Aearial Painting
Aerial Painting
The painting in the hall of an old bi-plane flying
a across a blue sky, was different this morning,
it had landed by a waterfall and the pilots stood
leaning against the plane’s fuselage slowly
smoking a cigarette, eyes closed enjoying every
moment, every inhale of scented tobacco.
I looked at the painting again the sky was dark,
there was lightning in the air the pilot had flown to
the front and collided with a barrage balloon,
the plane was a broken as thrown to the ground by
a spoilt boy who had wanted a fire-engine for his
birthday, and know only the blue sky prevails.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Black Crow
Theres a crow flying
Black and ragged
Tree to tree
Hes black as the highway thats leading me
Now hes diving down
To pick up on something shiny
I feel like that black crow
Flying
In a blue sky
I took a ferry to the highway
Then I drove to a pontoon plane
I took a plane to a taxi
And a taxi to a train
Ive been traveling so long
Howm I ever going to know my home
When I see it again
Im like a black crow flying
In a blue, blue sky
In search of love and music
My whole life has been
Illumination
Corruption
And diving, diving, diving, diving.
Diving down to pick up on every shiny thing
Just like that black crow flying
In a blue sky
I looked at the morning
After being up all night
I looked at my haggard face in the bathroom light
I looked out the window
And I saw that ragged soul take flight
I saw a back crow flying
In a blue sky
Oh Im like a black crow flying
In a blue sky
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Plane
when it starts to fly it is being met by this rain.
there is this strong wind ahead of us and some dark clouds
the stewardess announces said state and we are 30,000 feet
above the mountains
yes, these are the bumpy skyways.
i close my eyes. i think of you, the house, the garden, the room,
and the two dogs you are caring.
(will we crash? will this plane fall to the ground? shall we die in an instant?)
i close my eyes.
then the plane steadies. i open my eyes.
there are clear clouds. below is a wide expanse of the blue sea.
i look at the wings of the plane.
and then its wheels touch the ground.
the door opens.
it is another world for me.
i feel the importance of the ground. Its glory. Its reign now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning blue sky
Morning blue sky
~
Looking upon a pale blue sky
A plane cuts across my sight
That sharp white line climbs
Into a journey to begin the day
Off into a wandering fantasy
A stirring of birds fill the view
Like a thousand thoughts
All the world slowly waking
Still not a cloud to be seen
Last nights sleep rubbed from eyes
While watching the plane disappear
The fading white trail ebbs away
A journey somewhere beginning
Or perhaps another’s ending
The fantasy of a journey
Looking into a morning blue sky
Stirs the waking mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yep, You Told Me
A plane crashed
Between Chicago and LA
It's all my fault
I didn't do the pre-check
I'm a bit shook-up
Oh Bea
You tried to warn me
You said, 'Young man,
This plane has got to crash
It don't have no pilot
It's running out of gas'
I said, 'Bea,
You just don't see
I'm flying this plane
And the gas will last'
But the engines started to putter
My mind began to flutter
As I held onto the wheel
If it had to smash
I'll die with it
That's the only thing I could see
Then I said,
'Wait a minute
what am I doing
I have to jump'
You know Bea
I'm an injured man
But I'm a living man
That's the way it should be
But the wounds will heal
Again I'll feel
And I don't know
Guess I'll have to see
poem by Roger Harkness
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....
painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....
the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,
as if we never lived!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The White Rose of Stalingrad
Her nickname was Lilya.
In the Great Patriotic War
When Hitler’s armies invaded the Soviet Union
She became a Soviet air ace,
Known as the “White Rose of Stalingrad”.
Lydia Litvak was born
Into a Moscow Jewish family.
In 1935, at the age of 14, she joined a flight club
And a year later she had her first solo flight.
When the Germans attacked Russia,
Lilya joined the Soviet Air Force.
In the summer of 1942 she was assigned
To the 437th Combat Regiment
Fighting over the skies of Stalingrad.
