0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
The eyes of impressionism
Saints.
Like swans, gliding untroubled so it seems
to us, lazing on the river bank
of a Seurat summer Sunday afternoon,
gliding over the surface of the waters
as love perhaps, on that first day;
they as floating symbols
of the beauty beyond beauty;
their work, invisible to us who watch
Painters.
Like waterlilies, resting in perfection
on the surface of the waters
as love rests, sure of their own beauty;
painting just the sunlight
falling on things, moving on
more slowly than we see;
the depth of the waters
in the painter’s mind and heart;
his work invisible to us who watch
his dabbing at the canvas
as a dabchick bobs in the water, his mind
moving as time moves;
for him, sitting at the canvas,
always time present,
in the water-garden already on his palette
Cataracts.
How far a word from
the stillness around him as he sits,
his beard a little yellow from the nicotine,
seeing the waterlilies as if for the first time,
but each year the water seems to tell
more about time itself… like Proust;
where is time going in this painting?
Eyes.
Cataracts, yes; but perhaps over time
they too have sought to serve him,
become themselves, impressionists,
presenting him with images
prepared like canvasses are prepared;
gently watering inner gardens
between the eyes and mind
yes, that’s Monsieur Monet over there;
don’t disturb him; but if you stand
a little way behind him, you just may
enter the stillness around him,
enter the stillness of his mind,
see with his eyes, that work
invisible to those of us who watch
which swans and saints and artists know.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Delphiniums Of Blue
Come follow me down the garden path,
Past the flowerbeds, planted neat.
Around the sweetbriar's scented hedge,
To the old carved wooden seat.
A tranquil arbour, where within its shade,
Lies a sheltered quiet place.
We'll hear music from the singing birds,
And let our eyes embrace.
There's clematis along the grey stone wall,
There's a maple's vivid hue.
Pots of red and pink geraniums,
And delphiniums of blue.
The pond's azure sky, mirror image,
Under which the goldfishes play.
Elegant water lilies with their floating leaves,
Recall a painting by Monsieur Monet.
This garden is a treasure and a blessing,
Just to wander in between the flowers,
To feel an informality and a freedom,
Whilst whiling away the hours.
Hold my hand and we will silently marvel,
At the beauty that nature can wear.
In this bower that's so hidden and secluded,
We'll start our secret love affair.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Impressionism in paint, in music, in words
To know the impossible to be impossible
and yet to love the attempt;
to demonstrate that beauty is eternal, yet
seen only in that moment now,
never to be captured, ever changing -
'evanescent' holds a little of the sound of it -
this, the heroic failure that betokens love.
Monet was that hero. For perhaps you may
catch beauty's shadow in a photograph;
even glimpse its joy, there, in the sound of song;
but try to catch it - dab by dab of brush -
when in the time it takes to do this, yet another leaf
- there, watch it as it drops -
has fallen from that distant orange-yellow-brown
blur of an autumn wood - knowing as you render nature's generality
or catch a church, a haystack, in a sundown glow,
that all things pass -
that love's heroic: and when, in irony that surely
needs no underlining, blindness comes upon you, yet
you go on painting, as the water-lilies blur
into the water-weed, into the bridge,
into the time that runs down to the river, to the sea...
and in turn, Renoir, in his 'Moulin a la Galette' dance-cafe,
catching the human reflection of this flow, our yearning
for the perfect moment to remain, frozen, set, fresh-baked,
forever caught - this is what my life has led to,
this is what, surely, I deserve - under the lanterns in the trees
the young girls with their cheeks of peaches, apricots,
and lips like fruit that's waiting to be pressed,
dream of forever to be loved; while their tonight's men
smoke, and drink, and dream of where a young man's lust
might just be step into another world -
while in that room up there that looks down on this scene,
Proust, seeing the cafe's dance of fleeting beauty, writes to catch
those moments lived and lost and yet remembered;
and Debussy, his tentative composer's piano notes
heard just above the cafe's resident accordionist
whose sentimental music you too will remember
to your dying day, and smile a gentle tear - and when
past midnight, as the silence falls upon the thinning dance, and
couples, singing, arm-in-arm it home, and
Monsieur le patron extinguishes the lanterns in the trees,
and the humble workers' square is suddenly a nowhere place,
Debussy will hear the moonlight sliding through the window
onto the piano's keys...
of beauty, we can say not much
of all that may be said.
(To Michael Gessner, who reminded me about poetry.)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A vase of flowers
I saw a vase of purple-pink roses
lying on your dark brown buffet
and simply had to have it.
“Who painted this, ” I immediately enquired
loving the picture more with each look
that I took of it
as it’s not your thing
to paint still life’s with flowers.
“I painted it. It’s like painting pillow slips, ”
you replied and astonished
I looked at it again
and this was on board
and not in water colours
but done with oil paint.
