The Canvas (Part 2)
We last left off with such the fright,
She paints—but gasp! —that's not quite right,
For every story has a twist,
And every painting is done on her wrist.
She paints with—sorry? —with little regard,
To what may bleed and what may scar,
But oh, she paints a lovely spar,
Despite the way that most things are.
Some find it funny and watch as she flees,
Others feel sick the moment they see,
Because a painter, she can't have much of a life,
If all of her painting is done with a knife.
This painter—in fact—she thinks she's alone,
Because of the burden of problems at home,
And then there's her mind, a nasty old place,
It's mostly the cause of the paintings she makes.
But one can be trapped, or one can be freed,
Though most painters like her find this hard to believe,
Yet this very painter broke free of her sadness,
And if she ever wonders 'why? ' she can look at her canvas.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Painter Man
Went to college, studied arts
To be an artist make a start
Studied hard, gettin my degree
But no one seemed to notice me
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Tried cartoons and comic books
Dirty postcards could have done
Here was where the money laid
Classic art has had its day
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Did adverts for t.v.
Household shops and brands of tea
Labels all around the cans
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
La...la...la...la...la...la...
La...la...la...la...la...la...la...
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Many People Lives In Thy....
Many people lives in thy soul.
The painter paints the
Words, the singer sings
the lyrics, the philosopher,
dives deep into its thought.
Whom do you love most?
The philosopher within,
Drives your mind….
The poet, writes the feelings;
The painter gives color to it…
The singer putting life
To the lyric makes
More adorable……..
None can be left alone….
And all of them create
The sense of God…..
None can be left alone!
poem by Nilakshi Das
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Artist
An artist paints with brush so old
Makes his painting worth gold
He paints the nature's gifted gifts
The flowing rivers in the midst
Of all he paints is a pretty face
A girl dressed all in lace
Portraying her beauty he is lost in time
The beauty she possessed is hard to find
Was it her beauty he tried to captivate?
But what a pity time doesn't wait
For she has gone so far away
Leaving her image with the artist to stay
Who paints her all through day and night?
Seeking pleasure deep inside
poem by Meena Mustafa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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I have no ideas about what the paintings imply about the world. I don't think that's a painter's business. He just paints paintings without a conscious reason.
quote by Jasper Johns
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Is Like A Painting
Life is like a painter
Who paints a beautiful picture
Of a mother who showers her baby
Colors of water steadily
Flowing onto the child’s body
With his eyes wide open
Looking so vibrant
And hoping
He would not be drowned
By his mother
Only the painter
Could change all the factors
The mother let loose
And the baby goes dozing
Articulation of living perfectly
Events were created chromatically
Surpassing all anticipations
Exceeding all expectations
Blanketing all cloudy minds
To live with honor
Or to live with disgrace
In a life out of place
Exaggeration could be the word
But, as a painter
We paint our picture
The picture is premature
Success, failure and glory
Could be your history
Don’t call it quit
When you have succeeded
Look at the painting
The stroke of living
Is in your hands
poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
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Builder Has Finished Build Well
Builder has finished build well
Only the painter to paint good
Wish he paints bright and peace
Builder has finished build well
Who the builder? who the painter?
Light your search to find rather
Builder has finished build well
Only the painter to paint good
poem by Indira Renganathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A painter paints the appearance of things, not their objective correctness, in fact he creates new appearances of things.
quote by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before Wine Is Drunk
Before wine is drunk
We are going to an art exhibition this afternoon, but first we have to
buy groceries, cabbage, leek, bread, margarine, milk and tomatoes.
You can’t eat a picture even if it displays an orange beside a banana,
“I will give you “The Scream” for a boiled potato and a slice or two
of yesterday’s loaf, ” the poor artist said. I had no time to cook, gave
him ten shilling and hung the painting in the toilet; it was stolen by
a guest who needed a leak. He sold it for a million; the painter got
his photo in the newspaper and was never hungry again, I have a pale
square on the bathroom wall. Günter Grass, I always think of horses
when mentioning his name, paints still-life and his yellow in lemons
is stunning, I drink tea with citron for weeks after seeing his work.
