En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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A Deformed Angel

Sometimes life gives us severe shock,
Undermines the plans and does block,
The ways of wisdom leading ahead,
Reveals the hands that secretly mock.

An artist thought to paint an angel,
To use the brush for the masterpiece,
But could not conceptualize the image,
Beauty combining innocence, purity.

One morn, at last, he luckily found,
A child playing on the grassy ground,
Having angelic countenance and grace,
Incarnation he was of sublime serenity.
Painted he the angel with skill utmost,
And earned he the world wide fame.

And he after three full fleeting decades,
Thought for the second master-sketch,
Now not of an angel, but of a devil.
He sought for the image far and wide,
But could not find corresponding one,
Fate then led him amid the prison walls,
There inside met he a young wretch man,
With a devilish nature, face and frame.

The master revealed his intent to paint,
Tears came in eyes of the devil formed,
Said he, “Oh! Master it is a matter of woe,
You sketched me an angel thirty years ago.”

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind!

Seeing and hearing,
Is it eye that see?
Is it ear that hear?
Eyes are windows of Mind,
Like are ears, eyes have eyelids, ears remain open!

Seeing is not perceiving,
Light passes through the small camera,
Giving picture of world around,
Yet mind is the processor,
Process the data,
Process the colourful image,
Sometime filling with its own colour!

But it is not vision,
mind sees something itself,
Seeing through the mind without the help of eyes
Neither windows opened,
Nor light from open windows affect!

Mind is that faculty sees something within,
And day by day the vision become clear,
When mind learns it is not the seer,
It sees everything clear,
Clearly presented to the master,
And Self is the master of Mind,
When mind is pure and clear,
Without prejudice and suspense traits,
Self perceives self in its true nature,
Nothing goes bad,
processed food for thought remain good for ever!

one who sees eyes as seer,
He is ignorant,
One who sees mind as a seer,
Knows not,
One whose mind sees the seer is different,
Vision get purified, seer can see through the mind,
Scenes seen by mind with eyes closed,
when perceived by seer,
It becomes vision of life,
And that vision when becomes ambition of life,
Ambition becomes aspiration,
Aspiration transforms into mission,
Mission transmits wisdom and genius of self!

Self becomes master Of mind
Self becomes master Mind,
Master and mind becomes one,
Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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0304 Drawing space

See this whitish sheet - now mellowing to a shade
of precious ivory - gently revealing in the finest lines of silver-point
two lovers whose whole air of innocence
makes them angelic, as if their ardent gaze
joined souls not bodies;
though those bodies, beautiful, transparent,
she all gauze, her dress
moved by the lightest breath of air as if it would
return her to the air; her breasts, to innocence itself;
he, every muscle of proud chest under pleated jerkin
joining his dancing legs to ardent eyes
consumed in adoration for what he barely dares,
her beauty and its innocence

this silver-point might be from Botticelli, or
a well-trained student in the master’s mind
glancing over and across the studio
at what the master, the magician,
conjures out of space and out of mind;

the then white vacant sheet
undifferentiated space as if
it were Creation waiting the command
to be itself;
there’s magic still to come, and space itself
yet to be brought alive. See these lines;
they are not bounding bodies, but the space itself;
on one side of this line, the air alive with happening that’s invisible,
the other side, her space we call her body;
all her life enclosed in what the artist sees –
awakening of love; see in the space
between her outstretched hand and his,
about to join with lightest touch in dance,
- electricity - before mankind knew such a thing or named;
and in this space, there’s love divine.

and see the space between their eyes: why,
in that space, their lives, the present, past, the future;
their minds, their hearts, their souls
hover all expressed and yet invisible;

from emptiness the artist has found space;
from space, from line, drawn as the first time, love.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the National Gallery

Here, in the pale light of a winter’s day
I entered with a sketch pad in my hand.
I never dreamed that I’d encounter you-
To sketch out some old master was my plan.

Was it your eyes that first seduced me near,
or those cherry lips that I would never taste?
Two centuries past you were a beauty, dear.
Now, all but this image, time has lain to waste.

