An Abstract painting
My eyes fall on an abstract painting
of which my girlfriend,
wants to paint a series
that may hang in board halls
and offices.
There’s something hot and alive
in the background
that changes from golden yellow,
to flame orange
and flows into black red
and a green line
runs from the foreground
into the horizon.
With strong straight lines wood,
and sink plate shacks appear
with horizontal and vertical lines
and it looks like a squatter camp,
or the houses of a headman
in the country.
To me it looks like drums and large tin cans
that lies around in the front
and a big old TV set
with sitting places round it
and at the back,
there are two wooden pens
to keep in sheep and goats.
Maybe there’s red sand
on the one side
and yellow and green grass
for grazing on the other side,
but honestly I do not want to stay
in such a place.
[Reference: Abstract painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my mabooki webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1416_An_Abstract_ painting.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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There’s a big painting
There’s a big painting of a girl
with a light pink skin
that lies on a white skin cloak
in front of a dark pool,
where snow white water lilies drifts
and I can see into her soul.
I have felt like taking the fan
next to her
and to wave her cool
yet she looks fragile
and self-possessed and calm,
where she lies with her peach pink dress
looking at me
and I wonder for whom she is waiting
and why the door behind her
of which the steps goes into the pool
are always locked?
[Reference: Painting of a girl at a pool by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1412_There_is_a_b ig_painting.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mystical reality
There are red flames
that’s curling in a bush
out of her head
and the fairy princess
are pure and innocent
with her violet
flower petal dress,
which shows her body
at places through the thin material.
She has green magically beautiful eyes
and pointed little ears
and slender arms and legs
and her fine transparent wings,
sweeps past and looks
as if it is made
from the thinnest silk.
About her there’s clusters
of golden flowers
and in the background,
a gigantic female angel
with ink blue thought struck eyes
that is near to protect her.
The strict face
of the blonde angel
looks like that of a mother,
that is watching over her child
and I see her blue white wings
that fold over each other
and her deep blue dress
with its golden collar
looks like that of a queen.
[Reference: Mystical reality. Painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my website: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1415_Mystical_rea lity.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A vase of flowers
I saw a vase of purple-pink roses
lying on your dark brown buffet
and simply had to have it.
“Who painted this, ” I immediately enquired
loving the picture more with each look
that I took of it
as it’s not your thing
to paint still life’s with flowers.
“I painted it. It’s like painting pillow slips, ”
you replied and astonished
I looked at it again
and this was on board
and not in water colours
but done with oil paint.
The folds of the cups were edged
in ridges along their lines
using the techniques
of your abstract paintings
and one smaller unopened bud
laid next to the bowl
almost running into your name.
Little pink flowers was in the background
where the transparent vase with green stems
was against the wall on a tiled floor.
[Reference: Vase with roses by Mandi Engelbrecht. (This painting belongs to me.) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Path into the bushes
There’s a road like out of a dream
or a fairy tale
that twists into the bushes,
but it’s white and pure
with innocence where it snakes
into the undergrowth
and the sky is open
and blue white to the horizon.
I walk pass a great white tree
with orange brown leaves
that rises above me
and a long dried out tree
of which the branches
reach like fingers into the air.
I follow the path
to the long blue gum trees
that are covered
with dark green leaves
and the odour of the trees
and the wood
hangs heavy in the air
and there’s something concrete
that’s stronger than a dream
[Reference: Wooded landscape by Mandi. Look at the painting on my web page: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1413_Path_into_th e_bushes.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Sometimes I imagine
Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,
but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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With the smell of turpentine
With the smell of turpentine
and paint in front of the fireplace
you paint magical lines
with blue, green and gold
and I look at you
while brush strokes
like magic make abstract images appear.
The Creator must have looked like this
while He looked at the world
while building it
and I see your golden eyes
looking carefully at the painting
and at times you frown
while you try to draw perfect lines
and light and colour
create magical feelings
and flow into each other
and you build shade and depth.
Gasping for breath lovely are you
while your fingers play with the brush
and there are more than curves and lines
from which your beauty comes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Keys to your heart
There’s a painting of a beautiful shy girl
with a bunch of rust brown keys,
that she holds
and I know that her painter
can always unlock my hart.
When I walk into our bedroom
she watches me
with her dark eyes
and at times I wonder
if her cheeks are naturally red
and if she is blushing,
because I am looking at the pink brown hard nipple
of her perfect breast.
Her beauty stays with me
and at times I look at the fine detail
of the two violet roses,
that is fresh in her auburn hair.
No person can ever
get her away from me
as she belongs to me
and I hope and pray,
that it stays like that
with her painter and me.
[Reference: Keys to your heart. Partly nude by Mandi. Look at the picture on my web page: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1414_Keys_to_your _heart.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Golden Memory
When I was a young child
about five to seven years of age.
I noticed the neighbour's trees
were dirty and sooty and black.
Black with smoke chimney coal dust.
The bark was ugly dirty and black
the leaves were ugly dirty and black.
And barely green if at all in most places,
except a little on the side facing the sun.
The sun I saw as a beautiful yellow light.
Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were really tall shrubs, but I was but still
a young child, with much to learn in this world,
ruled by mean men. Magic and the elfin language,
still danced like sparkling stardust in my eyes.
Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were so sad dull black lifeless and ugly.
I took a bright yellow lively house paint.
And painted the trees yellow bright golden yellow,
in all sad places I could short armed easily reach.
But I also got paint on my hands face clothes.
In my wonderful joy I got paint on my clothes.
My apparently best going to town best clothes.
My mother punished me for painting the trees.
