Symbolic Stanzas' Sonnet Celebration response to Marion Mantel - The Painter
Pure poet imbibes artist's brush
creation's canvas celebrates
colour pigmentations' crush
inspires lyres' songs innate.
The timeless tides of metaphors
take form from morph hue cues,
as soul's semantice semaphore
signals sends, imbues.
Symphonic stanzas canvas caught
showers sublime compound,
symbolize synaptic thought
round watershed surround.
There none need karmic quest, request:
act/fact of being's freeing rest.
(24 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Empty Canvas
the canvas is juxtaposition
images colour movement time
time shifts in thought shifts
empty mind space canvas
is whatever artist declares
canvas is painted to be
empty canvas is whatever
canvas is painted to be
endless pigment possibilities
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Canvas
Oh how she loves her canvas,
The stories that it tells.
Oh how she loves to paint her thoughts,
And etch a perfect spell.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
The memories that it holds.
Oh how she loves to trace the lines,
And tell if new or old.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
Her stability in an unstable world.
Oh how she loves to fret away,
At all of her unfurled.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
A standstill of art and truth.
Oh how she loves the feel of it,
To reminisce her youth.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
A long work of her life.
Oh how she loves the twisted colors,
Splashes of red upon white.
Oh how she loves her canvas,
She crafts each inch with care.
She hides her canvas well away,
Though she often earns a stare.
Do not tell of her canvas,
Keep the secret- she insists.
But perhaps some time take a second glance,
For her canvas is her wrist.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Creative Perceptions
Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.
(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)
Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.
Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Images accompany
free originality.
(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.
(16 February 2002 robi03_0986)
for previous version see below
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets insight channel, air: -
one canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams with rare
sensitive perspective, care.
When true to self then neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, to share
with perfect strangers anywhere
how beauty may beyond the brink
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free...
(16 February 2002)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Blank Canvas
I often think the artist
Needs a vast blank canvas
I often feel the poet songs
Arise out of pure emotion
Loneliness, emptiness…
A void to be filled, transgressed.
But, what does it all say…?
On a personal, level
Anyway, about ink or oil…
Are their horizons, just?
Just as barren …as desert soil?
Hell no! Beauty is translucent.
'To a point…
But what could be more real'?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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I am an artist. The track is my canvas, and the car is my brush.
quote by Graham Hill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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As An Artist
As an artist,
I carefully paint
a picture on my
canvas
with each stroke
I wipe away a tear
causing a smile to
reappear
As an artist
I endow your face
with my brush
making it more
perfect as I go
until at last the
image of my love
I see.
poem by Heather Burns
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God's Canvas Above
The Artist behind the canvas above, the sky's what I'm speaking of,
Stretched above so wide and blue, every day a painting brand new,
God's painting above for all to see, painted by The Lord of Eternity,
The canvas above God's Creation, visible by every man and nation.
He begins every day with the sun, The Creator's Light for everyone,
Keeping God's touch in mind, sometimes the sun He hides behind,
Those clouds, so white and full, all through The Lord's creative rule,
When the Lord does paint the sky, which is seen through every eye.
God ends each day not the same, although the clouds may remain,
As night begins He paints the sun, well over this earth's far horizon,
Turning the sky to a black canopy, to paint those stars that we see,
With the sun replaced by the moon, along with stars that are strewn.
This is just the sky above my friend, for God's Creation has no end,
It goes beyond what we can see, for God is The Creator of Eternity,
But, what God chooses to display, is a witness to all nations today,
His witness that men come to know, The Lord above all men below.
God's Creation, to all mankind, is The Creators testimony to remind,
There's a Creator beyond the sky, One, Who created both you and I,
Whose witness creates accountability, for every person that can see,
That above man there is a Creator, Who sent Christ to be our Savior.
(Copyright ©06/2012)
The Artist
He stands at no easel, he mixes no paint,
He colours no canvas to gladden the eye,
Yet the picture he makes will not fade or grow faint
Till our love of the chase shall desert us and die.
He's an artist of parts
Who appeals to the hearts
That can thrill to good hunting and hounds in full cry.
By his seat in the saddle, his touch on the reins,
His skill and his mastery, who can gainsay
That here is an artist in all that pertains
To the horse and his handling - a real R.A. ?
An artist 'twould irk
Not to cut out the work
When the hats are crammed down and a fox is away.
You will find him no centre of salon or crush,
No letters attached to his name may he sign,
But there's no one so eager to handle the Brush
And there's none so consistently found on the Line.
If an artist you ask,
Here's the man for the task,
Making pictures where keenness and courage combine.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The canvas
The canvas
~
This blank canvas before me
Laid out in pristine white
Where only the illusion of lines
Break the unparalleled possibility
Dare I take my pen to it
To scare forever its page
To pen the impossible thought
In verse and breath captivated
That only the mention of a word
Touches the heart and soul of man
Painted into eternity
Upon the canvas stained
No longer innocent, pristine
But touched by the mind
Whose eyes looked upon
A world as they chose to see it
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Pride On Canvas
While others walk,
I will run.
While others hide
on a rainy day,
I will search for
the sun.
I will paint
my pride on
canvas.
And no one will
get in my way.
My barefoot brush
on my infinite
canvas.
