The Artists
you are the best artists
You hang my skin on the wall and drew me with ulna dip into my blood
You are great
You drew my face on your heart and paint it with love
You sew my name on your lip and pin it to the cloud
You background me with you in the distant future
Holding our seeds with smile of euphoria
You are my artist
You drew my mistakes on my chest and erase
It with your hand wrapping me softly
You blend our soul and mind and mount it as a kite flying the banner of bliss
You are beautiful
I've paint your heart with musk, your lip with honey and you skin with amber
We are both an artist
We carved ourselve with due
You clipped my eyes to the moon
I clipped the stars to you hair with galaxies of flower decorating our world
You my artist
You drew me with the world gazing at your statue hanging on the sky with flying nymphs sing songs of our artistic shadow
poem by Kemurl Fofanah
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Related quotes
Value Fever Pitch: An Artist’s Time
Bhoman F Jamhari said
'I am an artist - This does not
mean I will work for free.
I have bills just like you.
Thank you for understanding.'
Polite and to the problematic point.
Anyone who thinks believes
an artist’s time is worthless,
is definitely a person an artist
should avoid; such individuals
cannot comprehend
or remotely understand
aesthetic value of art.
Art takes time to produce.
Vision and artistic skill takes
even longer to realize to attain
expanding horizons. Time costs.
Artists of differing genre value
appreciate each other and art
which suits their temperament.
To create art
is the life blood
of an artist.
The air we breathe
is the home of art.
Creativity is our fevered mind songs
we sing in a legacy of image visions.
What kind of a con artist wants
to steal bread from an artist’s mouth;
therefore limiting the quality quantity
of future works of art, to be produced
by that artist. Answer an enemy of art.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Little Daughter
She drew
Mother and father
Brother and sister
And a rainbow
She drew
A tree and a root
A stone and a brook
And a rainbow
She drew
A house and a roof
A chimney and a sweeper
And a rainbow
She drew
A path and a step
A sound of a key
And a rainbow
She drew
A table and chairs
A meal and desert
And a rainbow
She drew
A bed and a lullaby
A good night kiss
And a rainbow
She drew
The night and a star
A Moon upon a star
And a rainbow
She drew
Mother and father
Sister and brother
And a rainbow
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Artist's Canvas
the artist's canvas
it is similar as the world
we all strive to paint
with the redness of our blood,
the heat of our passions
and the brushes of our life
how floored we are at times
in the face of things,
how petrified when things
turn out to be red rather
than the blue of our thought
Love which I have always
perceived to be pink is
actually a warm glow of
your fair skin and veins
under the morning sun and
the translucent brown of your eyes
and also beige and
forest green so splendid
they charm the emptiness
of the grey of day away
the freshness of your breath
is a consuming white and
your touch, a trimming of the
brown of muslin for us to anchor
our ecstacy as we lock eyes
in between all these are
the wave and wave of frenzied strokes,
blobs, globs, fuzzy angles
cubes and circles that never
fail to carry us over to the rainbow,
our feet to tango, our heart to sing
and our voice to soar
of love, of sweet dates, of angels
flying over to our paths
the artist's canvas
it is inviting as life where
our imagination can cruise
beyond the ends of earth
free as a bird and rich
as all the colours on the palette
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The First Artist and Author.
The first artist painted the sky with colors, such beauty,
Look at those sunsets, and the mountains, such reality;
The mountains, have shadows, of splendor that only the Master can do,
Yes! It's God who was the first Artist, and He also taught me too.
The first great artist painted the colors on the sea,
Blues, greens, aquas, Only one could do this you see;
And when there is a storm near, the sea goes so dark blue,
Yes! God is the first great artist, to paint it for me and you.
The first great Artist, loved to teach David to write poetry,
And also king Solomon, writing words of such beauty;
Oh such magnificent works, of color and in each word,
Yes! There is only one who could do this it is the Lord.
Then. We see in every rainbow, and in each shell as well,
Look at the colored sands, and in every bird, it does tell;
Then look at each animal, and also the petals of each flower too
Then as you look at these, , give Thanks for doing it for me and you.
poem by Margaret Haig
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The Artist
The Artist and his Luckless Wife
They lead a horrid haunted life,
Surrounded by the things he's made
That are not wanted by the trade.
The world is very fair to see;
The Artist will not let it be;
He fiddles with the works of God,
And makes them look uncommon odd.
The Artist is an awful man,
He does not do the things he can;
He does the things he cannot do,
And we attend the private view.
The Artist uses honest paint
To represent things as they ain't,
He then asks money for the time
It took to perpetrate the crime.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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Creation Starvation Diet
interesting really
'starving to make music'
is desirable
because passion burns
creativity must flow
emotions outpourings
artists are other
creative New Zealanders
who excel
drew on themselves
their kiwi self
unique artistic other
a quality
of seeing
past
packaged
commercial
hype
great 60s
70s,80s,
90s artist
always
were a genuine
exploration
of their own
exceptional
musical gifts
copies fade
timeless
originality
lasts
stands the test
of time
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Unicorn 3
What was known, was known. They asked
the artist who had sat all that bright morning, cool upon the hill,
to draw the trees in front of him, as sunlight crept
among the leaves, now here, now there,
lighting, upon the moss, the dewdrops one by one
sun-sipped; when the unicorn was, in a moment, there;
there, detached, yet offered; they asked the artist how it was.