I envy him who painted you in camera,
together in your sitting room alone.
Who knows just how the session was concluded
If your old and senile husband wasn’t home?

I’m cast here in the role of a voyeur,
I haven’t even tried to draw a line.
Your dress of silk reveals just one bare shoulder,
Your eyes, the promise of a night divine.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Master Shakespeare

Quill in hand I see him so
A vision of him I there see
Word by word he writes on
No other can replace he
Master Shakespeare
A poet of Devine perfection
He writes and writes along
What an excellent inspiration
His words will continue on
Master Shakespeare
Magic in your very hand
No other takes your place
You I admire with my life
So full of love and grace
Master Shakespeare

poem by Suelynn Walters
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Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth

That face which no man ever saw
And from his memory banished quite,
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light,
Looks from this frame. A master's hand
Has set the master player here,
In the fair temple that he planned
Not for himself. To us most dear
This image of him! "It was thus
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;
With that same grace he greeted us--
Nay, 't is the man, could it but speak!"
Sad words that shall be said some day--
Far fall the day! O cruel Time,
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,
Spare long this image of his prime,
That others standing in the place
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,
May know what sweet majestic face
The gentle Prince of Players wore!

poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Lotus-flowers

Lotus-flowers

Naked I am before The Author of Life
-the child of nature’s birth and death

Imperfect I am before The Great Mind
-the child of passion’s limited to earth

Rebellious I am before The Truth
-the child of desire clothe with pride

Vicious I am before The Law
-the child of deceit and endless lies

Avaricious I am before The Master of All
-the child of corrupt and distorted image of life

Nauseous I am before The Ancient One
-the child of folly, ignorant antagonist

And I am the pilgrim before the God of the Universe
-the ‘you’ and the ‘I’ across time and space

Note:
Inspired by the teaching on “Nirvana”

poem by Jordan Legaspi
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Madonna on a wall

It’s another thing to see
how a mural,
gets a life of its own.

I see her measure and draw
the outlines and I wonder how,
she calculates the image that unfolds

With a palette
on which she mix different colours
and a painter’s pencil,
she paints an image

[See picture of the madonna mural at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1420_Madonna_on_a _wall.htm]
that comes out of a wall.
.
I am struck by what she’s doing
and how her fingers,
perform magic with a brush
and the art and beauty
that unfolds almost without bother.

It’s as if the Madonna’s eyes
follow me as if she’s alive,
to where I move
all over the room

There’s something of her soul
and a new presence,
that’s caught on the wall.

poem by Gert Strydom
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An Image Springs to Mind

An image springs to mind:
A child, with childish innocence
upon the shores of life, inclined
to play, without pretence
or mask. Or, if a mask there be,
it still retains a quality
allowing all with empathy to penetrate behind.

An image springs to mind:
So freely see the child dispense
the sifting sand, so unrefined,
with slight apparent sense.
It takes some perspicacity
to see each grain is memory -
dispersed or treasured as may be - quicksilverly defined.

An image springs to mind:
The shifting sands are implements
used differently by different blind
for good or ill intents immense.
Some knowledge is acquired for free,
transmitted some, instinctively,
the balance, finely tuned as we progress or slip behind.

An image springs to mind:
The grain in youth packed tight and dense
Age often loosens, cannot bind, -
how great the difference!
If we could meet mortality
with every thought recorded, we
could help those after us to see the answers we can’t find.

An image springs to mind:
These answers must, in self defence,
be hid from those who’d grind Mankind,
enslaving innocence.
Both Time and Knowledge thus should be
weaved secret in Life’s mystery
from here until eternity - or so it seems designed...

poem by Jonathan Robin
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World Gone Wild