At first the men were reluctant
To take her seriously
But soon it became evident
That she was an excellent pilot.
Lilya was a pensive and beautiful young woman
Who got into trouble because of deviating from
The prescribed dress code of the Soviet Air Force.
Once she cut off the fur lined trim of her boots,
Producing from it a fur collar for her flight suit.
She was jailed for the offense.
Nevertheless, her desire for expressing
Her feminine individuality was irrepressible
And she continued to design
Her own military outfit.
Among other things she bleached her hair.
Military regulations permitted this.
And then she took pieces of parachute silk,
Sewed them together,
Painted them in different colors
And wrapping them around her neck
She created her own air combat fashion.
Lilya flew a Yak-1 fighter plane,
Which she embellished in painting white roses
On its sides. She made her first kills
Of enemy planes on September 13,1942,
Shooting down two Luftwaffe aircrafts,
A Ju-88 and a Bf 109 G-2.
The German flyer of the downed Bf 109
Was Erwin Maier, a decorated combat pilot.
He bailed out and parachuted
In Soviet-held territory. He asked his captors
To see the Russian ace that shot him down.
When the Soviets brought in Lilya,
Maier thought first that they made him the butt
Of a Bolshevik joke. But after Lilya showed him
Her flight maneuvers in the dogfight,
The German pilot’s disbelief turned
To surprised admiration.
Once, during a mission, Lilya was wounded
And she belly-landed in fascist-held territory.
German soldiers were rushing from every direction
On the field to catch her. She could see them
Running towards her with their weapons in hand.
Yet before they could take Lilya captive,
A Soviet aircraft appeared from the clouds
And landed next to her. Its pilot helped her climb
Onto his plane and took off as fast as he could
Under intense enemy fire.
On another occasion, in the course of air combat
Lilya was wounded in her leg but kept engaging
The Nazi aircrafts. She had whirled between
The enemy planes painted with black crosses
On their fuselage and the underside of their wings,
The swastika insignia hectoring on their tails.
She fired at the enemy aircrafts
With high explosive ammunition
From her 20 mm cannon
And 12.7 mm heavy machine gun
And at the end she managed to bring back
Her Yak-1 to base.
Lilya’s daring exploits included the destruction
Of a German observation balloon,
Which the Wehrmacht used
For artillery targeting against Red Army positions.
The hydrogen-filled balloon was protected
By an alignment of anti-aircraft guns that created
A deadly fire wall. The balloon flew high and far,
Out of the range of the Soviet artillery
And no Red Air Force pilot succeeded
To shoot it down.
Lilya volunteered to do the seemingly impossible.
First her commanders did not endorse the sortie
Because they regarded it as a suicide mission.
But Lilya devised a plan
Of approaching the balloon
From an unexpected direction, flying over
Enemy-held territory.
She succeeded to shoot it down.
August 1,1943, was another exhausting
And bloody day of the war.
Lilya already completed three sorties
But was sent again to take off with her squadron
And escort a formation of Ilyushin II-2 planes.
As the Soviets were returning from their mission,
two German Bf-109 fighters dived on Lydia’s Yak-1.
Her plane was hit. Smoke began to pour
From its fuselage.
The German pilots recognized the white roses
Painted on the aircraft and now as many as eight
Messerschmitt Bf-109 fighter planes joined
In pursuing the damaged Yak-1 plane
Of the Soviet ace.
She could not bail out.
Her plane crashed but did not explode.
Lilya was killed of a head wound.
She was twenty one years old.
Lilya shot down 12 enemy air planes in the war
And was the top scoring female fighter pilot
Of the Red Air Force. She and her close friend,
Katya Budanova, were the only two female aces
Of the Second World War.
