Ink Sketch
poetry solitary
mind hobby
silence
still point
spinning world
cascade
canvas words
van gogh
sunflowers
burst
blue sky
poem by Doug Bentley
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Upon Gazing At The Cut Sunflowers Of Vincent Van Gogh
upon seeing the cut sunflowers of vincent van gogh
i cannot but think about the tragic moment when
he cut his ear, when blood oozed
when at the end, finally he took his life away,
this thing happens when one knows much about
the life of another
this familiarity that breeds contempt,
and so gazing again at the painting of vincent,
i start with real sunflowers in my mind, the one that mother
planted in her garden when she was alive,
i think of the sun and the sunshine touching my face
i think about warmth and life and oozing verve
the vivacity of all things around my little world,
the field of sunflowers and the bees and the butterflies
and birds
i pretend i have not read about the life of vincent
i pretend i have not heard about the stories of mother
i just gaze again at the cut sunflowers. just that.
now there is joy in my heart. The suicide story does not exist
in the bold yellow petals, on those three huge sunflowers
look at them again, they are the symbols of our smiles.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gazing At Sunflowers
Your first wife’s friend
came in with her
for a coffee and chat
and you were sitting
on the sofa
with the sleeping cat
and she looked
at the Van Gogh print
of sunflowers
over the mantelpiece
above the open fire
did you paint that?
the friend asked
staring at it
through John Lennon
type glasses
no you said
it’s a Van Gogh print
oh she said
peering closer
I do like flowers don’t you?
Yeah you replied
sunflowers have a way
when Van Gogh
pushes them through
and she stood in silence
taking in the print
and flowers
and colours
and you noticed
she had a run
in her stockings
from the back
of her knee
to where
her thigh disappeared
beneath her drab dress
and your first wife
came in and said
oh you’re not looking
at that painting are you?
He knows all about
those arty types
with their odd ways
and weird eyes
and her friend said
turning round
scratching her ass
I know nothing
of art and such
it’s way out
of my class.
poem by Terry Collett
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Sunflowers After Sex.
After the sex she stood
In front of the Van Gogh
Painting and gazed. Never
Saw that last night, she said.
It was dark, Max replied.
She touched the painting
With her fingers. Why have
A painting of flowers when
You can go out and buy some?
She asked. They last longer this
Way, he replied. So did you
Paint this? She asked in a state
Of semi undress, her eyes sleepy,
Her hair in a mess. No, Van Gogh
Did, he replied. Is he a friend of
Yours? She asked rubbing her breasts.
He sighed and shook his head. No,
Van Gogh painted that many years
Ago, now he’s dead. It’s a bit yellow,
She said, looking at the painting
Closer, what are those yellow flowers
Supposed to be? Sunflowers, he said,
They’re big flowers; people grow them
For real. She raised her eyebrows and
Pulled a face. What about that drink?
She asked. Sure, Max replied pouring
Her gin in a tall glass. She took, sipped
And winked an eye. What about more
Sex? She sighed. Sure, Max, looking at
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, boringly replied.
poem by Terry Collett
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God Loves Silence
I paint a picture in my thoughts
My thinking is my canvas
My easle is made of words
I choose the words in silence
Silence is my companion
It never lets me down
Silence is the my safe haven
Helps me to value my inner self
Hear the footsteps of wisdom
When silence controls my mind
I understand his supreme commands
As God loves silence
poem by Dr Shamim ali
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18 Definitions Of Poetry
1) Poetry is what is Beautiful in words –
2) Poetry is the deepest feeling words can tell
3) Poetry is the soul of each one of us
4) Poetry is the morning light after the longest night
5) Poetry is a dream of dreams in a world that needs dreams to be
beautiful
6) Poetry is the Search for God and the Love of God in all holy writing
7) Poetry is Reality itself when it is doing what it should
8) Poetry is you and me and all of us when we are kind to each other
9) Poetry is more than we can say or know- deeper than the deepest
silence and quieter also
10) Poetry is the place we go to in ourselves when we need to cry out loud
11) Poetry is Love words of love and the first spring of the young lovers first
song
12) Poetry is all we are when our minds are right and strong
13) Poetry is what saves us from all the other words
14) Poetry is what ceases to exist when Cruelty comes
15) Poetry is Love and Blessing and Kindness again
16) Poetry cuts through the icy sea within and sends chills down the spine
17) Poetry is what is recollected in tranquility but also tried and tossed in
tempest on the most difficult seas
18) Poetry is open to more than what it has been It is what others have not yet created and will so long as we are human and in search of the Sublime
