In the empty studio
The diffused northern sunlight
of this studio at dawn
matches the silence and the stillness
like the speaking silence
of the retrochoir behind the altar
of a simple white Greek island church –
that has no ornament; simply walls
painted in a pale blue wash,
the space, the air itself, as radiant with heaven;
behind the iconostasis – gold and candle and eternal gaze -
where praise is prepared; thought surrendered;
humility the robe; the sacred word awaits
the moment when it’s spoken;
so this studio; and at its centre, calling,
stands an easel with a white canvas on it;
what waits in this empty studio
that’s so full of emptiness that calls?
what challenges? This canvas
waits, as being ever does; full, content,
needing nothing but itself…
the silence will accept our spoken word,
then return to stillness;
the canvas will not be so forgiving;
‘make a mark on me that will not diminish
my completeness…; so let our being
meet, before a mark is made…’
this holy place: only godself may mark
this canvas and yet not detract; from space,
draw space; or may with colour stain transparent
this white white radiance of eternity:
and in the place whence all arises,
Nothing and Everything smile together
in their secret play.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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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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My Tears Softly Land
On the white canvas
My tears softly land
I know color is precious
And it is in my hand.
No color could wash them
The tears black and white
Through times ever the same
They dropp to blur my sight.
It comes in the shape of a face
A look forlorn and sad
Pleading for only a little space
From a race obsessed and mad.
I know color is precious
And it is in my hand
Yet white remains the canvas
By tears that softly land!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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My Mind is a White Canvas
My Mind is a White Canvas
By: Adam M. Snow
The silence mellowed out the loudest noise conceived,
And I wonder all that I've deceived.
I dreamt all that I could dream up till now;
My mind draws blank, a white canvas what's shown.
I lost all hope to this once eternal vow,
And of this heart my voice now groan.
It is what I said, that and furthermore;
I've lost all hope of my now untimely lore.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Wild Wild Sea
I saw it again this evening,
Black sail in a pale yellow sky
And just as before in a moment,
It was gone where the grey gulls fly
If it should happen again I shall worry
That only a strange ship could fly
And my sanity scans the horizon
In the light of a darkening sky
That night as I walked in my slumber
I walked into the sea strand
And I swam with the moon and her lover
Until I lost sight of the land
I swam till the night became morning
Black sea in the reddening sky
Found myself on the deck on a rolling ship
So far where no grey gulls fly
All around me was silence
As if mocking my frail human hopes
And a question mark hung in the canvas
For the wind that had died in the ropes
I may have slept for an hour
I may have slept for a day
For a woke in a bed of white linen
And the sky was the colour of clay
At first just a rustle of canvas
And the gentlest breath on my face
But a galloping line of white horses
Said that soon we were in for a race
The gentle sigh turned to a howling
And the grey sky she angered to black
And my anxious eyes searched the horizon
With the gathering sea at my back
Did I see the shade of a sailor
On the bridge through the wheelhouse pane
Held fast to the wheel of the rocking ship
As I squinted my eyes in the rain
For the ship had turned into the wind
Against the storm to brace
And underneath the sailors hat
I saw my fathers face
If a prayer today is spoken
Please offer it for me
When the bridge to heaven is broken
And youve lost on the wild wild sea
Lost on the wild wild sea...
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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On Not Writing a Poem
and sometimes I’m sitting, quiet,
wondering whether a poem somewhere
would like to speak through me
and it doesn’t
but the stillness as I wait -
that’s good.
Then just occasionally, when
I’m not visited by a poem,
I visit – without planning - Poetry.
It’s a place without a name
where many things meet:
there’s space, and hope,
and possibility, and, out of the present,
a future growing..
and something that’s not less, or
not less bright, than gold;
where all the poems that have been written
mix on friendly terms with those
that are yet to come;
with a sense of company, humanity,
very undemanding, and what Pooh Bear
would call, Everybody Listening…
and there’s no claim, no need
to write about I Was There
and Experienced This, and do you wish
you had too, and here’s my name
so modestly after a line space
and it’s very refreshing, even
reassuring in its way. Maybe
if we were back in, oh, Greek times?
I would wash, put on a white robe,
take a sweet cake, some oil, some wine, an olive branch,
walk slowly up to the temple,
tap the road dust off my sandals,
then between the cool pillars,
place the offering at the feet
of the golden goddess; silent
somewhere between thanks
and praise and the place called prayer;
and then I’d return home, peaceful
as if blessed. A more poetic image? Perhaps
it’s the same place: the mind
was there, the body’s here.
It’s good. You were there too.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Question About Art
Our world forgets – has never known, perhaps –
that questions are a treasured magic wand:
the question asked, the answer may, most like, come freshly said
out of a space that’s new alike to teacher and to taught;
your question is today – how factual should I leave
my verse, or should I seek to ‘colour’ it with metaphor? …
this image comes to mind: ‘old master’ in his studio,
famed painter of Madonnas with attendant Child;
demand’s incessant; so he draws the outlines in,
and passes on the canvas to his studio hand;
coloured then, maybe he adds the master’s touch of life -–
the smile of angel’s sweetness on the Madonna’s face;
the glimpse of future in the Christ Child’s eyes;
and off it goes to some great patron’s church,
to comfort all of womanhood in woes and joys,
its colours gleaming candlelit in sacred prayer;
and yet, how connoisseurs may treasure that quick sketch
on scrap of hand-made paper, where the very touch
of sanguine chalk or silverpoint, reveal the immediate mind
of that old master, as it found the new track of the line;
the world will praise, admire, your coloured image of Her face;
but She will see, in pencilled sketch, how love springs from her grace..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Monastery
Up the long flight of stairs
every tread echoes from stone walls
as if to comment on how stillness
tells of sound its silent origin.
