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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Related quotes
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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A Blank Canvas
A blank canvas waits every morning
as the sun begins to rise.
It waits for me to start thinking
of what today will be my prize.
Whatever it may be, I know
a new destination will come aboard
and my creations will be my guides to follow
to new adventures I will afford,
seeking and finding the colours and words
to fill in the emptiness of my blank canvas.
poem by David Harris
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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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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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What For? ...
The vast emptiness, which engulfs me,
Is so persistently painful,
If I gorge,
Until overindulgence,
Greed and hatred for myself.
I still - feel empty,
Hollow,
Hollow to the core,
Shallow, hatred and empty - even more.
For food, I know - won't fill my void,
Just detract from my emotional emptiness.
Inside, I'm as barren as the Kalahari,
With an ache as persistent as time,
And a pain as sordid as childbirth,
And a mind as twisted as mine.
In my world, I'm no longer playing,
Just an observer, wishing for more,
In my head, I'm no longer needed,
And my existence - I wonder,
What for?
poem by Karen Sinclair
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Whatever an artist's personal feelings are, as soon as an artist fills a certain area on the canvas or circumscribes it, he becomes historical. He acts from or upon other artists.
quote by Willem de Kooning
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A morning canvas
A morning canvas
~
The clarity of a clear blue morning sky
like the emptiness of a blank canvas
invites the mind to wander on the day
what will be writ, what shall be seen
the serenade of birdsong in the breeze
softly, sweetly awakens the world
here a resolute beauty is found
and a heart invited to sing of love
let the day be won with hope and faith
let friends, family and lovers know
that this is a day to be owned
how thoughts come to a forefront
in the light the rising dawn
expressed without reluctance
upon the waiting canvas
in the clarity of a blue morning sky
this is a day to be alive
poem by Matthew Holloway
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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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Tell Me Why
That tuesday night, turned 26 and I caught your smile
laid down my life, one kiss would take me through the night
I close my eyes, I feel your touch, I see you smile
it's on my mind, it's just a dream I know, but why?
why I just can't stop wondering you're on my mind
noone tells me why, tell me why
tell me why you filled that emptiness in me
tell me why, tell me why,
tell me why you filled that emptiness in me
just to tell you goodbye
a day down the line, reality's back on my mind
yesterday's behind, the charm of love has died but why
unsatisfied with what we get used to in this life
I laid it aside, looks so pale with open eyes
so I just keep on wondering about what's on my mind
noone tells me why, tell me why
why again you filled that emptiness in me
tell me why, tell me why,
why again you filled that emptiness in me
so I tell you goodbye
tell me why, tell me why,
tell me why you filled that emptiness in me
tell me why, tell me why,
tell me why you filled that emptiness in me
tell me why, tell me why,
why again you filled that emptiness in me
so I tell you goodbye
song performed by by H-BlockX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's one of his radical paintings
They refused to take his painting for the Exhibition.
The reason they explained; ' It's a blank canvas.'
Then the painter argued; ' It's titled as Blank life.'
'At least there should be a brush mark then we can accept.' the director of the Art Gallery said.
With his ball point pen he kept a dot in the middle of the canvas
And added to the title as 'Full stop to the blank life.'
The director was really appreciated and taken the painting back.
* To my friend Denis.Joe who threw a torch into my little dark World and I saw this strange sign shines in the darkness.
'If the door is locked, someone is inside? '
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Poet And Woman
Woman, you are incomplete without poet,
Poet, you are also imperfect without woman.
The soil is incomple without the root of trees,
The sky is incomple without the clouds,
stars or the shining Moon,
The river is dead without the dancing of waves,
And, the poet's heart is a desert without a woman's love.
The forest is incomplete without the wild animals,
The sun is lost in darkness without its light,
The trees are but a row of emptiness-
without the chirping of the birds,
And, a woman is but half without a poet's imagination.
poem by Nazmul Haque
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Lonely, ,
Lonely and alone I am
my soul's always lonesome
in a crowd of loneliness
it sounds sad and lonely
hiding loneliness alone
the lonely lone alone
Lonely is a single traveller
on a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
of carrying a heavy load.
Lonely is a beautiful song
that no one's ever heard,
and lonely is the wait for death
by a broken winged bird.
Lonely is the emptiness
inside my hollow soul,
and lonely is the sound of the wind
blowing through its gaping hole.
Loneliness is second only
to the darkened void of death
and loneliness is taking
that 'Right' to Hell
when I should have made a 'Left'.
Lonely is the sound
of an infant
who sadly cries in vain,
and lonely is his addict mother
shooting poison in her veins.
Lonely is the boy
who will never become a man
and lonely is the brink of disaster
upon which I know I stand.
Lonely is the poem
which has gone on long enough
and lonely is the sympathizers
who say I've, 'had it rough'.
