Madonna on a wall
It’s another thing to see
how a mural,
gets a life of its own.
I see her measure and draw
the outlines and I wonder how,
she calculates the image that unfolds
With a palette
on which she mix different colours
and a painter’s pencil,
she paints an image
[See picture of the madonna mural at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1420_Madonna_on_a _wall.htm]
that comes out of a wall.
.
I am struck by what she’s doing
and how her fingers,
perform magic with a brush
and the art and beauty
that unfolds almost without bother.
It’s as if the Madonna’s eyes
follow me as if she’s alive,
to where I move
all over the room
There’s something of her soul
and a new presence,
that’s caught on the wall.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
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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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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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 Question About Art
Our world forgets – has never known, perhaps –
that questions are a treasured magic wand:
the question asked, the answer may, most like, come freshly said
out of a space that’s new alike to teacher and to taught;
your question is today – how factual should I leave
my verse, or should I seek to ‘colour’ it with metaphor? …
this image comes to mind: ‘old master’ in his studio,
famed painter of Madonnas with attendant Child;
demand’s incessant; so he draws the outlines in,
and passes on the canvas to his studio hand;
coloured then, maybe he adds the master’s touch of life -–
the smile of angel’s sweetness on the Madonna’s face;
the glimpse of future in the Christ Child’s eyes;
and off it goes to some great patron’s church,
to comfort all of womanhood in woes and joys,
its colours gleaming candlelit in sacred prayer;
and yet, how connoisseurs may treasure that quick sketch
on scrap of hand-made paper, where the very touch
of sanguine chalk or silverpoint, reveal the immediate mind
of that old master, as it found the new track of the line;
the world will praise, admire, your coloured image of Her face;
but She will see, in pencilled sketch, how love springs from her grace..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Madonna's Old Friend
Little Italian girl would grew up to be
an international singer
and movie star on the silver screen.
Yes, Madonna would become a top pop star
she would tour the world and go quite far.
One of Madonna's NYC dancing friends
is friends with me now she is also Italian.
She was dancing in clubs with Madonna when
Penthouse did Madonna's spread—
Debra is her name and she will defend
Madonna till the end.
Debra collaged lovingly Madonna's photos
since the start of her fame
She also helped do marketing for Madonna's
line Material Girl with care just the same.
Debra is a big fan of Madonna with links
to her videos—
she also sends out links to all of her shows.
Debra admires Madonna very much so
saying 'Madonna got to where she was because
she wouldn't take a no'.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on October 3,2012
www.suzae.com www.suechevalier.com
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Master Painter
The master painter unfolds his palette
Strokes generously with his brush,
The sky explodes with images of delight,
An inspiration, for the mind, and heart.
Turner would be envious of such a canvas.
But all too soon the inspiration fades
The light extinguishes and darkness comes
For just moments you painted with your mind
Flew with the eagles into the soaring beauty
Escaped the everyday for the world of imagination
poem by James Tipp
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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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Into The Hollywood Groove (feat. Missy Elliott)
[Madonna]
Everybody comes to Hollywood
They wanna make it in the neighbourhood
They like the smell of it in Hollywood
How could it hurt you when it looks so good
[Missy Elliott]
Ohh, who that be, Misdemeanor on the M-I-C
I got the fresh kicks, thick hips, best believe me
And Madonna bout to hit em like a tag team
You gonna love us in our Gap Jeans
We walk by, people ask 'where you get them jeans'
On fire call emergency, G-A, capital P
You know how we, and let me go and do my thing
I'll bring ya hard on the track if ya know what I mean
Hollywood and New York, Madonna is the queen
And Misdemeanor say Gap is the best
[Madonna]
Get into the groove, let me show you some move
Best to take it from me, yeah
Get up on your feet
Let me step to the beat
Show you how it should be
Get into the groove
Let me show you some move
Best to take it from me
Get into the groove
song performed by by Madonna
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Camera vs, Pencil
Exactly same and true
Picture of objects wonderful
The magical instrument
Captures the real image
But real things become still
Logics, camera can't fill
Images, camera only captures
Pencil gives birth to a picture
The sketches drawn by pencil
Speak and make you feel
Not only liveliness of the object
But compels one too, to interpret
Camera can't take image of soul
Pencil draws sketch of in and out
camera and pencil's combination
can fetch reality, feel and imagination
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Madonna
I thanked the gods for you
and you were Madonna beautiful to me
as if something holy
radiated from your heart.
Your golden eyes
could look deep into my soul
and you could understand me
for who and what
I really am.
