Galatea (a riff)
What perfection in eye and cheek,
She shifts her body, I cannot speak,
Her back's soft light of muscled bone
That I would frame in marble stone;
What arrogance in handheld tool
That I could take what's learned in school
And reproduce her subtle beauty
Oh Pygmalion, you fail in duty.
With grace she moves to part the curtain,
In dusky light she stands uncertain
To check the time she has to pose,
What innocence denied of clothes.
Oh Artist here stands your Art
With breathing lips, a beating heart,
She turns to me, head over shoulder,
Complains to me, the room's grown colder.
I take an iron and stoke the coals,
How burns the furnace of my soul,
Oh I would warm her in my arms,
Would violation arouse alarm?
But she resumes her model perch,
Her innocence I would not besmirch,
But I am poor and ill-equipped
To carve the ivory of her hip.
Her perfection stalls my hand
It overcomes my code as man,
I kneel before her radiant beauty
And as an artist forget my duty
poem by David McLansky
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Related quotes
Innocence Matter: Restoration Perfection
Innocence is the question?
Innocence is the X factor?
Innocence is life mortality?
Innocence is sinless state immortality?
Innocence is physical perfection?
Innocence is purity soul divinity?
Innocence is state of grace harmony?
Innocence is Trinity creation link eternity?
Innocence is life breath immortality?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Unashamed Art
The artist who hides the model's beauty
won't allow others to see
the beauty of the model who poses
hidden by drapery.
But the artist who describes the beauty
allows the model to be
adorned in the garment given by God
which is painted naturally.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Vermeer
An easel stands in candle light
Young maidens sit without gesture
Pure, like the repose of Eve in Eden
Eyes with the power of the stars
Guilt, shame, and sin has not happened
No acting, no projection, no splits
The fire of purity in stark reality
Blues like heaven itself, white light
Mystical perfection, virtue, innocence
Sexuality without sin, beauty so sincere
To paint the soul before the fall
Show life without pretense and masks
Clothing like creation itself
Put into space in eternal beauty
Ideals so lofty, so simple and sincere
Lips that give Eve's first kiss
Hands that touch with pure tenderness
Symmetry in mathematical wonder
Everyday life in profound infinity
Vermeer, did you see angels?
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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The Philosopher, the Young Man, and his Statue
A Fond Athenian Mother brought
A Sculptor to indulge her Thought,
And carve her Only Son;
Who to such strange perfection wrought,
That every Eye the Statue caught
Nor ought was left undone.
A youthful Smile adorn'd the Face,
The polish gave that Smile a Grace;
And through the Marble reigns
(Which well the Artist's Skill cou'd trace,
And in their due Positions place)
A Thread of purple Veins.
The Parasites about it came,
(Whose Praises were too large to name)
And to each other said;
The Man so well had reach'd his Aim,
Th' Original cou'd o'er it claim
Only a native Red.
Mean while a Sage, amidst the Croud,
Thus, with a Precept wise and loud,
Check'd the Vain-glorious Boy;
By telling him, who now grew proud,
That tho' with Beauty 'twas endow'd,
The Figure was a Toy:
Of no Advantage to the State,
'Twou'd neither combate, nor debate,
But idly stand alone;
Bids him beware, whilst Men create
In Stone thus his Resemblance great,
He proves not like the Stone.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Statue of Robert Burns
To a town in Southern land
Light of purse I come and lone;
And I pause awhile, and stand
By a pedestal of stone;
And I bend my head and bow
While my heart to Scotland turns,
For I know I’m standing now
‘Neath the form of Robbie Burns.
Round the corners of the lips
Lines of laughter seem to run;
From the merry eye there slips
Just a twinkle as of fun.
Living in the sculptor’s art,
Set in stone, mine eye discerns
All the beauty, and a part
Of the soul, of Robert Burns.
One of Caledonia’s sons,
Coming lonely to the land.
