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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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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~Painting Poetry~
Poetry in thought
words tumble
from my mind
onto the page and screen
like paint dripping
from sable silk brushes
creating new visions
of new realities
in the virtual space
of my Soul
painting a perfect picture
words drip down the canvas
in deep brilliant hues
of purples and reds
and vibrant blues
to soft indigo of
twinkling velvet starlight
yellow tones as warm as sunrize
and golden oranges
of fleeting sunsets
blanket the page and screen
as verse, lyric and rhyme converge
splattering from my tongue
giving form to my dreams
and shape to my fantasies
trailing across
the smooth texture
and terrain of
flesh and muscle
brushes whisper
across the canvas
dance across bodies
images of two entwined
captured boldly
in Nubian hues
of mahogany and mocha
limbs and torsos
move and connect
in a vision of words spoken
caught in the kinetic frenzy
of bodies joined
and poetry painted
across the canvas
of this night’s loving
a masterpiece to behold
for generations to come
culminating in the joining of
pen and brush
words and colors
page and canvas
poetry and paint
poem by Soulful One
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When I was in art college, I would be painting, and I would create something on a canvas that was actually quite attractive. But if I got frightened and tried to protect that, that canvas would die.
quote by Michael Ironside
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I never know what I'm going to put on the canvas. The canvas paints itself. I'm just the middleman.
A Perfect Painting
Perfect painting
An azure, sinless sky
a whisper of white clouds
and a yellow sun.
The canvas was big
but the painter got bored
walked home.
It rained in the night
canvas, dark and ominous
the artist was contented.
Painting, just the way
it was intended,
but he didn´t bother to sign it.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Allure Love Painted
painting and poetry
are visual sensory
mind image overlays
of allure love painted
written through time
love shapes
through miracle
imagination
to define love
gifted joyfully
to tragic love
expressing dark loss
but always we mix
pigment paint emotions
into life canvas
of life choosing
either spectral
images or images
receptive of light
Dedicated to the painter poet Hosney Soliman.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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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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Symbolic Stanzas' Sonnet Celebration response to Marion Mantel - The Painter
Pure poet imbibes artist's brush
creation's canvas celebrates
colour pigmentations' crush
inspires lyres' songs innate.
The timeless tides of metaphors
take form from morph hue cues,
as soul's semantice semaphore
signals sends, imbues.
Symphonic stanzas canvas caught
showers sublime compound,
symbolize synaptic thought
round watershed surround.
There none need karmic quest, request:
act/fact of being's freeing rest.
(24 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Her Empty Spaces
She knew
the rain well.
It,
filled her
empty spaces.
So did I.
She had a
bland,
albeit,
deliciousness
about her
Her thickened
sweetness
was ladled
upon my
tongue,
time and time
again.
a beautiful
woman,
who,
painted
beautifully.
delicate
br ush
strokes,
caressed
her
coarse
canvas
fi ner details;
that of
love,
she ignored.
Yes,
she was
a beautiful
woman,
who,
painted
beautifully.
And the rain...,
It filled her
empty spaces.
So did I.
T. Labbe`
The age of image.
The people who know you
Are the canvas on which
Your image, good or bad,
Is drawn rightly or not.
Mind! The image you built
Will die with the canvas
When it’s torn or worn out.
Yet, each one wants an image.
Don't we desire leaving
A child for our copy,
which will not last long though?
02.01.2009.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Pride On Canvas
While others walk,
I will run.
While others hide
on a rainy day,
I will search for
the sun.
I will paint
my pride on
canvas.
And no one will
get in my way.
My barefoot brush
on my infinite
canvas.
All my pride
directed,
Toward this
beautiful day.
poem by Plague Rose
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Imagination's Field
Within its bounds, naked canvas stretched.
Before the display, the lad stood.
Adorning the wall, ornate frame hangs.
In concentration, young man observes the void.
Forced by curiosity's command.
for the source of his deliberation.
I searched sans satisfaction,
In despair, I queried the youth.
“Sir, within empty frame you survey,
what do you perceive? ”
Without addressing me, responded.
“I see tall mountains, endless restless seas.”
“I see naught, for this frame's canvas is empty.
How might you see these sights? ”
He turned, facing me and remarked.
“Sir, within the frame, a great deal I see”
Sans the luxury of explanation, pointed at the title plate.
Upon small brass plaque,
beneath the frame, inscribed.
“Imagination’s Field”
29Oct10
poem by Kurt Hearth
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A prayer for the new year
The tide of time washes over the old year as it fades away
and the new year is beginning bringing in a brand new day.
A clean slate and a blank canvas made ready for me to display
many acts of love and kindness throughout each new day.
Father give me the grace to fill each canvas with acts of love
As I walk in the footsteps of my Lord from heaven above
To Our Father
We all can paint on a canvas,
Whether it be great or small.
What we do is a masterpiece,
To our Father who loves it all.
If we believe our work is not good,
Then our mind is going to the Fall.
But we can be changed,
Through our Father who loves us all.
That change cannot be done alone,
For help, to our Father we must all.
Trying to explain the truth is hard,
But not to our Father who knows it all.
We are all part of His canvas,
We may not see it, but we are very tall.
We are the greatest buried treasure
For our Father who gets us all.
poem by Stephanie Varnadore
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When you give an artist a canvas, you shouldn't tell him exactly how much paint to put on it, or exactly how sharp the images should be. You should let the artist get going.
quote by Reed Hundt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paintings by fliss II Not So Abstract
Canvas on stand
Colours to the side
Pallet in hand
Let the brush slide
Orange and green
Coming from deep
Painting oh! Oh So serene
Trance like, almost a dream
Curves so sensual
The colours just flow
Enraptures, almost physical
Easy strokes, nice and slow
Show what's inside
Bristles caressing
Your hearts not lied
Smoothly, not fussing
Featherlight touch
Not a hint of blue
Like a lovers first touch
Exploring anew
Painted not drawn
Not one to delete
As fresh as the dawn
Canvas complete
RG/fliss
poem by Robert Green
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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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Without dear Blue
Sitting under the arbor
Of Blue
I painted Sharzad on
Canvas of solitude!
poem by Framarz Bagheri
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