The folds of the cups were edged
in ridges along their lines
using the techniques
of your abstract paintings
and one smaller unopened bud
laid next to the bowl
almost running into your name.
Little pink flowers was in the background
where the transparent vase with green stems
was against the wall on a tiled floor.
[Reference: Vase with roses by Mandi Engelbrecht. (This painting belongs to me.) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Monet
Painting sunrise
Haystacks in sun
In snow and rain
Capturing the light
In bold brush strokes
Distinct colors
Mingling in mind's eye
Sowed seeds in art
World of impressionism
To viewers delight
Garden at Giverny
Nature's necklace
Of exquisite beauty
Of colorful flowers
Hanging strings of leaves
Of willow trees
Bridge reflected
In stillness of the pond
Water lilies abound
Like stars in the sky
Life size canvases
Of water lilies created
With eye sight fading
Steadiness of hand diminished
Stand as monumental works
For generations to come.
poem by Tirupathi Chandrupatla
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Painting Primary Method Bypass
wet-on-wet
practice
has become
well-known
primary method
of painting used
by rapid
fire artists
lighter colours
will usually
mix
with darker
colours
if laid
over top
while wet
applied
simple
technique
relies
on painting
from light
colours up
achieving
bestowing
painting
a soft
look
order
allows
colours
to be
blended
to artistic
vision
painter's
desire
no drying
period
required
full
paintings
requiring
maximum
only
a few
minutes
of detail
touch ups
post main
work dry
produced
in short
flame
time
periods
an entire
landscape
in under
half
an hour
burning
hail
massive
next
innovation
digital artwork
caricatures
portraits rocks
holy grail
speed
painting
computer
instant generating
music booming
by Nico
Di Mattia
is heart
kettle drum
storm playing
soul inflaming
imagination
run riot pot roast
heaven dancing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Life And Time
if life is a book, then time is pen--writing pages of life journey;
if life is a piece of white paper, then time is color--painting more colorful life journey;
if life is a long river, then time is surging waves--pushing forward of life journey;
if life is a tree, then time is pieces of green leaves--enriching life journey;
if life is a door, then time is just the key--opening new start of life journey;
if life is a cup of coffee, then time is a bag of condiments--flavoring into life journey;
if life is a scene of tv play, then time is nameless leading role in it--performing its own speical and unique life journey;
if life is a oil painting, then time is its palette--rendering life journey;
if life is a fast horse, then time is its running greenland--carrying load of life journey;
if life is a greenland, then time is spring rain--moisturing nutrition of life journey
...........
this is ur own life, a life which only belong to ur own, ur sepcial and unique one.......
poem by Flying Heart
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A Visit From Voltaire l
(bedroom)
MM Voltaire! What are you doing here?
V Rummaging your drawers.
MM What for?
V Je cherche un manuscrit. Something I'm working on. Have you seen it?
MM What makes you think it's here, cher Monsieur?
V No particular reason. It's called 'Candide'.
MM It's already been published. To great acclaim. Reprinted
countless times. But that was long ago.
V What? Oh, good. Pardon, my memory's not what it used to be. It used
to be prodigious.I used to know the entire Bible by heart. However,
there is no such thing as 'a long time ago'. The best human thought
is beyond time, and therefore, always new. Only the dull and
disinterested-or worse-believe otherwise.You select out what you
agree with, and call it memorable.
MM Well, excuse me! It's a master-piece, anyway. But, was it useful,
knowing the Bible by heart?
V I can honestly say it was. Are you sure it's not here, the manuscrit?
MM Very.
V So be it. But say, how do you know me? Have we met?
M Are you kidding? 'Candide'.'Zadig'. The'Dictionaire
Philosophe'. I read them all in under-graduate French.
V (sighs) I was afraid of that.
MM Besides, I'd recognize you anywhere. That outfit. That wig. Those
false teeth!
V (with mock-regret) Helas, dentistry has come a long way. How
I admire your science. Many of the things you take for granted were
unknown in my time. But what's wrong with my outfit? I wore it to
Sans Souci.
MM (laughs) Nothing's WRONG with it. But that coat. That color.
those stockings! Those heels. It's a hoot.
V (mock-offended) Whatever's the matter with baby-blue. And I paid
through the nose for these shoes, I'll have you know.
MM Relax. Only by our standards....
V...by your standards. Hmmph! I didn't know you had any. Not
that I'm any fan of standards, as such.
MM (changing the subject) Your English is so good! You have no
accent.
V Accents are for amateurs. Besides, I am a poet. We take these
things seriously.
MM Naturellement.
V Are you sure you don't have it, the manuscrit?
MM Quite. But it's an honor to have you here under my humble
roof. Can I offer you something?
V Like what?