In the quiet library, the central table
bears a careful written message:
‘Silence is spoken here’..
and that’s truer than
at first it seems to read;
round the walls, shelves of books
as silent as the monks
standing upright in their stalls
witness words that seek to share;
yet ultimately, wave fare well, turn back;
speak of silence sought and silence found;
yet cannot speak of silence;
in the name of silence, take a book,
well-worn, from off the shelf;
meet it in the silence of the room,
read a few words, and lay it down;
glance at the other readers round the room;
fall still.
Here, silence speaks of stillness;
stillness joys in silence.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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)
Velvet Shoes
Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet snd slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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On Calais Sands
ON Calais Sands the gray began,
Then rosy red above they gray;
The morn with many a scarlet van
Leaped, and the world was glad with May!
The little waves along the bay
Broke white upon the shelving strands;
The sea-mews flitted white as they
On Calais Sands!
On Calais Sands must man with man
Wash honor clean in blood to-day;
On spaces wet from waters wan
How white the flashing rapiers play,—
Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray
Shifts for a while, then mournful stands
The Victor: life ebbs fast away
On Calais Sands!
On Calais Sands a little space
Of silence, then the plash and spray,
The sound of eager waves that ran
To kiss the perfumed locks astray,
To touch these lips that ne’er said “Nay,”
To dally with the helpless hands,
Till the deep sea in silence lay
On Calais Sands!
Between the lilac and the may
She waits her love from alien lands;
Her love is colder than the clay
On Calais Sands!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Big White Petals On White Sands In Boracay
big white petals falling
on white sands
try to find out the reason
which one is which
white against white
you find a canvass
where nothing can be found
except the white silence
amidst another white silence
and true you find nothing
you think there is something there
you smile because somehow
you begin to understand
about this labyrinth that you are in
that you think you cannot escape
until you accept the truth
about this simplicity: nada y nada.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Big White Petals On White Sands
big white petals falling
on white sands
try to find out the reason
which one is which
white against white
you find a canvass
where nothing can be found
except the white silence
amidst another white silence
and true you find nothing
you think there is something there
you smile because somehow
you begin to understand
about this labyrinth that you are in
that you think you cannot escape
until you accept the truth
about this simplicity: nada y nada.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Mother And I
Spilling tea
As I pass this
Mug to
You,
I hear your complaints, you dictatorial
Eyes focussed on the
Diffusing scented patch;
Maroon liquid on pale rug-
'There is graffiti on your radiator.
Rub it off and don't dare do it again.'-
So soaking the sanitary paper
In chemically purified water,
I set to the extermination.
Beside my bed,
My metal canvas,
That afforded me
With consoling euthanasia each
Occasion on which rays submerged
And night impinged,
This metal canvas
Is wiped of patterns
And conceptions;
Visual aid graphite self,
That it allowed me to
Scribble in return.
I step these feet out of the room,
(Noting the clock
Flashing 12: 00)
Descending downwards
To where her's tap.
She asks-'It's gone? '-
I repeat-'It's gone.'-
Passing, I see Empusa has been
Sprayed, the seneschal's request,
And that developing mark
Has been absorbed,
Assimilated into the rug.
poem by Mark Challenger
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The Final Painting
The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
- nothing is limited by the canvas or frame -
the white cloud can be pictured like any
other clouds or like a fist of wool
or a white fur rose
The white cloud passes a shadow across
the landscape and so there is a passing greyness
The grey and the white both envelop
the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture
It is all a journey from a room through a door
down stairs and out into the street
The cloud could possess the house
The watchers have a mutual confidence
with the approaching string of white clouds
It is beyond spoken words what they are
silently mouthing to the sky
There was no mystery in this - only the firm
outline of people in overcoats on a hillside
and the line of clouds above them
The sky is blue The cloud white with touches
of grey - the rest - the landscape below -
can be left to the imagination
The whole painting quietly dissolved itself
into its surrounding clouds
poem by Lee Harwood
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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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How Does One Hear The Echoes Of Silence?
silence. Does not speak, silence is dead.
it is buried underneath the mouth,
and simply rots there, like dust,
with worms. It will be the worms
that shall utter silence, but at the end
silence is devoured
and gone.
what you hear and see is this
emptiness. it has feet and walks in air.
and tinkers in space, some moods and
feelings, fleeing, fleeting,
this emptiness speaks a lot
some words turning themselves
from elves to giants to cyclops
to monsters of the universe
where this emptiness dwells
it is in my heart, always, resounding,
with lots of echoes as it reaches
the walls of the farthest planet
and comes back to me
like the twinkling of a star.
and then i am full.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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