You could put your fingers
to strings and brushes
and the most beautiful words
could go out of your hands
and your sparkling voice
stays forever with me,
but Madonna,
you are gone.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mirror, Mirror On The Wall
Mirror mirror on the wall
You reflect the image of how far we fall
from grace as we consider the face
we believe ourselves to be.
Is that all that most of us see?
We are fooled by that looking glass.
And yet we glimpse at it as we pass
all of our imperfections we carry around.
But inside our eyes what is found
is the soul that accepts all of our flaws.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
I must always try to recall
who I am and always shall be.
It's certainly not just what I see.
For I am more than my image shows,
more than my figure, my height, my pose.
I am who I've always been,
not this body that I find I'm in.
I am the earth, the sun, the moon.
I am the morn, the night, the noon.
And so I say to my mirrored wall.
'You can't ever reflect me.
For you don't know me at all.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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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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Something serene
Where you lie beside me
your face reflects peace
and there’s holiness around you
as if something serene
has folded its wings over you.
I glimpse but cannot see any shadow
that it makes
upon the wall
and my eyes do not behold
the angel which
unfolds its wings
to cover you,
yet it’s surely there.
In the silence
of the stretching dark
I pray a prayer
to Him from whom
all angels of light come
to draw a wall of fire
around us
and slowly and surely
sleep creeps in
and I glide away
to the next day.
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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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
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Madonna Whore
What are you thinking when you're looking at me
What can you tell me of reality?
I'm only woman... not just a Fantasy
and the flesh and blood is warmer than some color transparency
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try to reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
What are you thinking when you push me away
Was it some promise in your youth you made?
Holding out for something or hoping to be saved
Does it make you feel power or are you just afraid of me?
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try to reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
I don't know
if you say so
got so many do's and don'ts my head is spinning
Hey Romeo, j-j-j-just let get go
maybe everything could use a little sinning
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try and reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore
Every woman's a Madonna; every woman's a whore
You can try and reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
You can try to reduce me but I'm so much more
I don't want to be your mother; won't be shoved in a drawer
cause every woman's a Madonna, every woman's a whore, that's right
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jennifersjpgs.shows.it
Last night I had a dream
That suddenly I felt inspired and compelled
To paint a brand new picture.
There I was with paints
Here, there and everywhere,
In a darkened room with this painting
Being created before my very eyes,
The beautiful mixture of shapes,
Forms and vivid colours.
The magnificent outcome was
Something wonderful to me.
Then I realised that next to other paintings
This was merely an average creation,
Nothing outstanding that would
Stand the test of time.
Just another artwork framed
And fixed to a wall, just there
Because I painted it,
Not for anything brilliant or first class
Or some masterpiece.
But when I go online
And search Ebay for artwork
Or visit comic art websites
Or the artists' websites,
Then I find I'm searching a treasure
That only I will know as treasure
When my eyes find it.
Only then will the artwork be special,
Because I'm the one
Who holds it most precious.
Of all the artwork I've ever done,
Only a few are most precious to me.
These will never match the world's finest.
So I take special delight in finding treasure,
Here a little, there a little.
Even if it's not as perfect as I'd like,
Maybe I can enhance the photo image
To a greater degree
Using graphic editor programs and special effects
Or adding spectacular art frames
Around the enhanced image.
I like artwork and fantasy art is spectacular.
That's why I created this website
With a click-a-pic slideshow display.
In full screen height and width
And the effect is stunning!
Website: jennifersjpgs.shows.it
Denis Martindale, copyright, January 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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New Madonna
I see you out on the dancefloor shaking around
I see you out on an empty beach
I see you walking a one way street
It's the same as always
A star
Maybe you are
A star
Maybe you are
A new Madonna
In a way I can hear myself say
What is it worth
I say we meet on the last place on earth
It's insane
As always
Maybe you are
A star
Maybe you are
A new Madonna
Is this the only way
You make it like a new Madonna.
song performed by by Zeromancer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That’s a childless Madonna staring lifelike
That’s a childless Madonna staring lifelike
from the wall, with eyes moving
as if they are following
every movement, a look-alike
to the mother of God,
as if something divine,
is filling her eyes that are looking in mine
and it feels as if its on holy ground that I trod
with the picture’s countenance having a kind of grace
while the artist Mea watches me,
where I am awestruck by the art, she smiles suddenly.
“Who can contemplate the expression on the painted face? ”
I wonder loudly while it feels
as if the picture is living,
a kind of strange thing
and my mind reels
while I try and contemplate the changing expression
now softening in the fading light
almost becoming indistinct with the coming of night
but the picture retains its original dimension,
is almost surreal and still there
with eyes that never closes watching, always looking
as if comprehending something,
following, following me almost anywhere.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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