not agree,
That if this tree could ever see,
A stranger tree it sure would be.
There’s a strange tree which topples me,
For this strange tree was tall, you see,
And then this tree would use its knee,
To break in three, the clouds who flee.
There’s a strange tree which lives near me,
The northern tree, its branches free,
The southern tree, no limb to see,
For this strange tree, was strange, you see?
There’s a strange tree which I can see,
And this strange tree (against my plea)
Was sent to sea, its roots now free,
And now this tree… A ship is he.
End.
Tree Of Life
tree of life
tree of love
tree from god up above
this tree was implanted in our hearts at birth
to enjoy life and all its worth.
this tree posses all the love we hold
and controls our very soul.
the tree branches spread wide
to touch all of mankind
filling your bodies from hunger and quenching
the thirst within your soul
a wonderous beauty to behold.
the tree of life
gods sight
gods might
i give you my love
you give me your prayers
eternal life we will share
you in me-and me in you
this is what we have to do.
spreading the fruits of the tree
to all mankind, and of love divine.
poem by Louis Rams
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Viewers are like artists.
An artist perceives, abstracts,
Concretize and present a form.
A viewer perceives, connects,
Abstracts and relate to real thing.
The beauty of the art enhances
From the style the artist employs.
The beauty of the art is understood
From the mind the viewers apply.
To be a viewer is as special as an artist.
All aren’t viewers as all aren’t artists.
14.05.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I've always seen it as the role of an artist to drag his inside out, give the audience all you've got. Writers, actors, singers, all good artists do the same. It isn't supposed to be easy.
quote by Henry Rollins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whatever an artist's personal feelings are, as soon as an artist fills a certain area on the canvas or circumscribes it, he becomes historical. He acts from or upon other artists.
quote by Willem de Kooning
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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I was being an artist, being sensitive and technical as artists are. I'm sure Leonardo Da Vinci did that. Artists don't always feel the same as others feel about their work.
Gone but not forgotten
The water meadow by the stream
where I was wont to sit and dream.
Has disappeared, replaced by
much less pleasing to my eye.
A street of brick red bungalows.
You can’t halt progress I suppose.
This used to be a pleasant place
of beauty now there’s little trace.
Developers just do not care
they’re building houses everywhere.
Despoiling every beauty spot
in search of any vacant lot.
Though city dwellers wish to live
Somewhere at least an hours drive
from the city where they strive.
I do not think I can forgive
Destruction of my riverside.
Now ugly bricks and mortar hide.
the water meadows where I dreamt.
I owe them nothing but contempt.
2-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Tree
O, Tree
Give me
Some of
Your beauty.
I'm not as
Beautiful
As thee.
O, Tree
Give me
Some of
Your
Endurance.
I'm not as
Resilient
As thee.
O, Tree
Give me
Some of
Your
Silence.
There's
Not much
Calmness
In me.
O, Tree
Give me
Some of your
Divinity.
I'm not as
Godly as thee.
O, Tree
You are a
Treasure trove
Of wealth
With your
Flowers,
Fruits,
Leaves,
And holy
Spirits.
I'm a beggar
Before you.
Won't you
Give alms
To me?
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Sonnet -Indelible Art?
How far an artist takes his art forward?
If labour hard is continued for long,
It dedication has not disappeared,
And Pride has not polluted his art’s song.
One's art improves if Will of God is there;
If Luck and Pluck come timely to his aid;
If vices poison not his mind to err;
And love enters his art when it is made.
For art lives longer than the artist's age;
And brings alive the beauty it derived;
All life, the artist must truly manage;
To perfect works of art in which he’d strived.
Such art alone will stand the test of time,
For it has made the Artist's life sublime.
poem by John Celes
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The Artists
you are the best artists
You hang my skin on the wall and drew me with ulna dip into my blood
You are great
You drew my face on your heart and paint it with love
You sew my name on your lip and pin it to the cloud
You background me with you in the distant future
Holding our seeds with smile of euphoria
You are my artist
You drew my mistakes on my chest and erase
It with your hand wrapping me softly
You blend our soul and mind and mount it as a kite flying the banner of bliss
You are beautiful
I've paint your heart with musk, your lip with honey and you skin with amber
We are both an artist
We carved ourselve with due
You clipped my eyes to the moon
I clipped the stars to you hair with galaxies of flower decorating our world
You my artist
You drew me with the world gazing at your statue hanging on the sky with flying nymphs sing songs of our artistic shadow
poem by Kemurl Fofanah
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Laburnums
OVER old walls the Laburnums
hang cones of fire;
Laburnums that grow out of old
mould in old gardens:
Old maids and old men who have savings or pensions have
Shuttered themselves in the pales of old gardens.
The gardens grow wild; out of their mould the Laburnums
Draw cones of fire.
And we, who've no lindens, no palms, no cedars of Lebanon,
Rejoice you have gardens with mould, old men and old maids:
The bare and the dusty streets have now the Laburnums,
Have now cones of fire!
poem by Padraic Colum
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The Olive Tree
Save for a lusterless honing-stone of moon
The sky stretches its flawless canopy
Blue as the blue silk of the Jewish flag
Over the valley and out to sea.
It is bluest just above the olive tree.
You cannot find in twisted Italy
So straight a one; it stands not on a crag,
Is not humpbacked with bearing in scored stone,
But perfectly erect in my front yard,
Oblivious of its fame. The fruit is hard,
Multitudinous, acid, tight on the stem;
The leaves ride boat-like in the brimming sun,
Going nowhere and scooping up the light.
It is the silver tree, the holy tree,
Tree of all attributes.
Now on the lawn
The olives fall by thousands, and I delight
To shed my tennis shoes and walk on them,
Pressing them coldly into the deep grass,
In love and reverence for the total loss.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Karl Shapiro
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Amorica
The sun always shine in the city of Amorica
But the city of Amorica is the city I love the most
And everytime that I come to the city of Amorica I feel so welcome
Because the people that lives in the city of Anorica welcomes me with Open arms and I am a tourist in the city of Amorica
Also I love to go browsing in the public market of the city of Amorica
Because there are so many local artists that sells their crafts made by Them
And the crafts that the local artists of the city of Amorica sells are very Affordable
And the last time I was there was in 1979 and I bought a beautiful Water Color painting that hangs in my living room at home
And I am very proud of it also
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The First Artist and Author.
The first artist painted the sky with colors, such beauty,
Look at those sunsets, and the mountains, such reality;
The mountains, have shadows, of splendor that only the Master can do,
Yes! It's God who was the first Artist, and He also taught me too.
The first great artist painted the colors on the sea,
Blues, greens, aquas, Only one could do this you see;
And when there is a storm near, the sea goes so dark blue,
Yes! God is the first great artist, to paint it for me and you.
The first great Artist, loved to teach David to write poetry,
And also king Solomon, writing words of such beauty;
Oh such magnificent works, of color and in each word,
Yes! There is only one who could do this it is the Lord.
Then. We see in every rainbow, and in each shell as well,
Look at the colored sands, and in every bird, it does tell;
Then look at each animal, and also the petals of each flower too
Then as you look at these, , give Thanks for doing it for me and you.
poem by Margaret Haig
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