Thamiraparani
On the bank of Thamiraparani
Once an aesthetic later inaesthetic
Deep in a picturesque water- memory
Replenish myself very much thoughtful
Gazing at the historic sylven spate of Porunai
Born to the grand governess Podhikai
Traversing along a Tamil culture affluent, pristine
Asking but presently 'paint me picturesque'
Arid the river the aesthetic crumbles down
A sharp chip rocky hurts my sole(soul) to weep
I realise standing amid stained Tamiraparani
Rubbish ecology ruing..
Only a scenic taste can govern
Purge, lustrate, resume the water flow
Thamiraparani pleads
'Please, paint me picturesque'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Related quotes
Painter’s Agony
I want to paint that river
And the scene behind it
The boat and the boatmen
I know everything about
That river
My association with the river
Many a hundred memories
Evenings and sunshines
Floods and slow water
I have lived my life
On the bank of that river
I want to paint
Paint it with the most beautiful colors
I want to borrow some colors
From the colors of paradise
And I love the town
That lives beside the river
Old and dusty
Where shall I take you
In that small town
Every nook and corner
Shall tell you that it knows me
I want to paint that town
In colors of heaven
I want to carry a few children
And take them on a tour
I want to see the town with their eyes
And then go to the riverbank
And meditate for a while
Drink the wine of nature
And get lost into the world of beauty
And flow with the river
Enter every house
My heart throbs in harmony
With every heart in the town
Give me colors divine
Colors from the other world
For I want to paint
That river and that town
(This poem is about a small town on the bank of river Indus)
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Beautiful Balmoral
Ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral, near by the River Dee;
There ye will see the deer browsing on the heathery hills,
While adown their sides run clear sparkling rills.
Which the traveller can drink of when he feels dry,
And admire the dark River Dee near by,
Rolling smoothly and silently on its way,
Which is most lovely to see on a summer day.
There the trout do sport and play
During the live-long summer day;
Also plenty of salmon are there to be seen,
Glittering like silver in the sun's sheen.
And the mountains are rugged and wild to be seen,
But the woodlands are beautiful when Nature's face is green;
There numerous rabbits do gambol all day
Amongst the green scrubbery all lively and gay.
There's one charming spot most magnificent to be seen,
'Tis Balmoral Castle, the Highland Home of our Queen;
The surrounding scenery is enchanting to see,
While near by rolls past the lovely River Dee.
Therefore, ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral Castle and its grand scenery,
And the sight will fill your hearts with glee,
As ye walk along the bonnie banks o' the River Dee.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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On holiday
On holiday we went to
Blyde river canyon
with our own white Hillman Vogue
accompanied by a yellow minivan
full of school children.
First we stopped at God’s window
and on that clear day
I could see from where
the name came.
We were like Moses
seeing the Promised Land
and could see the sea
in far off Mozambique
and the land
all the way to there
and what a great view it was.
We hiked a trail
that went along picturesque high cliffs
carrying backpacks
with sleeping bags
and below a river glittered
with fresh cold water
where we frolicked to cool down.
Somewhere high in the mountain
we lost the trail
and hiked on another new one
and took a much longer route.
There were potholes
washed out by the water
and we followed the river
till a camping site
where it met another
and it was by far
one of the best holidays
I had as a child.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Culture!
Culture is like a flowing river
it changes with time;
sometimes changes time too;
as sunlight, water, air and earth
change the seed into a sapling
plant, tree and also tree becomes dead wood;
Culture is the cultivated one
differently at different times;
There is no standard culture
We create, follow, recreate,
demolish, destroy culture
depending on our needs
and compulsions;
Culture is not stagnated water
It is a flowing river
And may become arid
Depending on our cultivation
Or negligence;
poem by Varanasi Ramabrahmam
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Down in the deep water..
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I ponder my life
Just how did I get to this
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where the waterfall of dreams
Sweeps away what’s left to the abyss
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where time stands still
just only forever.
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I buried all
That was ever my childhood
Where I let it go,
Where it bends and meanders,
Twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
Were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current
Down in the deep water,
I left the edge of the river,
As I looked down
For my soul at the bottom.
Deep in the deep water
Swept away by the river
I drowned in life,
......Sinking forever.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Knee Deep In The Water
I'm standing here in this water.
The water that was just at my feet.
But now...
It's up to my knees.
It's gotten deeper.
It keeps getting deeper.
I'm standing knee deep in the water.
Wondering if there's a way out.
No matter where I go,
or where I turn,
I never seem to get out of this water.
It's like a black hole,
it never seems to end.
Am I born to drown in it?
Knee deep in the water,
and I'm still afraid.
I know what's gonna happen.
The water will get deeper.
Deeper until I die,
or drown with it.
When my death comes,
the water will leave.
It's only knee deep,
for now.
poem by Ninja Soul
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Eyewitness
The slow, murky, drought-affected river
Snakes its way around meandering shores.
Its surface littered with leaves upriver
Like colorful scales on a constrictor.