World Gone Wild
(Schon/Cain/Blades)
See the signs, madness all around us
Somewhere I hear sirens wailing thru the night
Read the Times, starts to make me wonder
Is there more to life than black and white
I'd never thought I'd question
(never thought I'd question)
The doubt I'm seeing everywhere
(doubt I'm seeing everywhere)
Standing there beside me, you're the answer
(you're the answer)
When I lose my faith, you're there
Face the fire, in a world gone wide
You're the fortress in my life
See the world through a child's eyes
They can't fool me now
I don't believe it's a world gone wide
It's a lie, the more you got
The more you want, it leads to nowhere
Should have learned by now
What is life without someone to share
The mountains that you climb to reach the sky
With everyone uncertain (everyone uncertain)
The future's never really clear
(future's never really clear)
Standing here beside me, you're the reason
I found my faith again with you here
Face the fire, in a world gone wide
You're the fortress in my life
See the world through a child's eyes
They can't bring me now
I don't believe it's a world gone wide
Now you can count on me, to keep you safe
I'll be your shelter from the storm
Come lay down with me, and let our spirits melt us into one

song performed by by Journey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ask Questions Realize Answers

some ask about clothes cosmetics?
perfumes lipsticks eyeliner girls?
some ask about work the weather?
common place questions whatever?
some ask more personal questions?
who differentiates personal questions?

what is moving emotional touching?
what is distressing sad affecting?
what is heartrending heartbreaking?
what is upsetting tender agonizing?
did you find your place in the world?
can you define your space in the world?

what a poignant question to begin with?
what is the best question to begin with?
what is the only question worth asking?
what interactive discourse is worth taking?
hi time dimension passes how have you been?
hi wishing u well so many scripts written unseen?

i am still looking for myself mine place in the world?
is a common youth answer what is question defined?
what have you learned do you now know yourself?
what defines qualities personality stock in yourself?
same we must remake our world to suit ourselves?
same we must remake an image to suit ourselves?

some must remake the world in their need own image?
some must see many images move through the image?
it felt good to finally get an education a degree at last?
do you like your work freedom to spend time money at last?
does it gives you the creativity knowledge you think you need?
or too far from what you thought you would be doing years ago seed?

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Bible Verse

I asked the child why did she curse
Her answer was, she knew not a Bible verse
She never went to church or knew how to say a prayer
So all that she knew, was how to curse and swear,
I was told that her mother had taught her well
But never taught her about heaven or even hell
And all that she knew is from what she had read
While listening to the words that her mother had said.

I asked the child why did she lie
Her response to me, it is better than to cry
As things got bad and then they turned worse
That's all that she knew, and she knew not a Bible verse,
Her mother had told her the things not to do
But then they differed from other's points of view
And all the child knew was from what she had seen
As she watched her mother, which was unforeseen.

I asked the child why did she steal
Taking from others for a terrible ordeal
She answered me, as she placed the goods in her purse
'It is the way that I am', and I know not of a Bible verse
Someday soon I will probably smoke and drink
Spoke the child to me as she began to think
But then am I not the girl that my mother did raise
And every day to my mother, I give her praise.

I asked the child why did she fight
She then said to me, it's better than being polite
Her mother's honor again she had to defend
And fighting is all that she could comprehend
So the child then wiped the pain off of her face
As she slowly walked away in sadness and disgrace
The last thing she said to me as we did converse
She said, I truly wish that I knew a Bible verse.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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I Sent My Child To School Today

I sent my child to school today
With his little lunch box

When he came home he said his friend
Had gotten the chickenpox,

I sent my child to school today
And asked him what he learned

He told me about firemen
They taught him how not to get burned,

I sent my child to school today
He said, 'Do you know what they taught me? '

He told me they taught him numbers
As well as his ABC’s,

I sent my child to school today
A smile on his face

I gave him a kiss and a hug
And said, 'See ya funny face! ',

I sent my child to school today
His smile bright and wide

But an older child brought in a gun
How did he get it inside? ,

I sent my child to school today
As in every day

But the child with the gun started shooting
The reason? No one could say,

I buried my child after school today
All I can do is cry

I lost my child at school today
And nobody can tell me why.

poem by Doug Hollywood Davis
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Lord of the Flies

Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies

poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Master

Master went a-hunting,
When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
We heard him gaily calling.

'Oh master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!'
A glint of steel from bit and heel,
The chestnut cantered faster;
A red flash seen amid the green,
And so good-bye to master.