Well might think he’d met a friend
Who would take him by the hand,
And the tears spring to his eyes,
While his heart for friendship yearns;
And from out that heart he cries,
“Heaven bless ye, Bobbie Burns.”
“Unto me, as unto you,
Has a hard world done ill turns;
And the sorrows that you knew
I am learning Bobbie Burns.
But I’ll keep my heart above
Until, after many moons,
I return to friends I love,
And to banks line bonnie Doon’s.”
poem by Henry Lawson
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Images-Perfection Ever Flames, An Endless Supply of Moths
As I am,
I'm perceived Perfection
upon my ivory pedestal
in brilliant light
crystalline.
But these are my prison walls
Uniques Glow
is Perfection's Pall
which exiles me from that outer world
of reality.
I cannot mingle there.
My existence is constrained.
As bright as my Radiant Glow,
upon approach
to your world
I would dim
and be destroyed.
We can talk you and I
in Perfection's Harmony
but the moment you gain
my speaking voice,
my thoughts,
all is taken from Perfection's Shelf
and another less perfect me appears.
Nothing will compare
to me as I was.
Should I
in coming to you
destroy that Perfection which is now so dear?
Conundrum.
Corporeal life
is Kryptonite
yet mental isolation is too numbing.
I am Beauty in the light
but unavailable;
forever Uncoming.
Sometimes
Beauty is torture
we ourselves inflict
to escape our worldly life.
But since its shape
is mental most
it cannot ever be.
Pity the person
whose countenance
is corporeal beauty
realized;
they will have the sterner test
of not living up to hearts image most.
Each prince
whom we have constructed
alas, can only live with us
til that moment first,
the single word;
then the dream slips.
Honeymoons and marriages
might last longer I think
if we did not first wed
our Perfect Prince beforehand.
Is it not truth plain
that love itself is only grown
when 1st Prince Born
is laid to rest
and Prince Now
is allowed to live?
How better ground is it
to love the flower in the garden now
than those ones first grown
in Furrows of Gold
in Dream World
where Perfection's Hoe
was Loves Seeder
and Instigator
of the visions
we now hold
of what ought to be?
How can we in flesh and blood
compete with perfect diamond visions
which never fade or rust?
Whose hand is warmer still
than the Princely hand held in our dreams?
Who is sadder than
those who loved us;
yet whose faces are shadowed
by cold, Perfection's Glow?
How to dream
our destiny
yet still
love those
'round us;
remembering these ones
are the ones who will
when we, in time, tomorrow
are no longer our Own Prince
or Princess Image;
no longer Perfection's Darling.
Rest you better in Human Arms;
while they grow old and leather
they'll not in the end
take your pride and sell it away
to Dream Land Barons
and Rock Star Princes
who all live in Hollywood.
What to do?
abandon Vision
goals and Prince;
leave aside Destiny?
No, we must grapple with
this conundrum sent:
wrapped up
Perfection and Beauty;
living along side
uneasily,
with what is merely Human,
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Who Created This Beautiful World?
Who created this beautiful world?
What a harmony and perfection!
Who thought this beauty, who brought it out?
Who is he that perfected it?
What matching patterns spawn the wonder?
What concinnous rhythms create this charm?
What is that grand invisible hand
That weaves this beauty with rhythms and patterns
That makes beauty, beauty; a divine music?
What a match of place, time and form
That makes this world a joyous feeling!
Beauty infuses life to the world,
Beauty makes the world to speak and sing,
To awaken soul to the creator’s skills
Who gave his rare gifts in abundance.
What brings those hues to youthful glows,
What brings those shapes to enchanting slopes,
What brings gentleness to graceful love,
What brings those grace to ripening age,
What brings brooding beauty to day-break’s freshness,
What brings that beauty to the width of the sky,
To the height of hills and depth of seas,
To the shapes of clouds, to the moods of men
In liquid ease and endless abundance
That no more the world is what it is made of,
But a celestial charm of unknown depth.