He said that as the sun moved round and caught the leaves,
a love arose; so that when that creature was, so quietly, there,
it was no different from the love.
At first it stood quite still,
as if it knew what made it easier for him;
then later, walked around, sometimes its head raised so that the
sunlight caught its horn; moved, so that the artist then might know
what moved it. It was love.
Some asked eagerly: was it then as if the creature
drew itself? The artist could not answer. That was not untrue; and yet,
it was not quite like that. Rather, what was known, was known.
Known gently; meekly; sweetly. It seems
there is no other way for love.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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A Nude Artist
A Nude Artist
he says he is a nude artist
because he is naked when he paints
such nakedness has
nothing to do with being a nude artist
a naked artist who paints a cat or a chicken
is not a nude artist
there is no nude cat
thyere is no nude chicken
just paint a naked woman
and he will be called a nude artist
an artist is not an art
he must know that
- Frog Mantra, Accents Publishing,2012 -
poem by Suchoon Mo_
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My Artistic Intent
My artistic intent kept me up all night without relent,
I wanted to paint you a monet or a turner
But art was never my strong point
And being a slow learner
I painted a tiny flower instead
My artistic intent drew me to a small corner cafe
With a seat for one
Even after a sleepingless night
This stubborn muse wasn't done
Instead half dead I sat for hours
With a noteook and pen
Re writing the same sentence
Over and over again
I told the waitress it was my first draft
Her english was poor and so closing the door
She laughed, ''Do you feel warmer now? '
At closing time I left two sentences better off
Than before!
My artistic intent fired me on without relent
I wanted to compose an epic or
A poem of some great worth
But after a certain hour I lost the power
Forgot to feed the metre and in the dark
Couldn't complete her!
At dawn
I walked all forlorn
Through the streets
With heavy heart and feet
I was no artist
Just an insomniac
Who lost the power of speech
I was hungry and stopped for a peach
And ate an apple and pear
And did my shopping and went home to sleep
Half comatosed I arose
That's when I composed
My new world symphony in one key,
After much praise and applause
And feeling confused
I pointed to my 'muse'
It's him you should thank, not me!
emily water melon bronte
poem by Yvette Smith
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Light Skin Girl From London
Shes unique and complete
And with the dog will sleep
She loves to read - she drew her feet and
She drew jesus too
Oh yeah
Light skin girl from london
Light skin girl from london
She understands,
Shell read your hands
And take the future right outta your plans
Shell let you in, but she wont take you where she lives
Oh no, light skin girl from london
Light skin girl from london,
Yeah yeah yeah
Shes got style, but all the while
She dances to the beat out of time
She often cries, and she can speak to you through her mind
Oh no no no no
Light skin girl from london
Light skin girl from london, yeah
Solo
Light skin girl from london
Shes a light skin girl from london
Shes a,
Shes a light skin girl from london
Shes a light skin girl from london, yeah yeah
Shes a light skin girl from london, oh yeah yeah
Shes a
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flightless Bird
My world is caged in,
I can not fly away,
I can not soar in the clouds,
With the wind and the angels.
I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.
I sit here day in and day out,
I watch so many people coming in and going out,
They stay here so happy so proud,
And they leave again without any care in the world.
I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.
I remember each face,
I remember them all saying hi waiting for a reply of hello,
They don’t understand how it feels,
They don’t understand what it’s like.
To be a flightless bird with clipped wings.
Wings tucked and head held high I sit here,
I wear a smile on my face and I keep myself beautiful and happy,
But inside all I can see are the bars that surround me,
I can’t get past them I can only sit.
I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.
My world is a room full of people myself the center of attention,
Although I should not complain for this is my life,
And I make them smile I make the children laugh and look in my eyes,
And sometimes they look into my eyes and see my world through my eyes.
They know I am a flightless bird with clipped wings.
They’ll stand and watch me as I walk around in my cage,
They’ll be there with me and try to understand.
Then they’ll have to leave and they’ll look over their shoulders.,
And they look into my eyes one last time,
Before they fly away into the world to bring back stories for the flightless bird with clipped wings,
They are my connection to the world,
They show me what they see through their eyes,
They show me wonders and beauties of a world I’ve never seen,
They are my window to the outside,
In their mind I can be a flightless bird in a world of wonder and of flight.
I am only a small bird in a cage that sits in a hotel,
Sits and watches as the world around me fly’s by,
I wait for the occasional stranger who looks into my eyes with knowing,
Maybe a person who is like me like a flightless bird in a cage,
They are my wings, the wings of a flightless bird who’s wings are clipped.
I sit in my own world and watch as it all moves by,
Day after day I watch and I say what is expected of me,
I sit in my world and I go on my own steady journey,
A journey in which I am a silent observer,
A flightless bird with clipped wings in a world of ever changing skies.