In 1990 USSR President Mikhail Gorbachev
Posthumously awarded Lydia Litvak
The gold medal of the Hero of the Soviet Union.
poem by Paul Hartal
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I fly away from Tanzania
I fly away from Tanzania
and as the plane turns
over Dar es-Salaam,
I see the statue
of the black man
breaking his chains
and I wonder
who is really free
in a land of poverty?
The sea is dark blue
and a flotilla of small boats
are carrying tobacco, coffee
and cotton to ships
in the deeper water.
The great country
stretches out under the plane
and the massai mara planes
looks as if it goes on
into infinity
and I plan to visit
the Serengeti National Park,
to go to Zanzibar
and to climb mount mount Kilimanjaro
when I return
Three weeks of erecting cell phone towers
flew past in a blink of a eye
and I am going home again
and the Nyasa Lake
passes like a blue sea
under the plane.
Johannesburg international is hot
and it’s the beginning of spring
and the Wimpy has got
cheap burgers
and bottomless Coke
and I drink
as if coming out of the desert
and it’s great to be back
in my own country again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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But when I worked on a painting I would do it from a drawing but I would put certain things I was fairly sure I wanted in the painting, and then collage on the painting with printed dots or painted paper or something before I really committed it.
quote by Roy Lichtenstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pose
He looked at the painting,
his lover in the nude.
And as he stared
it always changed his mood.
Young and frail
but still a delight.
He looked at the painting
on every night.
He remembered the pose
as if yesterday,
provocative it was,
her eyes far away.
Were they remembering
the brush strokes used
or the feel of his hand
and how they fused
together as one
when the pose was over.
Now all that was left
was the painting,
not the lover.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Flying back from New York, the flight attendant said 'God, I wished you were here yesterday, we had a stroke on the plane. I said, if I have a stroke on a plane, I hope the pretend doctor isn't the one on the plane. I want a real doctor.
quote by Anthony Edwards
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: My First Flight by a Plane
What beauty lies in clouds studding the sky,
That glass-like shows the land afar below!
God's firmament, a wonder, when we fly
By man-made aero-planes and God's rainbow!
And when it rains, the plane keeps dashing through
The water-sheet and gust perilously;
While pilots pray that weather improves too,
And they can continue their safe journey!
And when night falls, all seems so dark around,
Except the clumps of blinking lights of towns
And major cities that make you dumbfound,
Though eyes can't see the mountains, ups and downs!
The heart gets thrilled when flying by man's plane;
Yet, God's Nature looks awesome, never plain!
poem by John Celes
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Art'life
At the Oslo art museum we went to see Edvard Munck’s
“The Scream.” Yeah I know that feeling.
I bought a print it cost about twenty Euros, it now hangs
on the wall in front of me and it screams for me.
But his painting “The Kiss” absorbed me the most, it
is one of the greatest sensual, painting I have ever seen.
There were many other paintings of great masters, but
I didn’t see them as “the kiss” blurred my sight.
There was a reverent whispering in the room, I didn’t
cared for, like being in a church where even a cough is
frown upon. When my wife went to the loo I told a female
security guard she looked like the woman in the “kiss.”
Her stern, blue eyes softened, she giggled and said:
“But you can’t see the woman’s face in the painting.” No dear,
but if I could it would be a face as beautiful as yours.”
More guards came and I was escorted out of the building.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The painting is not on a surface, but on a plane which is imagined. It moves in a mind. It is not there physically at all. It is an illusion, a piece of magic, so that what you see is not what you see.
quote by Philip Guston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I Were A Painting
If I were a painting
Captured on canvas
Alone in the portriat I would stand
And brush strokes bold
Yet soft as a whisper
The work of a feminine hand.
Caught in a still life
Surrounded by shadows
And lost in a background of blue
If I were a painting
My price would be pain
And the artist would have to be you.
I imagine the colors
Would all run together
If you ever allowed me to cry
So don't paint the tears
Just let me remember me
Without you in my eyes.