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Silence Between
the silence between
words being written and read
seduces the mind to think
thoughts of creation anticipate
the blank canvas of the mind
which mirrors the open soul
calling out to listen
to the sound of pen upon paper
a mind at work
is a beautiful thing
and in writing seductive
words flow into sentence
a verse crafts itself
to be seen, felt
all in the aftermath
of the silence between
words being written
words being read
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Haiku In Colours
van gogh
in the field
etching haiku
onto canvas
each stroke
a colourful haiku
for posterity
sunflowers
eleven brothers vie
for attention
the fortunate ones
coloured bright yellow
the rest resign
themselves to fate
bow humbly
and live in the others' shadows
eleven lucky blooms
worth more than a hundred millions
they do not fit into my pot
but in my heart they blaze in glory, always
van gogh's genius pours
unrelentingly
from eye to eye,
heart to heart
igniting the artist's passion
in each of us
once in a while, i too feel like
etching haiku in colours
encapsulating that extraordinary moment
ideas in wondrous colours, shapes and dreams
so that they too would turn out to be loving works of insanity
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I Wait To Hear From Within The Words Which Will Mean 'Poetry
I WAIT TO HEAR FROM WITHIN THE WORDS WHICH WILL MEAN ‘POETRY’
I wait to hear from within the words which will mean ‘poetry’
I listen to myself
Only these lines come-
Silence is greater than I am
But I must be, mustn’t I?
The world does not know or care-
Universes in the distance burn bright and then die-
The world does not care
It need not care
Who am I?
What is my poetry?
Billions and trillions and zillions of each and everything
Come into being
And then are not-
Like one of them
The silence will too embrace me
And the vast worlds elsewhere go on
In their indifference
Even to themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wait To Hear Within The Words Which Will Mean 'Poetry
I WAIT TO HEAR FROM WITHIN THE WORDS WHICH WILL MEAN ‘POETRY’
I wait to hear from within the words which will mean ‘poetry’
I listen to myself
Only these lines come-
Silence is greater than I am
But I must be, mustn’t I?
The world does not know or care-
Universes in the distance burn bright and then die-
The world does not care
It need not care
Who am I?
What is my poetry?
Billions and trillions and zillions of each and everything
Come into being
And then are not-
Like one of them
The silence will too embrace me
And the vast worlds elsewhere go on
In their indifference
Even to themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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~Painting Poetry~
Poetry in thought
words tumble
from my mind
onto the page and screen
like paint dripping
from sable silk brushes
creating new visions
of new realities
in the virtual space
of my Soul
painting a perfect picture
words drip down the canvas
in deep brilliant hues
of purples and reds
and vibrant blues
to soft indigo of
twinkling velvet starlight
yellow tones as warm as sunrize
and golden oranges
of fleeting sunsets
blanket the page and screen
as verse, lyric and rhyme converge
splattering from my tongue
giving form to my dreams
and shape to my fantasies
trailing across
the smooth texture
and terrain of
flesh and muscle
brushes whisper
across the canvas
dance across bodies
images of two entwined
captured boldly
in Nubian hues
of mahogany and mocha
limbs and torsos
move and connect
in a vision of words spoken
caught in the kinetic frenzy
of bodies joined
and poetry painted
across the canvas
of this night’s loving
a masterpiece to behold
for generations to come
culminating in the joining of
pen and brush
words and colors
page and canvas
poetry and paint
poem by Soulful One
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A Rose That Once Stood Alone
A solitary rose grew in the darkest corner of the garden
Surrounded by many others
Yet remained alone
Time passed and trials came and went
One dealt a severe blow
And the rose began to wilt and wither
Forgotten...
Then... as if by a miracle...
There came a soft and gentle breeze
Followed by a ray of light
As all the other roses fell into darkness
The solitary rose began to shine
Shining with a special light...
And watered by a gentle cascade...
A cascade of love
A cascade of selfless affection
'I do... not now but forever...'
Said the rose to the sunlight
And there they remain
A rose in full bloom
With her sunshine smiling down on her...
You are my sunshine, my life, my very soul
And I your rose blooming in the light of your love.
poem by Jocelyn Garcia
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A Rose That Once Stood Alone
A solitary rose grew in the darkest corner of the garden
Surrounded by many others
Yet remained alone
Time passed and trials came and went
One dealt a severe blow
And the rose began to wilt and wither
Forgotten...
Then... as if by a miracle...