A subtle music in joyous rhythms,
A pregnant pattern in brilliant colours,
In human forms, in nature’s moods,
In fast changing life’s variegated hues,
In tides of sea, in tides of life,
Surface to those inner ears and eyes
That keep itself wide open always;
A living rhythm is at work in womb
In hide and seek of light and shadow,
In fall and rise of hills and vales,
In love and hate, in war and peace;
The twinkles of eyes, the gentle smiles,
The blue of the sky, the warm sunshine,
Each is a rich work of a master craftsman.
Day is beauty, night is beauty;
Youth is beauty, old age is beauty;
Desire is beauty, contentment, beauty;
Heart-break is beauty, fulfilment, beauty;
Perfection is beauty, ugliness, beauty;
All are beautiful deep ’neath bones
Like sunrise and sunset or sunshine or rain,
In the magical hands of the master craftsman.
Is this world his own image,
A reflection of his model perfection
Like the pleasures of pleasure and the pleasures of pain
Make the world a divine charm;
Work and leisure, pain and pleasure,
Penury and wealth, life and death
Hand in hand bring harmony to the world;
Mongoose kills snakes; snake, rats,
In living rhythms of life and death;
Beauty, the world breathes, is beyond cause,
Beyond source, beyond course,
That surfaces itself to the joy of all
On the will of the great divine artist.
A speck of dirt, dark spots on the moon
Have the same charm and perfect rhythms;
Tears of pain and tears of pleasure
Have the same simple grace hidden in them;
Like silk-worms that weave soft sheath around,
He builds the world with his own inner charm,
It be a mole or a mountain;
And this we have,
The wonderous world of perfect beauty;
Beauty within and beauty outside,
Beauty between and beauty a’where,
In gentle flesh and youthful forms,
In fall and rise, in rage and patience,
In nature’s arts and man’s crafts,
In old and new or foul garbage;
For, the creator sits in all of them
And builds a bridge to all hearts and souls.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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Sonnet I
ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE YOUNG PRINCESS DE MONTFORT
(In the studio of Bartolini, at Florence).
SWEET marble I didst thou merely represent,
In lieu of her on whom our glances rest,
Some common loveliness,--we were content,
As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd;
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem
So like HER bright and intellectual face,
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream;
For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace,
The light which plays beneath that shadowy brow,
Like sunshine on the fountains of the south,--
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate glow,--
The smile which hovers round that angel-mouth:
No! such the form o'er which Pygmalion sigh'd--
Too fair to be complete while SOUL was still denied!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Perfection
I found perfection in her smile,
Her golden strands of hair,
Her peachy lips I'd kiss a while,
If we had time to spare.
I found her beauty matched her style,
The clothes she chose to wear...
Upon her heart, meant to beguile,
With love beyond compare...
I found perfection in her eyes,
Like twinkling stars of light...
And in the stirring of my sighs
And love's great appetite...
Yet most of all, I realise,
Beyond her teeth so white,
Her mouth speaks words so worldly wise,
That doubts in her take flight.
I found perfection in her heart,
She says beats now for me...
As if she's struck by Cupid's dart
And filled with ecstacy...
What mysteries love can impart
To spirits fancy free...
I found perfection from the start
And all eternity...
poem by Denis Martindale
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No turning Back
open to the mind accepted by the heart bless
by the immortality of the soul, awaited halo exist
and live each breath to the nostrils of God, the
beauty of creation reveals
once a dust, scrambling with the air, blown in a
far and distance place, settled in the mountain
and hill, seen in every stones and trees, the
breathing soul of dust has grown and live in the
universe display
a voice that capture the infinite soul to hear and
listen every lives that moves, a witness of a
living atmosphere where all has to come and die
in the milieu of God's paradise the earth and
its spirit that calls the wisdom of time
open thy heart in every soul for life has no turning
back, a once that is reveals has come to live in
a space of living where every one has to do the
duty to serve amongst men, through out eternity
review
all has come to take the stamina to face of what is
life after it serve the final curtain of what once the
perfection lies, the heaven I stand and the end
I reface the purest life can best
the final moment now has pull me up to regain of
what was lost, pushing each step to continue, to
dream the salvation, once the face refrain from fame
remembering that life has no turning back
until it ends
poem by Antonio Liao
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A Baby's Eyes
The golden ambers of your eyeballs
Are beaming with the most sacred feeling
Summoned and stirred by
The great mystery implicit within.