Within its gut swim impervious prey
That nourishes it along its lengthy
Journey to the sea. All along the way
Its subtle currents swallow whole, debris
Left in the wake of Octobers fury.
Unmindful Canada geese fly over
The leafy surface honking their carefree
Calls while negotiating their stopover.
Standing high on the bank is I, witness
To this autumn picturesque loveliness.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A River Flows
Where does the river flow
if not to you?
How deep its depths
if these
are not yours?
How broad is the river bank?
Broad enough
for the tug-boats
to push my heart along.
If there are fish in the river,
they sing your name
open-mouthed,
fish-style,
making tiny bubbles float
up, up to the river surface
where they pop
spread
announcing to the Firmament
that Love lives just below
the deep river flows.
Yes, you and I
are the river;
we flow,
run deep
down to that
ocean-mix
in which
our souls
swirl.
Mix me then
in depths deep.
Mix you then
amid this ocean sweep
and all else,
for me
becomes meaningless
so great
is our Soul Mixed
Ocean Bliss.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Sinking..
Down in the water
By the edge of the river
where I ponder my life
just how did I get to this
Down in the water
By the edge of the river
where the waterfall of dreams
sweeps away what’s left to the abyss
Down in the water
by the edge of the river
where time stands still
Just only forever.
Down in the water
by the edge of the river
where I buried all
that was ever childhood
Where I let it go,
where it bends and meanders,
twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current
Down in the water,
I left the edge of the river,
as I looked down
for my soul at the bottom.
Deep in the water
Swept away by the river
I drowned in life,
......sinking forever.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paint Me Down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Im walking into studio
Consider strange appeal
Paint me in the home
Im brushing up on sketchbook
Designs for love unreal
Paint me in the home
Oil and skin youll need to buy it
Consider what I mean
She sinks beneath thr moving pictures
Prepare the brush for me
Im craving with this need
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Im soaking up the surface
Conceaiving new idea
Paint me in the home
Shes oiling up her subject
But all still life is here
Paint me in the home
All the boys with framed dimension
A cover up on lust
Hell take his pain and paint it over
Prepare the brush for me
Im craving with this need
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Surreal Experiment
Paint a picturpyschedlic
Silhouette
Splashes of
Deep
Purple
Passion
Raw
Electri c
Aesthetic
Of beauty
Black smoke screaming
An angry smear
Of empty metaphors
And torrid descriptions
Dreams left wanting
poem by Heather Iverson
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Pictures must not be too picturesque.
quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To You, Unsung
How should I sing you ? — you who dwell unseen
Within the darkest chamber of my heart.
What picturesque and inward-turning art
Could shadow forth the image of my queen.
Sweet, world aloof, ineffably serene
Like holy dawn, yet so entirely part
Of what am I, as well a man might start
To paint his breathing, or his red blood's sheen.
Nay, seek yourself, who are their truest breath,
In these my songs made for delight of men.
Oh, where they fail, 'tis I that am in blame.
But, where the words loom larger than my pen.
Be sure they ring glad echoes of your name,
And Love that triumphs over Life and Death.
poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Pioneers may be picturesque figures, but they are often rather lonely ones.
quote by Nancy Astor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paint Brush
We forget
We’re humans in disguise
We lust for angels
We lust for demons
We cannot exorcise the human inside.
We paint a layer of lies
No water can wash it off
Human doesn’t let paint spread
In the end humans peel paint off.
Some are left buried
With paint left unpeeled
The paint dries away
But human never dehydrates.
We may paint on thorns,
But flowers we remain inside.
poem by Mehreen Mujeeb
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Domestic Shades 1
1
As early from bed I rise
So early the electricity dies
Accustomed hands paint blind shades
Then a lit candle lights the house
Unwilling to break a tradition
I go on the kolam expedition
Custom unlocks the portico
With water and quartz I go
Dawn is Mahalakshmi's time prime
So dark, also stealer's time crime
I'm warned to be back inside
My hubby is in fear's stride
I let him keep shouting
Safe then is my feeling
I finish haphazardly
Cursing the power-failure highly
2
When she was wide and deep in bulk
She came oceanic in force
We had overflowing sumps
All houses all time
Old by age
Slow sometimes
Slower sometimes
The slowest this day
Making me wait ear-sharpened
For her falling utterance...
Not even incontinent this tap
Hissing for a wink and then dead
Thamiraparani is weak and wormy
Meeting us on fourth or fifth day weekly
Worming through the pipeline
And we, the patient waiters
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Fanatics are picturesque, mankind would rather see gestures than listen to reasons.
quote by Friedrich Nietzsche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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The forms of art are inexhaustible; but all lead by the same road of aesthetic emotion to the same world of aesthetic ecstasy.
quote by Clive Bell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What goes on in abstract art is the proclaiming of aesthetic principles... It is in our own time that we have become aware of pure aesthetic considerations. Art never can be imitation.
quote by Hans Hofmann
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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