All my pride
directed,
Toward this
beautiful day.
poem by Plague Rose
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He who creates re-creates himself
for René Passeron
You may not grow old too soon
if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place
Time was when you knew the time
the place the face
Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain
Who would care nor what would it matter
in which life upon what water
you have trailed your fingers
upon waves of papers
Let your mind brush
some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
upon some bark
Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens
Made as if the artier your words
held some moment in a perennial frame
Never to be banged away by fading suns
collapsing quasars
asteroid storms
puncturing galaxies
usurping black holes
Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying
What else is there to be done?
Let the unknowable undermine the unknown
Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
stick to paper and canvas
stone and sound
And words that are haloed
by the sickness of the poet
though all is not lost for the pen
whose blood will
possess
anchor
expose
our futile justifications
explications
ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations
And generations will tremulously grant him
The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
In the capsule of a poem
Dedicated to René Passeron
(©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Pub. in T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008. 'Poem of the Month' at Alongstoryshort site, April 2012.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Today I Watched You Sleep
Today I watched you sleep
You looked so peaceful, a beautiful picture for my mind to keep
I wondered what heavenly dream you were having
For you had on a sweet easy smile; endearing
Watching you made my heart sing
I could almost feel it dancing
I caught myself smiling
Taylor Swift's Tim McGraw playing
I thought to myself, what a creature to behold
Always thought you a god, truth be told
Perfect brows, a well carved jaw
Lips of pure honey, God, I loved what I saw
Beautiful body, arms so strong
I could never go wrong
You felt so warm beside me, like a bottle of gin
To wake you would be a mortal sin
Like you read my mind
Your eyes slowly opened so deep and kind
I couldn't help but smile again
The look you gave me was like sunshine through the rain
I wish I had my paint, brush and canvas
Just imagine a moment so beautiful on canvas
Would send the Mona Lisa into oblivion
Instead, I sighed and closed my eyes
Carefully painting the picture in my mind, kinda like a golden sunrise
poem by Esperanza Chilupula
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Janine
JANINE
Joy's Janine, sovereign Queen,
is sitting unwittingly, caught between
time and timelessness, sans spleen.
Softness shines from silent scene
such as, had I true artist been,
from canvas onto online screen,
all might glimpse peerlessness serene.
She'd e'en cause pristine saints to dream
on paragon, fair figurine,
on team-theme evergreen.
13 April 1975 revised 23 April 2010
robi03_0078_robi03_0000 XXX_LOX
for previous version see below
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Janine
E’en
Janine
sov’reign Queen,
in beige, brown, green
in silence is seen
sitting. Such a soft scene
as, had I an artist been,
from palette to fair picturene
I would, I ween, cause e’en the saints to dream.
13 April 1975
poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Perfect Painting
Perfect painting
An azure, sinless sky
a whisper of white clouds
and a yellow sun.
The canvas was big
but the painter got bored
walked home.
It rained in the night
canvas, dark and ominous
the artist was contented.
Painting, just the way
it was intended,
but he didn´t bother to sign it.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Quatrain #292 - A poet is an artist who..........
A poet is an artist who paints images with words cast on the canvas of our mind
and uses expressions to make a point or evoke feelings of some particular kind.
A poem then is the handiwork of a poet who is usually inspired or otherwise,
being the medium through which he or she reveal themselves to peoples eyes.
poem by George Krokos
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Because Our Love Is Real
Sometimes when I get upset
You chill me out and put it to rest
When I feel in dangerous times
You make a call and give me a sign
You wrap me up in love a colour so sublime
Goes to where I hurt the most and takes it all away
You really know me more than I even know myself
When life is bitter and sore
Just one look changes it all
Could never be a jealous young man
'Cause you hold the key to my hand
You wrap me up in love a colour so sublime
Goes to where I hurt the most and takes it all away
You really know me more than I even know myself
Because our love is real I won't dominate you, fool around
And faith and trust is all there is and true creation
Guards it with her soul
Sometimes when I don't feel well
Emotional fall under your spell
You heal me I'm better inside
Sure seems good to be alive
You wrap me up in love a colour so sublime
Goes to where I hurt the most and takes it all away
You really know me more than I even know myself
Goes to where I hurt the most and takes it all away
You really know me more than I even know myself
song performed by by Erasure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Colours on Our Canvas
We splash colours on our canvas
in all the things we do,
the more vibrant the colour
the more we feel alive,
the more dull the colours
the greater our sadness reveals.
(20 April 2011)
poem by David Harris
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Back In Semaphore
I've not been in this Town for a year or maybe more
But some familiar faces here that I 've seen before
And people walk their dogs in park by the sea shore,
It is good to be back in Semaphore.
Off of the jetty in the bright sunshine
The old fishing fellow casts his fishing line
He hopes to catch a few good sized fish for tea
Though of such there is not a guarantee
Some Australian Aboriginals still live here
In the shade of norfolk pine they sit and drink their beer
They socialize as one big happy family
In Semaphore the old Town by the sea.
The silver gulls in large flocks congregate
By picnic tables in the sun they wait
Like hungry beggars crying to be fed
On scraps of uneaten fish and meat and bread.
On canvas an artist might capture the scene
Of sunlit park of shades of brown and green
Where the recreational cricket players cricket play
And enjoy themselves on their weekend holiday.
In the late afternoon a freshening sea breeze
And mynas chirping on the sunlit trees
And saltwater waves lap on the sandy shore,
It feels good to be back in Semaphore.
poem by Francis Duggan
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