There came a soft and gentle breeze
Followed by a ray of light
As all the other roses fell into darkness
The solitary rose began to shine
Shining with a special light...
And watered by a gentle cascade...
A cascade of love
A cascade of selfless affection
'I do... not now but forever...'
Said the rose to the sunlight
And there they remain
A rose in full bloom
With her sunshine smiling down on her...
You are my sunshine, my life, my very soul
And I your rose blooming in the light of your love
poem by Xena Terrell
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A Rose That Once Stood Alone
A solitary rose grew in the darkest corner of the garden
Surrounded by many others
Yet remained alone
Time passed and trials came and went
One dealt a severe blow
And the rose began to wilt and wither
Forgotten...
Then... as if by a miracle...
There came a soft and gentle breeze
Followed by a ray of light
As all the other roses fell into darkness
The solitary rose began to shine
Shining with a special light...
And watered by a gentle cascade...
A cascade of love
A cascade of selfless affection
'I do... not now but forever...'
Said the rose to the sunlight
And there they remain
A rose in full bloom
With her sunshine smiling down on her...
You are my sunshine, my life, my very soul
And I your rose blooming in the light of your love.
poem by Destiny Tatum
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Getting To The Point
Its out of control (out of control)
And theres nothing I can do now
Out of control (out of control)
Spinning softly through the blue now
And look beyond these walls
As the meaning starts to dawn
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Its out of control (nothing I can do)
Like a fire that keeps on burning
And nobody knows (what Im going through)
And the thoughts just keep returning
And all you had to say
Was that you were gonna stay
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Chorus:
Its getting to the point
Where nobody can stop it now
Its getting to the point
Of no return
And all that I can do
Is stand and watch it now
Watch it burn, burn, burn
Its getting to the point
Where reasons are forgotten
Its getting to the point
Where no one knows
And all that I can do
Is say Im sorry
But thats the way it goes...
Getting to the point.
Forever
Is a long, long way
Forever
Takes your breath away
Id like to talk about it, try to understand
Its getting to the point
Getting to the point.
Repeat chorus
Its getting to the point (getting to the point)
Getting to the point (getting to the point)
Its getting to the point (getting to the point)
Getting to the point.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A morning canvas
A morning canvas
~
The clarity of a clear blue morning sky
like the emptiness of a blank canvas
invites the mind to wander on the day
what will be writ, what shall be seen
the serenade of birdsong in the breeze
softly, sweetly awakens the world
here a resolute beauty is found
and a heart invited to sing of love
let the day be won with hope and faith
let friends, family and lovers know
that this is a day to be owned
how thoughts come to a forefront
in the light the rising dawn
expressed without reluctance
upon the waiting canvas
in the clarity of a blue morning sky
this is a day to be alive
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry
A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY
A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.
The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Night Passes In A Silenceless Torment
A night passes in a Silenceless Torment
Even the most beautiful songs
Cannot quell the restlessness-
There are times when one is not born for this
Or any other world-
Dissatisfaction restlessness frustration
Cannot yield the best poetry-
Tormented songs repeat themselves
What was once beautiful
Now irritates as relentless noise-
There is the need for a different kind of beauty
A song from within that no external song can give-
I want silence
No other song
Only silence
Silence and more silence
A poetry of silence
Or even a silence without poetry
Silence
The kind of silence in which the torment has ended
Sleep perhaps
Silence silence
Please.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Creativity/ Like My Father On His Deathbed
Poetry is not about words.
Poetry flows
from experiences that hover beyond words,
a shining memory sounding muffled
hidden behind a familiar door.
The words of a poem
are the funeral of my old father,
magnificent, feisty and watchful,
available to the last
through indefinable gestures
and a shining silence
existent somewhere else now
as poetry is, the real poem,
not the heavy coffin of the print.
Poetry pines for it’s lost world,
its hidden home,
like a swan still singing on a plate.
It is homesick, alone, away
from its chosen canyons and
mountain trees around the lake,
vibrant with colour
in memories that glow
for a lifetime.
You know, as I do, poetry is not words,
but is a royal personage,
my father on his deathbed.
poem by Iain Trousdell
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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
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Solitary of Our Thoughts
There are days when
the idle chatter of others
want to invade the solitary of our thoughts,
as all we want is quiet,
to be alone in our world.
We try to close our ears,
blocking out the sounds around,
not relinquishing our privacy to anyone,
but the constant barrage of their words
slowly makes cracks in our silence
and we lose the harmony
in the solitary of our thoughts.
(6 July 2011)
poem by David Harris
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