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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Related quotes
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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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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Painting Primary Method Bypass
wet-on-wet
practice
has become
well-known
primary method
of painting used
by rapid
fire artists
lighter colours
will usually
mix
with darker
colours
if laid
over top
while wet
applied
simple
technique
relies
on painting
from light
colours up
achieving
bestowing
painting
a soft
look
order
allows
colours
to be
blended
to artistic
vision
painter's
desire
no drying
period
required
full
paintings
requiring
maximum
only
a few
minutes
of detail
touch ups
post main
work dry
produced
in short
flame
time
periods
an entire
landscape
in under
half
an hour
burning
hail
massive
next
innovation
digital artwork
caricatures
portraits rocks
holy grail
speed
painting
computer
instant generating
music booming
by Nico
Di Mattia
is heart
kettle drum
storm playing
soul inflaming
imagination
run riot pot roast
heaven dancing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Character
One should exert character,
For character exhibits your soul
And the soul has a murky appearance,
It decided to be mysterious
But not when you gain character.
The character is an infinity, a logic
For the soul to create, so it does.
My soul worked like yours,
Once it even behaved like a saint
Opening the life around, then virtues surround.
My character is to be a mathematical puzzle,
My character is grand, my grand puzzle.
I have been this achievement from that achievement.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Going to Tuscany
Just outside the window
at the fountain
a place in Tuscany
runs into violet hills
of lavender
against the outer wall
and sweet lavender perfume
drifts into the room.
In the corridor
between the bedrooms
and your studio
paintings of scenes
in Tuscany
shows where your heart
wants to go.
On the bed next to me
twin peaks with delicate
red brown nipples
rise inviting
with their own
perfume drawing me closer
to fields of your lavender.
To some they could be
big South African rondavels
shading against the African sun,
but more likely they
are pale white villas
set high above your sea
where beyond auburn bushes
is as secret hidden pond.
Streets meander up and down
soft and firm
arms and legs
while Tuscany rises
in the middle of me
and a hot welcome breezes
like the Tuscan wind
against my hand
and I feel passionate rain
between your legs
and I see daylight and stars
in your eyes
and your lashes
open and close
like table-clothes
jerked by a storm
coming in from the sea
in great old Tuscany
and I drive my Tuscany into you,
into a street of wondrous delicacies
and we go to Tuscany
where fields of lavender grow
and I know that it is like heaven
but somewhere here on earth
and Tuscany reflects in your eyes
and I hear it in your sighs
and Tuscany is right here.
poem by Gert Strydom
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American Dream
American dream
American dream
American dream
I must surrender to my American dream
Please do not call me
There is a wedding ring on my ring
And I am building my American dream
I found an American soul mate to love
And to share my life and my American dream
I am getting married and settling down
Good bye single life
Love is the best thing I can give to the people who also share my American dream
Soul mate give me a kiss
And let's dream the American dream
I want my self, you, and every body else to be a part of this American
Dream
We are starting over with an American dream
What I lost before
It is not of any value to me any more
I can't replace it
But you are a part of me
And that is what matters the most
This American dream belong to us and every body else
My heart belongs to you my soul mate
Days will come and go
But I am here for you
We can make a difference when we claim the American dream
Maybe tommorow we will sail on a moon beam
My soul mate has blue eyes
Soul mate I ask no more than this
Please give me a warm kiss
Somewhere in the American dream roses will bloom
And ships will sail across the sea
Poets will write their poetry
Singers will sing in the boulevard cafes some love songs that touch Every body's heart
Flower girls will sell flowers in the streets of the American dream so
The man can buy some
Flowers for there girl friends and lovers if they have any
I can't let any body else steal our American dream
We must save this American dream for us and every body else
If you want to be a part of the American dream
You will have to be a good citizen of the American dream
poem by Aldo Kraas
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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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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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Canvas
Before my eyes brilliant colour, perfection
Dancing gracefully in every direction,
The world of trees, the art of nature
Are simple reasons for a painter.
The power mother nature can release
Could make a painting, a masterpiece
A gallery of natures finest hues,
Enough to stir the most reluctant muse.
Should mother nature tutor me in art
My tree would show a living beating heart,
And should I save one single living tree
My canvas would inspire the world to see.
Red, orange, yellow, green and brown
Colours of beauty my brush would put down
Bright and vibrant Maple Red and Golden Oak
Living, breathing felt with every brush stroke..
©2011
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Sunday afternoon rest
The Kenwood plays
soft soothing instrumental music
and three dogs,
lies stretched out in front of the fireplace.
Tongs of fire lick hungry orange
on pieces of yellow and brown firewood,
while at the bottom
the coals are glowing red.
You paint a white Greek marble statue
of Aphrodite
and I see your painter’s pencil,
giving brush stroke upon brush stroke
of magic.