MM I don't know. Something to drink?
V I don't drink...
MM either do I...
V...anything but champagne. It accounts for my longevity.
MM...coming right up.
V My friend the abbe invented it, you know, by mistake. And, if you had
any tea cake...
MM (firmly) Monsieur, you are a figment of my imagination. Do you think
it wise?
V Are you tempting me with abstinence?
MM Well...ah...
V...or tempting me with temptation?
MM Both!
V Good. Tea cake, then. I can resist anything but temptation.
MM Wrong play, Monsieur.
V What do you mean?
MM Never mind. I'll be right back.
(he leaves; Voltaire hums and looks around. He is
wearing a watch, which he taps)
V Stopped, again. Three o'clock. Hmmm. (listens) The best poetry
is silence.
MM (returns) Here we are! (he pops the cork, pours. They toast.)
Ecrasez l'infame!
V (lifting his glass) Whatever that means.
(they drink)
poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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River Death
River was
Running...
With water...
Water are
Nice too
Play with sands...
Trees...
Mountain rocks...
Swmming fishes...
Some time jump
With dive and swime...
Sun was see
Face at river water
Mirror...?
moon was
Click the eye
About
The river....
Animals are swimming
Birds also drinking...
People also
Swmming too
Wash the cloths...
River was
Every day run
Simply not sad...
At rainey time...
At winter time...
Summer time
River not run
Stop to stop
Death the river...
Sky cry...
With rain
Run the river...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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That Moment Of Time Gives The Meaning
Time passing by like a river in spring time,
Time always runs and never looks back,
We hold onto time and we use it,
But time is never ours, even when we wanted it to be so much.
With every second passing by,
Now we desperately hold the moment, soon it will be gone,
We shouldn't waste those precious moments,
Once it's lost, we'll never get it back.
There is time for hope,
To love, to remember, to enjoy, to forgive,
There is time, we shouldn't lose,
There is time for everything.
Do not let time be wasted in vain,
Without time, there is no meaning,
Use that time to make a mark in your life,
That moment of time gives the meaning.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is -
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is -
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheek'd écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing's changed or older.
'How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?'
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder -
'Monsieur is dead this many a day.'
'It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré's run his race!'
'What will Monsieur require for dinner?'
'Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?'
'Oh, oui, Monsieur,' 's the waiter's answer;
'Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?'
Tell me a good one.' 'That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal.'
'So Terré's gone,' I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place;
'He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.'
My old accustom'd corner here is-
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty -
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we sat the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place-but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me.
- There's no one now to share my cup.
. . . . . . . .
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad of Buillabaisse
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is --
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is --
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheek'd écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?"
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder --
"Monsieur is dead this many a day."
"It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré's run his race!"
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?"
Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal."
"So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place;
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
My old accustom'd corner here is--
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty --
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we sat the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place--but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me.
-- There's no one now to share my cup.
. . . . . . . .
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Boredom is in the mind, throw it in the gutter
The day seemed boring
Dull and dreary
I tried reading
Kept the book on the side
After a while
I tried gardening
That wasn’t enjoying
I kept cursing
That didn’t help
Passing time
Became challenging
Irritability increasing
Decided to visit the river nearby
Sat on a bench
To view the flowing water
Sitting on the bench next to mine
Sat an elderly couple
Throwing pebbles in the water
Laughing and giggling
Comparing who threw farthest
After some time
They got up from there
I could see they could hardly walk
Very slowly they inched forward
I ran to help them
Sit in the car parked nearby
They thanked me for my help
Asked, why I was there?
At the time
When I was supposed to work
I replied,
I was getting bored
To pass the time
I came to the riverside
Before departing the old man said
Young man goes and enjoy
Every minute of your life
Never feel bored
Always be on the move
Like the flowing water
Boredom is in the mind
Throw it in the gutter
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Une Nuit A Paris
Part one: one night in paris
Bonjour monsieur
Paris really welcomes you
Its the best room in the house
Its forty francs a night, alright.
Its crazy, it isnt worth a centime
Ill take it!
Merci monsieur
Rouged lips in the gaslight
A great view of the hall
Thats the way the croissant crumbles after all
Paris is only one step away
Les girls are out on bail
Tres bien theres love for sale
Oh my cheri, wish you were mine
And Ill show you a wonderful time
For the price of a cheap champagne
Ill show it you once again
One night in paris
Is like a year in any other place
One night in paris
Will wipe the smile off your pretty face
One girl in paris
Is like loving every woman
One night in paris
One night in paris
One night in paris
May be your last!!!
Part two: the same night in paris
Is he gonna buy?
You wanna little culture?
Is he gonna pay?
Maybe monsieur is into photographs, non?
Or is he gonna fall in love
The all american way?
I got a watch wiz a beautiful swiss movement
Is he gonna buy?