Master came from hunting,
Two silent comrades bore him;
His eyes were dim, his face was white,
The mare was led before him.

'Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?'
I held my lady's ice-cold hand,
They bore the hurdle past her;
Why should they go so soft and slow?
It matters not to master.

poem by Arthur Conan Doyle
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The Master Mind

The master mind, devil of evil.
Initiator of deception, creator of sorrow.
Most cunning, most assuring,
fallen emperor, proud prince.
Master mind, he masters the mind

At the entrance of the grave,
he envies the throne of grace.
author of death, father of hell
rewards flaming passions with flames of fire
and he masters the proud, master mind

He serves to master
and masters the world
beauty, wealth, power, and pride...
his own assets.
The master mind serves the world.

His empire is deception,
his agent is 'reason'
who reasons with the wise
and curses the proud into a trap
He masters the mind, who masters the world!

poem by Timothy muggaga
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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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The Master's Hand

The painter was a genius,
His pupil knew this well,
For in the times that they discuss
They bond as in a spell...
They think such thoughts that change their art,
Their purpose and their style,
Such that new wisdom can impart
Its reasons for a smile...

The pupil spent a whole weekend
Within the studio,
Together with his brand new friend,
Who seemed all things to know...
The painting pupil's Easter scene
Was called The Cross of Christ.
Behold the Man... The Nazarene...
God's Lamb here sacrificed...

The pupil thought his painting done
When Sunday night came round,
He smiled as if a war was won,
As if a treasure found...
The master painter let him leave
So he could travel home
And yet Christ's painting made him grieve
The cruelty of Rome...

And in the night, he painted on,
Transforming here and there,
A stream of light to shine upon
The Saviour's bleeding hair...
With Pilate's words now coloured gold,
For all the world to see
The greatest story ever told...
Christ died for you and me...

When morning came, he painted still,
The gamblers at Christ's feet,
The thieves who died there on that hill,
The sort you'd hate to meet...
The scoffers in the crowd below
And Mary full of tears...
The crown of thorns, Christ's blood in flow,
While Satan stares and cheers...

Then something new the painter felt
That he should add that day...
A weeping angel humbly knelt
At Christ's feet there to pray...
He was Death's angel sent ahead
To see Christ crucified
And then to wait till Christ was dead
Before His blood had dried...

Then all was done... the painter wept...
The masterpiece complete...
He went to sleep and gently slept
And felt a peace so sweet...
That night, the pupil had returned,
He saw the work of art
And thus a new respect was earned
That stayed within his heart...

The exhibition hall was filled
The day it was on show
And everybody there was thrilled
With faces all aglow...
The Cross of Christ is famous now,
With posters sold worldwide,
For God was in that work somehow,
Just like when Jesus died...

Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.

We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...

poem by Denis Martindale
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Master Of Origami We Honour

master of origami folding many coloured
pieces of paper into objects of appealing interest
animals people flowers mysterious artifacts
respect and honour are given master creator

in Japan an artist is honoured respect is due
no cretin comments “imagine a grown man
sitting around all day folding pieces of paper”
this is not New Zealand where a master poet

is ignored condemned by creatures of contempt
master of origami we honour wonder in your eyes

poem by Terence George Craddock
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In Memoriam (A Child Missed)

A desk lies empty
A missing face to find
A child soon missed by some
Another life consumed by one

A classmate questioned
A missing child to find
While a desk lies empty
A hope dwindles with time

As a child's life once abound
A child's fate is now found
While a desk lies empty
A lifeless child is found

As questions of why arise
A time for tears to flow
While a desk lies empty
A prayer for a missed child we know

A quiet voice to miss
A child missed we know
While a desk lies empty
A question of why to know

A future now not to be
A tragic loss we are told
While a desk lies empty
An answer of why yet untold

A myriad of lives changed
Another youthful innocent lost
While a desk lies empty
At a life's innocence cost

A society believed so rich
And yet a life's worth so poor
While a desk lies empty
Another child's life's no more

A time to ponder a commitment
A life's question to answer
While a desk lies empty...

poem by Robert John Meehan
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