And the leaves a bright joyous yellow colour.
For making a small part
of this dull adult world.
A golden magical shinning
bright fairy glade place.
For painting making a small part
of this dull adult fading world.
A golden orb magical shinning
bright mystical fairy glade place.
For trying to make the tired
world a better magical place.
Thus were childhood dreamers
often beaten into submission.
By those who failed to see
the divine presence in dreams.
By those who failed to see
the magical sparkle in dreams.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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untitled abstract painting of Custer's Last Stand
Untitled abstract painting of Custer’s last stand
an abstract painting of custer’s last stand
Hangs in the Montana Museum of Modern Art
A fish with a halo and many Indians mating
And no name tag makes this painting, stand apart
Montanans know the title of this portrait
Although no name tag is shown
Yet, as the gaze falls upon it
the title is intuitively known,
the last words that were spoken
from this famous man’s mouth
As the battle of the Big horn
Began to go south
Oddly enough, as in the painting
his last words were not prayer
Though the words; “copulation and Indians, “
“Fish And Holy, “ were there.
The title of the painting and Custer’s last words
Weren’t from Romans or Corinthians.
They were simply “Holy Mackerel
Look at all the F#@*in’ Indians
poem by David Whalen
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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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If I could make the big orange sun
If I could make the big orange sun
hang forever
over the horizon
and the magic colours
that is light yellow, golden
and goes from orange to red
touch some clouds
and could also get
the blue of the sky,
it would have been
a beautiful painting
and I would want it like
Vincent van Gogh’s
starry night.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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The Yellow Rainbow
Way way up way up in the sky
I am sitting on a rainbow
Holding tight so I won't slide
I am sitting on a yellow rainbow
Yeah my baby
It is a yellow rainbow
There is no green
There is no red
There is no blue
Purple or any other hue
Yet it is a rainbow
A rainbow of seven yellow stripes...
Nahh dont let me slide
Dont let me fall
Keep me up there
Way way up up in the sky
Atop my rainbow
With seven yellow stripes....!
[To YeLlow GirL.... for painting my world YeLlow...]
poem by Rowving Smith
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....
painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....
the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,
as if we never lived!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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If I Were A Painting
If I were a painting
Captured on canvas
Alone in the portriat I would stand
And brush strokes bold
Yet soft as a whisper
The work of a feminine hand.
Caught in a still life
Surrounded by shadows
And lost in a background of blue
If I were a painting
My price would be pain
And the artist would have to be you.
I imagine the colors
Would all run together
If you ever allowed me to cry
So don't paint the tears
Just let me remember me
Without you in my eyes.
It's only the frame
That holds me together
Or else I would be falling apart
If I were a painting
I wouldn't feel
And you wouldnt be breaking my heart...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Memories In Photos
Follow your interest
Follow your heart
To great sunsets and nature,
To capture dramatic scenery
Keep your eyes open
Keep your ears listen
Keep your mind clam
Keep your camera handy
Tweak camera setting right
White balance,
Colour balance
Exposure balance.
Stretch your vision
Thru viewfinder and lens
Framing, Ups, Downs,
Horizontal, Vertical.
Focus subjects clearly,
Focus selectively,
Focus intensely,
Focus is for Wimps.
Gaussian blur,
Romantic look,
Dodgy blurry snap,
Inspired abstract arts.
Art of photography
Art of imperfection and perfection
Art of creative mind
Art of good imagination
Rolling hills, rolling mountains
Misty morning dawns, hazy evening dusk
Striking and dreamy sea sky
Stunning sea sky
Painting with light,
Painting with mind
Painting with black and white
Painting with brushing light
Make your shots
A visually balance shots
A visually balance composition
To Sense of depth, scale and perspective.
Showcase your photos
In Memorable pictures
To treasure moments in time
Remember sweet memory in photos
Keep memories in photos.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Madonna portrait
I saw you painting,
not a sideways glance
of a elephant head
with deep creases showing,
or the neck of a giraffe,
not a Tuscan scene
with tables with white table clothes,
neither an abstract scene
in blue, green and gold.
A portrait unfolded before my eyes,
not a half naked nymph,
or wood fairy
but a Madonna without child
pregnant and serene
looking utterly holy
with olive skin
and great big innocent eyes
against dark colours
in a ruby red cloak.
Your fingers mixed colours expertly
on the palette
to the right exact hue
and blazing lights
lit the canvas
on the easel
and the painting
became an old world masterpiece
with stroke after little stroke
adding depth and meaning
and somewhere in the distance
a midnight-black dragon appeared
with a open mouth
as if drawing nearer
truly alive
detailed to the smallest respect
and evil in every way.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Painting
Painting calmed you,
brought tranquillity to your soul
more that a cup of tea could do
and with every brush stroke
of the painter’s pencil
faces got form
and character and soul,
eyes got colour
and followed me anywhere
in that room.
Tuscan streets came to life
with little cafés,
people sitting at tables,
selling bread and arranging
lavender flowers
against the backdrop
of the sky, the sea
and villas on a hill.
Abstract paintings reminded me
of scenes under the sea,
or rural villages
with people in front
of a old TV-set,
black girls smiled charming,
carrying pots on their heads
or children piggyback
looking cute
in a comic character way
and with every painting
I saw your skills grow
and pictures stroked
to the finest detail.
I watch your measuring eye,
you confident hand,
colours being mixed
on a palette board
and part of your soul
became part of me
and we shared
long moments together.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Modesty is high in view.
A painting free of cost;
A painting with a tag;
A painting not for sale;
The third soars high in view.
24.10.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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