By: Bethany Maxwell
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The Crazy Man on Drew
the crazy man on Drew
straps a broken bicycle helmet on his head
rides in the rain and the sunshine
and he's old and fat enough to get to get
an attack, but he doesn't
he peddles home in the dark
the crazy man on Drew
walks his dog at midnight
sits on the wall at the hospital
curses at his beagle
cries in the rain
the crazy man on Drew
has a wife and kids
but they have no use for him anymore
unless the flowers they expected that day
didn't arrive
then they call him...
he will listen
the crazy man on Drew
is someone's husband
but that romance has been dead long ago
it shuffles now like a bum
with a grocery cart
looking for cigarette money
in the trash
the crazy man on Drew
goes to church every Sunday
prays to a God
who is all but disinterested in his outcome
the crazy man knows it
but prays all the same
the crazy man on Drew
knows that when he is dead
that his ex by then
will toss out all his books
to Goodwill
he knows it
but what difference will that make
when you are dead, anyhow?
the crazy man on Drew
knows that under the beauty of a rose
is a lot of pricks
and a lot of dim bulbs
make a very bright light
and there in lies
the truth of life after all
the crazy man on Drew
knows he will do something rash one day
hopes like hell
that God will forgive
his friends won't take it hard
his family will forget
and the grave will be silent.
poem by R. James Sterzinger
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Artist Nancy Waller
I remember hearing a voice,
“go down this road”, was the first choice.
The road 42nd West, in south Minneapolis.
Great visual artist I would meet,
She drew endangered species detailed and neat.
Nancy Waller was her name,
She published booklets on endangered species
to help bring about awareness and change.
Melodie my doll, loved her most of all.
She went to her see her at the museum,
took photos with her that where very pleasing.
Melodie was happy for Nancy designed,
coloring books of Melodie just cute and fine.
Nancy got my books off to a great start,
she inspired me and has a pure heart.
Thank you Nancy for inspiration and passion too,
you’re a great artist, through and through.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Only
Only if you want to, she said,
only if it means to you what
it means to me. The other
members of the choir were
ahead on their way to the next
house for carol singing, the full
moon luminous above, the voices
of others like faraway whispers
of ghosts. She looked at you; her
blue eyes searching every aspect
of you for an answer. Yes, it does,
you replied, your words hanging
around your head like tamed birds.
She smiled and closed her blue eyes
and moved toward you and kissed.
Lips to lips, flesh to flesh, no tongues
(at least not then that intrusion of
the mouths) just skin touching skin,
seemingly an outward sign of how
you felt within. She drew you into
her arms; you sensed her breast
beneath her coat, felt her body
touching yours. The kiss ended,
the lovers drew apart, the others
had paused outside another house
to begin their carol singing once again.
She held your hand in hers; electricity
sparkled; down came the soft rain.
poem by Terry Collett
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Blaze Of Glory
I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night's bed
I don't know where I'm going
Only God knows where I've been
I'm a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind
When you're brought into this world
They say you're born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didn't have to steal or have to win
Well they tell me that I'm wanted
Yeah I'm a wanted man
I'm cold in your stable
I'm what Cain was to Abel
Mister catch me if you can
Chorus:
I'm going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I'm going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But I drew first blood
I'm no ones son
Call me young gun
You ask about my consience
And I offer you my soul
You ask If I'll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I'll grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what it's like to sing songs in the rain
Well
song performed by by Bon Jovi from Crossroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Please Mrs Butler
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps copying my work, Miss.
What shall I do?
Go and sit in the hall, dear.
Go and sit in the sink.
Take your books on the roof, my lamb.
Do whatever you think.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps taking my rubber, Miss.
What shall I do?
Keep it in your hand, dear.
Hide it up your vest.
Swallow it if you like, love.
Do what you think best.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps calling me rude names, Miss.
What shall I do?
Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear.
Run away to sea.
Do whatever you can, my flower.
But don't ask me!
poem by Allan Ahlberg
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Life and Sand.
Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local slut, she doesn't know.
She's been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist's tools and useful stuff.
She has modelled for others and
They've always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, sex, and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.
Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.
She recalls the artist's antics the night
Before, the want of sex, the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.
She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.
She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.
poem by Terry Collett
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Thanks God You Gave Me Too Much
Drop wrapped wet
Cloudward driven I swelled
The cloud drew the shape
It drew the shape of my heart
Bird kissed meek
Feather light touch
The rain spell fell
And drummed in joy
It drummed the beat of my heart
So little I have to give I thought
Thanks God you gave me too much
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Discouraging Model
Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses sown in under there
Where the shadows are lost in her hair.
Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the master of old used to paint
Round the lips of their favorite saint!
And that lace at her throat-- and fluttering hands
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,
The flakes of their touches-- first fluttering at
The bow-- then the roses-- the hair and then that
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.
Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair
Nor the gold of her smile-- O what artist could dare
To expect a result half so fair?
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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