Lonely is my life
lived without family or friend
and lonely is the last word of this poem
because it's always at the...
End.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Drape Our World In Fantasy
As I twist in braids my uncombed mane
As I sit and slowly go insane
As I wait and dance within the rain
Still I love the pain of living
Still the pain of love is giving,
Of feeling and healing with emotion
Attempting through a heart’s redemption to seal the wounds of worry
And drifting an ocean deep of sleepless fear
Rising upon the winds of confidence
To shatter the defences of the insecurities
That we have developed in our step.
Hear I am, trying to help you forget
All that you allow to never set upon
The horizons of your mindscape.
It is not to escape but to embrace
The hands of fate and still know
That always and ever we have the power
To drape our world in fantasy.
To adorn a desert in blank canvas snow.
No mockery of reality is this
For imagination is wisdoms bliss
Alike the kiss of the girl I’m missing.
poem by David Lacey
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Shooting Ducks In Space
Dancing arrests belief in wonderful planets,
Worlds of open enemies control the realm.
My oblivion is like the void so blank,
Agony and ducks contrive more of the void.
Dancing ducks are afloat in certain horizons,
From the eggs, from one side of the die roll.
Let us be friends, and let my enemy live,
Then this void shall reach beyond conception,
And I call this Space, where the looting is on.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Uniting emotion
Uniting emotion
Poets become real
Enjoying easily
Readers attention.
Real and unreal
No yardstick
No deadline
Just read and read.
Poet found
Real poet found
With union with emotion.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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So Lonely Alone
So lonely alone am I
My soul's lonesome in the crowd of loneliness
It sounds sad and lonely
Hiding loneliness alone
The lonely lone alone
Lonely is a single traveller
On a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
Of carrying a heavy load.
Lonely is a beautiful song
That no one's ever heard,
And lonely is the wait for death
For a broken winged bird.
Lonely is the emptiness
Inside my hollow soul,
And lonely is the sound of the wind
Blowing through its gaping hole.
Loneliness is second only
To the darkened void of death
And loneliness is taking
That 'Right' to Hell
When I should have made a 'Left'.
Lonely is the sound
Of a lonesome infant
Who sadly cries in vain,
And lonely is his addict mother
Shooting poison in her veins.
Lonely is the boy
Who will never become a man
And lonely is the brink of disaster
Upon which I know I stand.
Lonely is the poem
Which has gone on long enough
And lonely is the sympathisers
Who say I've, 'had it rough'.
Lonely is my life
Lived without family or friend
And lonely is the last word of this poem
Because it's always at the...
…End.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Something More Beautiful Than A Well With Water
we always want a well full of water
like a glass to its brim
there is more beauty somehow
to a well running out of water
the hollowness beneath
the sound of the wind
filling its emptiness
much different than the dripping
of the rain
from a rooftop
where one may feel so safe inside
the darkness of the bottom
the dryness of the soil
beneath
it is in there that some real voices speak
the one that you have not
heard
they are so deep and real that they cannot
refuse to tell you the truth
it is like someone is moaning
and you feel that you are one of them seeking
the voice of God
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Guilt
Sad faces, dark dresses, condolences;
Words of wisdom, grievance and conformity,
My chest filled with agony; my head filled with hope;
I wander around in loneliness, in search of ways to cope.
Walked past the yellow tree, a mind filled with memory;
The echoes of thee words that fill the shadows of the hill,
A quick look at the back of me, the cold air masks her sight;
I wander around in loneliness, to answer her last breaths' plight.
The guilt at the helm of it, the gun in my hand;
The death of my loved one, the murderer at large;
My chest filled with agony, my head filled with hope;
I wander around in loneliness, looking for ways to elope.
Suspicious at suspecting eyes, my eyes with teary lies;
I think of how it could have been had she not seen what I have been,
A quick look at the back of me, the cold air masks her sight,
I wander around in loneliness, for my need to survive.
'Go to hell, you filthy beast' her last words that spoke of me,
Our child is six, I'll try and fix, the void you've left for her;
I'll stop the kills, I swear I will, just one more and I am done.
I wander around in loneliness, the gun still in my hand.
poem by Avi Vodkaholica
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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 Real Truth
Blue eyes, black skies and clouds filled with pain. disguise the emptiness, the disdain. late calls, long halls with words no one hears. reveals the loneliness and the years. like going backward
A revolving door. I dont know which ways out anymore. I cant run from the real truth. and not be living a lie. you cant hide from the fate chasing you. and watch it, from somebody elses eyes. cold hearts, cruel thoughts can destroy the faith. just ask the singer who hell from grace. but things change and strange days can turn a point of view. just time till everyone gets their due. I may not save the world but Ill save myself. cant depend on somebody else.
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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