Tenderness lit look, nothing
Clinging to, illuminated in your infinite
Peace, amidst soot rich light,
In the perfection of its innocence,
Stands out doubly bright
On another time that is now, and hope-like
Assuages ill feelings to grace
And worries of unfulfilled to charm.
poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
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The Few
I am different on the few who do wrong,
They fought forever on the sides of music;
Inner beauty was against them, for they carried
Great effort.
Puzzles were solved by the evil ones,
Their laughter said anger, and zeal
For the sides to win that were adored.
We only fix a station of contemplation
That attached significance.
We only give remedy to a woman or man
Of perfection.
He or she is a child of innocence, an adult of pride,
Forming inside their soul is a new bright light
That shimmers and wonders for all time.
Inner beauty has played a game inside the worrying mind,
So that philosophers think of beauty itself.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Forever Light
Forever remains
that beauty in light,
divinity and enlightenment,
capturing souls craving
perfection within storms.
Magic breeds innocence,
while youth captures freedom,
Certified. Day by day.
Repeated.
Day by day. Certified.
Freedom captures youth
while innocence breeds magic.
Storms - within perfection,
craving souls capturing
enlightenment and divinity.
Light, in beauty,
that remains forever
poem by Starr Severon
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The Love That I Have For You....
outside i watch you
you are inside yourself
a room
a wall but there is window still
that allows light
to come in
and dress you like
a night without the armor
i am the light
and i like the way things are going with us
you just do not know
what is it
to be just light
without a body
what is it to have so many fingers
& yet
without a hand
the room is darker
but i know what it is to be a tiny sun
you fan yourself with your
innocence
your hands are callous
and it is a little bit colder
when by chance you touch my
rays and sheen
when i meet you
like i am water bathing your body
as i dress you once again
with the cloth
of my silk
soul
i quiver like a soft wind
on the reeds
of the moonlit night
i love it this way
this invisible presence
this nameless light
this desire that fulfills itself
without you
feeling it
must i be selfish?
or must i be the one that does not let you suffer
because you cannot love
light
because your coldness is uncertain about the gift
of warmth
its truth beyond all truths
when i am done with you
i summon the rain
& bathe myself again
to wash away
the dirt of guilt
the scars of pain
though
remaining
look at me
i am the morning light that spreads on the garden
of your thighs and
legs
as you watch
with all delight
you only see the wonder of light
and its accompanying music
and then
satisfied with all the caresses of thoughts that i have always loved you
i go with the herds of rain
and what is left to please me more
is your own
fading face
like those ripples on the pond
that the lonely leaf
had given
the shape of love that i carry with me
as air embracing the heavens
again....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What a Beauty-Full Life
Beauty is in flowers, and the petals
Bathing in the early morning dew
Beauty is in the eyes of a father
When his son takes the first step
Beauty is on the face of a baby,
Sleeping in mother's lap
Beauty is in freedom,
When you fly high on the wings of hope
Beauty is in the expressions of a poor man
When he gets food after eternity
Beauty is in the pride of a teacher
When his student supersedes
Beauty is in the compassion of a devotee
When he finds solace
Beauty is in the innocence of a child
When he asks you questions
Beauty is in the sips of laughter,
You share with your friends
Beauty is in the springs of desire
that arrive after a prolonged autumn
Beauty is in the cry of a woman,
Whose womb succeeds
Beauty is in the silence,
When you don't speak, and you say a lot
Beauty is in the warmth of passion
That builds around the arms of a lover
Beauty is when those small fights,
End with tears of joy
Beauty is when the first raindrop,
Kisses your cheek
Beauty is in perseverance,
When the world's showing off
Beauty is in the enigma,
When everything's certain
Beauty is in a poem,
Where poetry meets prose
Beauty is in little chunks of life,
Filled with joys and sorrows
Beauty is in your eyes,
your heart, and in every single breath
Beauty is when you say,
"What a Beauty-Full Life..."