I have no original paintings on my walls. But many prints, and that’s
ok, I just like art, but dislike fake experts who think they know what
the painter thought of when putting wonder on his blank canvass.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Paints Life Theme Canvas
research scientist
paints water colours
paints poetry brush strokes
paints poetry beaker pigment
paints life theme canvas
research insistent
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Perfect Painting
Perfect painting
An azure, sinless sky
a whisper of white clouds
and a yellow sun.
The canvas was big
but the painter got bored
walked home.
It rained in the night
canvas, dark and ominous
the artist was contented.
Painting, just the way
it was intended,
but he didn´t bother to sign it.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I never consciously said, 'I want to be an actor.' It sounds stupid, but it's kind of like being a painter or something. You don't say, 'From today on I'm going to be a painter.' It's not something conscious - you've just been painting pictures all your life.
quote by Franka Potente
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every good painter paints what he is.
quote by Jackson Pollock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Painter (Ang Pintor)
The Painter...
He colored the sky
He colored the sea
and even the mountains
and the field.
The Painter...
He colored the roses
and even the birds
and animals
in the farm.
The Painter...
even my life...
He colored.
But the Painter,
I guess no one
have seen Him yet.
The Painter...
can anyone paint the colors
of His life?
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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A Painter In You!
who has painted your picture in my thoughts,
without a brush, the paints and the pallet,
not even sketched using a pencil and a knife,
the picture is perfect with the colors mixed,
your smiling is great with a thin line at the edges,
your eyes are wide open, sprinkling the cheerful messages,
every time the happy visuals of you pop out in the mind,
I couldn't have drawn such a beautiful portrait,
of you in my heart, who has done this painting?
You are the one who posed and painted on your own,
you are a great painter who can paint your pictures,
on everyone's heart whom you know, love and respect.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Kahlo
She ran the school hand-in-hand with this boy
Creating mischief and mystery hand-in-hand with this boy
Together, fooling and tricking this man who painted his courage
She gleefully watched this man who painted his courage
She came to school each morning with this boy
Just to watch this mysterious painter man
She left school each night, with this boy
With the trickster boy, left the man
She ran into a block she couldn’t ignore
She was damaged beyond healthy repair
Carrying her as she bled, this boy
Saved her from the wreckage
Then left her to write him time and time again
Never once did he look at her letters, or care
She gave up, gave up on this boy
What could she have loved in this boy?
She picked up a brush and was like the man
She painted her pain and courage, like the man
She adored her paints
Admired her brush
Marveled at the creations
Fell in love with the canvas
Some time later, she again met the painter man
She adored the man
Admired the man
Marveled at the man
Fell in love with the man
poem by Allison Pardieck
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July Paints of Winter
July paints masterpieces
kissing my canvas with lively breezy strokes
July paints what she sees
adding intrigue to yellow folks
She paints a cold numbing winter
adding icicles on Christchurch trees
She paints a briskly Tasman salty sea
Sitting at a window overlooking her muse
July can't see colour til summer’s shines it's hues
poem by ArmourQuill Hunter
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Pregnancy
A meaningful painter painting the walls of love,
And pregnancy dragged the two people into marriage;
The love of the team,
The love of the pair with amorous ideas!
Today, this pregnancy had made them to be married together.
What is in his soul?
What is in her soul?
Like the light at the end of the turnel to keep them going;
But, this pregnancy had dragged them into marriage.
Of an amorous expediction,
Of a name calling;
She was raped in her own bedroom.
Of a meaningful painter painting,
From the brink of things to the wink of the act;
But catapulted like the poles apart from the walls,
With pet names on your only mistake in life.
These are the memories of the past,
And to share a lot of common interest with you;
But it is of gifts without reasons.
This is all about the sweet spot of love,
And the pregnancy is like the pot of love to share;
But, the blood stain on her mattress is the truth of the matter.
AOf a meaningful painter painting the walls of love,
In a wooden kiosk to crown the day;
But today we know where they came from,
Because the pregnancy united them in marriage.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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There is nothing that special to see when looking at me. I'm a painter who paints day in day out, from morning till evening - figure pictures and landscapes, more rarely portraits.
quote by Gustav Klimt
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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