The afternoon drags on nicely
and red Barberton daisies,
on long green stems
hang out of a glass vase above the fireplace.
The dark painting
of the holy girl with the red garment
against the wall,
watch me amused
and the golden spaniel
sleeps with her head
on my lap.
I will forever
be able to enjoy
the pleasure,
of being with you.
a Hot cup of tea
steals me a kiss or two
and a DVD with the antics of Monk,
makes us laugh at dusk.
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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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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Carry Emotion Away In Packages
it is not enough artist to suffer mentally
it is not enough artist to suffer physically
painter must sell all his her paintings to feed a soul
musician must sell rhythms life swelling to feed a soul
actor must act character slices audience entices to feed a soul
carry emotion away in packages make up powder scissor refrain
hear morning in voice rhythm challenge winning in work sweat strain
climb mountain moments to heaven felt in artistic inspired domain
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Reflects The Soul
Your eyes are like a mirror
that reflects your soul.
Some eyes are dark as cobalt
and reflect the deed they do.
Others are a shade of gold
reflect a heart that cares.
While others reflect great sadness
from ill treatment somewhere.
Whatever colour are your eyes
it is not the colour of your soul.
Some people with dark eyes
as jet black as the night.
Hold the gentlest touch
when it comes to others of mankind.
The colour of your eyes
is never an indication to your soul.
It is only passed the colour
does that reflect the soul.
17 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Daria
She appeared upon my doorstep with eyes of radiance divine,
Athene herself may envy her from wisdoms palace in the sky.
She carried with her a portfolio of canvas cast splendour containing
Abstract figures entwined in shades of azure upon coconut
Skin fibres. Scenes from the Nepal sent shivers down my spine
As I lost myself in the picture she revealed through the blessing
Of her smile. Upon the garden we sat and conversed upon the
Subject of perversion when it comes to expressing emotion
Within the stroke. I spoke of music and of smoking as we
Joked long into the afternoon. Soon she was to leave for some
Far off desert trail, yet my soul shall never fail in recreating
That summers day and hearing echoes ever present of all we
Had to say. I pray to hear from the Goddess again, she of golden
Skin and of eyes as deep as the greatest veil of all abyss.
I told her of my painting and she asked to be shown my art
And so after gathering my works together I produced for her
A revelation of my soul, I wrote my address upon the back
Of the painting I gave to her as a gift for simply being there
And she walked into the distance as I turned to close the door.
poem by David Lacey
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My sister-in-law is a painter, and I'll say, how long did it take you to paint that painting. She'll say, It took me maybe three days, but it took me all my life to get the skills to paint that painting.
quote by Anthony Doerr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She lives
Paintings of William Waterhouse
is dear to her
and she paints images of women
and faces
and tries to find
a Tuscan world somewhere
and in the contrast of darkness
and brightness of abstract art,
I see something deeper
coming out of her soul and life.
She wears her auburn hair
in plaits and later it hangs curling
over her shoulders
while I read passion, happiness
and an urge
to be really beautiful
deep in her golden eyes
and I know that she wants to flower.
She takes the dogs
on drives to a park and the river
where they run about in joy
and splash and swim
and she lives every hour
as if it can last an eternity
and tries to catch joy
in a moment
and when the urge takes her
she writes magic poems,
sad songs
and sets her life
to follow the Lord.
Somewhere in all of this
it’s as if she get wings
and the old world
of her past
fades into oblivion
and at times I wonder
if she’s a angel
or human being
and I love her
and she adores me
and all the days together
pass much to quickly,
but the fairy tale
remains reality
and I see how my darling
becomes a beautiful butterfly
that sheds parts of her soul
in words, notes and painting strokes
and she lives in a way
that I can never
really pen down.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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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
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Black Gypsy
(Emmylou Harris)
Broken bottles, broken songs
Broken people been in town too long
Where's everyone gone
Ooh, baby this city gonna break your heart
Oh, gipsy please tell me
Where everyone's gone
Never had a second name
Never spoke of why we came
Fellowship and Gloriousness
The loneliness of pain
Sitting in the rain
Why is the soul of me
Where is my heart
Where is the part of me
That I would give to you
If kindness were my style
Where is the soul of me
Where is my heart
In my own time
Better leave it behind
In a thousand bottles of wine
Oh, precious plans of standing strong
Why is life taking so long
I would tell you everything
If I only had the words to explain
Don't know nothing but the rain
Why is the soul of me
Where is my heart
Where is the part of me
That I would give to you
If kindness were my style
Where is the tenderness
Where is the warmth
In my own soul
That I let it grow old
Oh, it's getting so cold
Broken bottles, broken songs
Broken faces been in town too long
Where has everyone gone
Oh, baby this city gonna break your heart
Oh, gipsy please tell me
Where everyone's gone
Oh, gipsy please tell me
Where everyone's gone
Where everyone's gone
Where everyone's gone
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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