Forget the watch, Ill show you a good time!'
Is he gonna pay?
Le connoisseur, want something different?
Or is he gonna fall in love
The all american way?
Oh you know you aint no casanova
You cant even do the bossa nova
Or the tango or the samba!
Though you are so very charming
No you aint no casanova
Is he gonna buy?
Is he gonna pay?
Or is he gonna fall in love
The all american way?
Sometimes I think he will
But then again........................
One night in paris
Is like a year in any other place!
One night in paris
Will wipe the smile off your pretty face!
Try a girl in paris
But try one of mine
Each night in paris
Each night in paris
Each night in paris
Each night in paris
May be your last!!!
Part three: later the same night in paris
Forty-two, quarante-deux
Rue de saint jacques
All our girls are how you say
Good in the sack
I was a stripper
On the champs elysees
He was a gendarme
In the gendarmerie
Going oh la la la
Oh la la la la
He was a pimp
In a black beret
But he was an artiste
In his own way
Oh la la la
Oh la la la la
When they raided my club that night
They ruined my act with the leather umbrella
The chief de police got a fright
He was up in my boudoir with some other fella
Its only routine
But I got this feeling
It aint good for business
Then the floor cleared
A woman screamed to herself
Henri...though youre not the toast of paris
I love you, although you bed and beat me
Henri, leave it alone,
For the gendarmes just doing his job
Paris is only one step away
Murder is only one step away
Notre dame is ringing her bells
Another gendarme has gone to hell
Notre dame is ringing her bells
Another gendarme has gone to hell
Gone to hell
Gone to hell
One night in paris
Is like a year in any other place
One night in paris
Will wipe the smile off your pretty face
One girl in paris
Is like loving every woman
This night in paris
This night in paris
This night in paris
This night in paris
May be your last!!!
song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jennifersjpgs.shows.it
Last night I had a dream
That suddenly I felt inspired and compelled
To paint a brand new picture.
There I was with paints
Here, there and everywhere,
In a darkened room with this painting
Being created before my very eyes,
The beautiful mixture of shapes,
Forms and vivid colours.
The magnificent outcome was
Something wonderful to me.
Then I realised that next to other paintings
This was merely an average creation,
Nothing outstanding that would
Stand the test of time.
Just another artwork framed
And fixed to a wall, just there
Because I painted it,
Not for anything brilliant or first class
Or some masterpiece.
But when I go online
And search Ebay for artwork
Or visit comic art websites
Or the artists' websites,
Then I find I'm searching a treasure
That only I will know as treasure
When my eyes find it.
Only then will the artwork be special,
Because I'm the one
Who holds it most precious.
Of all the artwork I've ever done,
Only a few are most precious to me.
These will never match the world's finest.
So I take special delight in finding treasure,
Here a little, there a little.
Even if it's not as perfect as I'd like,
Maybe I can enhance the photo image
To a greater degree
Using graphic editor programs and special effects
Or adding spectacular art frames
Around the enhanced image.
I like artwork and fantasy art is spectacular.
That's why I created this website
With a click-a-pic slideshow display.
In full screen height and width
And the effect is stunning!
Website: jennifersjpgs.shows.it
Denis Martindale, copyright, January 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grateful Water
Live if you can when the water runs dry.
Once in a decade perhaps, or never in a life
Save your tear so that you won’t have to cry.
Let the water flow and wash away the strife.
Dry yourself with water if any miracle you need.
Let the water run upwards for a change to fancy.
Feed the water well to run through the creed.
Run Water! ! Run! ! Flow in a stream of constancy.
Drop of tears, dew drops, even a single dropp of water.
In course of time can change a thing always for real.
Pool, pond, brook, lake will never stop to utter
The utterance of gratitude, in the way they feel
Sometimes to the greatest source of the sea
Even sometimes to the man’s ungrateful plea.
Written in the afternoon of the 12th February,2010
poem by Munia Khan
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What is a child, monsieur, but the image of two beings, the fruit of two sentiments spontaneously blended?
quote by Honore De Balzac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Need Water
Scorching hot summer’s day
Devastation struck on our holiday.
Water, water running out
No more water left about.
Where is water?
What to do?
Stressing, thirsty, hungry too.
Need a shower!
Need a drink!
But there is no time to think.
Running, running to the store
“No more water” written on the door.
I need water, but there’s none,
Definitely not having fun.
Feeling dirty!
Feeling sick!
Needing something so basic.
Water, water I need you
Then I’ll be as good as new.
Water, water always there,
Once it’s gone we’re made aware
Wasting water is not right
Now it’s gone I’ve seen the light.
I need water to survive
I’m lucky to be alive!
poem by Salvatore Mazzeo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Art of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadnesssuch is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
-Jorge Luis Borges
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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