poem by Piyush Kaushal
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Beautiful ugliness
The beauty of life lies not in its purity or perfection
The beauty of life stands tall and with great attention
The beauty of life moves in all directions, always forward,
Some times in contradiction
The beauty of life drives man to survive with all of the power horses can contrive
The beauty of life jumps to all levels of delight
Great and ornate to a very placated state
The beauty of life flies with weightless wings
Dreams that keep us aflight because of their
Reality and possibility to become means.
The beauty of life rises after every fall, always
Toward the end of the furthest star in the
Most distant constellation, infinitely far.
poem by Jeff Rushton
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Stolen Innocence
Her face is beauty
Yet marred by the pain in her eyes.
The tears she sheds
Fall to the ground
Like liquid diamonds
And shatter there alone.
And I cry for her
Stolen Innocence.
Tis a beautiful thing,
The raw purity of
Innocence in Youthful Bloom.
It's meant to last forever.
Meant to eternally bless those
Endowed with such a gift.
But when choice is stolen
And Beauty turns to Brokenness
I weep for its
Stolen Innocence.
poem by Sunny Grace
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Where Beauty Lies
Not the curve of the hips
Or the shape of the lips
Nor the clothes she wears
Or the color of her hair
Not in the numbers on the scale
But in the person who always seems to care
The beauty of a person
No matter who they are
Can only be measured
From the warmness of the heart
Not the face she wears
Or the voice she shares
But the expressions she makes
And the words that she creates
It's in the smile she puts on
even when everything has gone wrong
Beauty lies within the fire inside
That refuses to let her run and hide
Beauty shines from inside her
Throughout everything she does
Beauty comea from the way she stands strong for what she beleives
And can never be forced
To surrender to her knees
Beauty,
Is when she stands tall
Even when she has lost it all
Her hopes never shatter and fall
Beauty is when
Her soul is so bright
It shines through
In the darkest of nights
She leads the way
With no sighs of dismay
From the legs to the hips
From the eyes to the lips
It all does'nt matter
This is the beauty
that i wish to capture
poem by Tamara Puyear
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The light's in my head - Villanelle
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead,
Though daylight is dimming, through the still open curtain-
But the light's in my head; the light's in my head!
He lies in a stupor, but calls out from his bed;
And he never complains, but you fear that he's hurting-
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead.
She doesn't sleep nights, but sleeps daytimes instead;
Her breathing's still even, but death's near for certain-
But the light's in my head; the light's in my head!
First they said stroke, and then heart attack- dread!
With the new diagnosis, with death he is flirting-
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead.
There's cancer and heart disease, so lightly we tread;
It's bad news for sure- her aneurysm bursting! -
But the light's in my head; the light's in my head!
It's all here inside me now, all that I've said,
Now what's left in memory's darkness, I'm cursing;
There's a light in the sickroom that never goes dead-
And the light's in my head- the light's in my head!
poem by Patti Masterman
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Yogi post-it to William Carlos Williams
Thanks for leaving one…
I can only say,
that in the passing moment
the cold perfection of that plum
reflected my perfection
reflecting all perfection
and the beauty of that moment
was but my own beauty
which must be, is, the beauty of the One
so I hope the remainder
were as perfect, beautiful
for you
so why not
write a poem about this?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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