It's only the frame
That holds me together
Or else I would be falling apart
If I were a painting
I wouldn't feel
And you wouldnt be breaking my heart...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sometimes I imagine
Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,
but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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air travel in a Dakota
Air Travel in a Dakota (1956)
White as sheet, the virtual page in front of me, I want to compose a gentle
whisper of a memory. Thought of my first flight, an old Dakota plane, that
looked like a diesel stinking bus inside. I looked under the seat to find
the parachute, but the steward said there weren’t any. Disappointing I had
seen myself jumping out off the burning plane land safely and be in
the newspapers. The steward handed out sweets I pretended to eat one,
thought it might be a drug to keep us quiet, this made sense since many of
the passengers were drunk. Turbulence, like driving on a bad country lane,
I threw up in a paper bag. The plane landed in Sweden, the flight had only
lasted an hour. Walked tall across the grey tarmac, nonchalant presented
my passport to an immigration officer. Here comes a seasoned traveler.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Red Baron / Blue Max
The son of a major, Prussian nobleman
His name bestowed by a holy Roman
The war broke out, and looked to the air
24 hours of training he was there
100 miles an hour, top speed his plane would fly
and if he flew behind you, you know you're sure to die
Eighty kills, that are confirmed
While other pilots have so much more to learn
Red Baron! Blue Max! The albatross flies high
Red Baron! Blue Max! He's got you in his sights
The Red-Battle Flyer
Roll right fire
He sees no faces
The ace of aces
His British quarry flew a reckless flight
A shot from the ground took the red baron's life
He flew with honor, he flew with pride
In 1918, The battle flyer died
Chorus
The red baron...Blue max!
The albatross flies high
The red baron...Blue max!
He's got you in his sight!
song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Big Yellow Balloon
'Mommy, I want that big yellow balloon, '
The baby boy cried.
Mommy walked the mall replying,
'I only see a red balloon.'
So the Mommy did drive,
And the baby it cried,
Then they reached a new store.
But the baby wanted that big yellow balloon,
The store did not have.
'Maaaaaaaam, I want that big yellow balloon, '
The baby yelled with his wavy shaped mouth.
The Mommy saw some red, white and blue balloon,
Driving by a July the Fourth party.
Now the baby bellowed louder,
Pounding his fists on the floor,
Saying, 'see Mom, all big yellow balloons are gone Mom.
Why did you wait so long?
Perplexed Mom asked the crying son,
What he meant by that,
Especially, when she had done,
All she could have done.
The baby proclaimed, 'now the big yellow balloon,
Has turned into a big orange balloon! ! ! '
He sobbed, 'you made it too late in the day Mom.'
Now Mommy asked, 'was that the biggest sunshiniest,
Balloon in the tall sky, that hung around all day long? '
'And you didn't get it for me, whaaaaaaawww.....,
The baby expressed himself.
The next day bought another appeal from the baby,
This time as he rode with the pilots of 'Sun Shines Airways.'
The cockpit shown his big yellow balloon, steady in front of him.
The pilots bought him the longest wads and wads of string.
This baby stuck the string to the cockpit window,
Where the sun was the biggest and yellowest.
And as the plane descended,
That string grew longer and longer.
The baby knew he know owned,
The biggest and 'yellowest' balloon,
As his grip grew stronger and stronger.
This baby's hand held it longer and longer,
His biggest yellow balloon,
Filled with helium.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Train and Plane
I take the train
I board the plane
I ride the train
I fly the plane
I go by train
I come by plane
I go by plane
I come by train
I land the plane
I board the train
I take the plane
I ride the train
I come by train
I go by plane
I come by plane
I ride in rain
I fly the plane
I board the train
And again
I ride the train
Oh the train
Oh the train
That wished to be
An airplane
poem by Paul Hartal
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I wanted it not to be true. I wanted it not to be her plane. I wanted it - I wanted, if it was her plane, to have somehow survived because she was in the back of the airplane. But we know that doesn't happen, not with those sorts of things.