En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Life and Sand.

Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local slut, she doesn't know.

She's been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist's tools and useful stuff.

She has modelled for others and
They've always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, sex, and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.

Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.

She recalls the artist's antics the night
Before, the want of sex, the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.

She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.

She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Artist

The Artist and his Luckless Wife
They lead a horrid haunted life,
Surrounded by the things he's made
That are not wanted by the trade.

The world is very fair to see;
The Artist will not let it be;
He fiddles with the works of God,
And makes them look uncommon odd.

The Artist is an awful man,
He does not do the things he can;
He does the things he cannot do,
And we attend the private view.

The Artist uses honest paint
To represent things as they ain't,
He then asks money for the time
It took to perpetrate the crime.

poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Something Wonderful And Beautiful

:
:
A poem about the wildlife artist, Stephen Gayford

The artist stood with brush in hand
And prayed God would be kind
Enough to help him understand
The secrets he could find...
Then he began to paint away,
Each layer gently laid,
All expertise, all skills in play,
So he could pass the grade...

To pass the grade and then excel,
Until no more to do
And only then, bid it farewell,
When it was sold to you...
You thought it something wonderful
And beautiful to buy,
Majestic and adorable
And pleasing to the eye...

The artist smiled with heartfelt joy
While holding back his tears,
His expertise you could employ,
Financing all his years...
Success began with you, my friend,
We each owe you a debt,
Because you helped to start a trend
That no-one could forget...

From that day on, the artist stood
With paintings left and right,
To be the best, not just the good,
To reach the highest height...
Perfecting here, perfecting there,
Enhancing light and shade,
So paintings looked beyond compare
Thanks to the prayers he prayed...

Denis Martindale, copyright, March 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent website
gayfordgallery-dot-com where we can visit and
enjoy wonderful artwork meant for one and all.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:

denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Portrait of Rachel Fayne

She glided into the studio
And dropped her clothes on the floor,
Gave the artist a pirouette,
And said: 'Do you want any more? '
He shrugged, and told her to take a seat
While he etched the background in,
'I'll paint you draped on the canapé,
I'll tell you, when I begin! '

She wandered naked around the room,
At home in the artist's den,
Rachel Fayne was the model's name,
She'd modelled since she was ten.
From auburn hair to her shapely calves
She'd stared from a hundred scenes,
That hung in frames under different names
As a slave, or a Gypsy Queen.

Her lips were full and her eyes were green,
They'd startled men in the past,
Staring from frames in the galleries,
In the windows of shops they passed,
So haughty and so beautiful,
And beyond the reach of men,
Yet here she'd bare, for all to share
Through the brush in the artist's den!

She hadn't sat for John Durrell
Before, but she knew his work,
The famous 'Woman of Paddington',
The 'Girl by the Friendly Kirk, '
His 'Venus under the Waterfall' -
Her heart had skipped a bit,
As she stared green-eyed in her wounded pride,
Would he never ask her to sit?

The summons came through a friend of hers,
'Be there, first thing in the morn! '
She'd bathed, and powdered her body well
By the light of the breaking dawn,
For John Durrell was a master, skilled
And she knew it would seal her fame,
To be tied to an R.A. masterpiece,
And the famous Durrell name.

'Don't ask too many questions, he's
Intense, and immersed in paint,
He's hard and cold, and inclined to scold
If you don't sit still, or faint,
He'll look at you like a curlicue,
An enigma of line and form,
His passion is brushed in his pictures,
So, it won't keep your body warm! '

He laid her out on the canapé
And took up his sable brush,
Mixed the tint on his palette there,
For the flesh tones, and the blush,
He worked with a growing intensity
And he frowned, as if in pain,
As he brought the features to life within
The portrait of Rachel Fayne.

She wasn't to see the canvas, he
Would cover it, out of sight,
Before she dressed, and took her fee,
Was bundled into the night,
Each day she lay on the canapé,
Each day he'd frown and paint,
'There's something isn't quite right, ' he'd say,
In a tone of quiet constraint.

While Rachel felt there was something wrong
With her, a cold or flu,
Perhaps it was her complexion,
It had taken a lighter hue,
She felt quite sick to her stomach,
Couldn't eat, and her sight was dim,
But he'd continued on painting, so
She held her sickness in.

While there on the painted canvas was
A beauty, so profound,
Her eyes of the deepest green, that seemed
To follow him around,
The lips were a pouting marvel,
Breathing life to the easel there,
Durrell becoming excited with
Each brush stroke through her hair.

His heart was beating much faster with
Each stroke applied anew,
The love that cozened, eluded him
Began to seep on through,
While Rachel gasped to take each breath
And couldn't speak, or think,
As the woman within the picture, well...
Her eyes, they seemed to blink!

The canvas facing the furthest wall
Belongs to John Durrell,
The first and the only portrait that
He swears he'll never sell,
For where the woman had been, is white,
No paint was left behind,
And Rachel Fayne, before she died,
They say that she was blind!

22 January 2010

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Nude Artist

A Nude Artist

he says he is a nude artist
because he is naked when he paints

such nakedness has
nothing to do with being a nude artist

a naked artist who paints a cat or a chicken
is not a nude artist

there is no nude cat
thyere is no nude chicken

just paint a naked woman
and he will be called a nude artist

an artist is not an art
he must know that

- Frog Mantra, Accents Publishing,2012 -

poem by Suchoon Mo_
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Betty's Date.

Betty sips her drink and crosses
her legs and wonders if Chowbrew

will ever come as he said he would
and as she has been waiting for

over an hour she thinks he's not
coming, thinks he's gone off with

another. She sighs. All that time getting
ready, putting on the new dress,

making sure she'd put on fresh
underwear, showered, washed

her hair, filed her nails and still
he hasn't come. Betty, her mother

used to say, men are like buses,
if one doesn't turn up another'll soon

show, but it didn't follow in her

experience; if one didn't show,
she'd be left waiting until the bright

moon shone and the shining stars
flickered in the dark night sky, and

then she'd go home to bed, tuck
herself under the duvet, pull it

over head, and cry or swear or
maybe both. She looks at her

wristwatch. He isn't going to
come; she mutters to the air,

he's left me out to dry, all that
time I wasted; now I'm going

to cry. Betty, her mother often
said, men have only one thing

in mind, oh, yes, they'll bring
you flowers, chocolates, buy

you a meal, get you drunk,
but at the end of it all, it's

getting you into bed that they
are after, and she remembers,

in the background her father's soft
laughter. She empties her glass

and is just about to leave, when
a breathless Chowbrew stumbles

into sight, face flushed, clothes in
disarray, Sorry I'm late, got the

wrong cinema, she hears him say.
What an arse, she muses, what a

prat, doesn't know where he's
going or what he's at, but at least

he's here, she smiles and says,
Good to see you, Chowbrew dear.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I’m going to Paint my Best Picture Ever

As soon as I wake before my coffee
I’ll grab that canvas brush and oils
To paint a fantastic sky,
With a couple of crows squawking in the blue
Then a mountain with snow on it top
An’ the sun shining on it
With a little road at the bottom,
Now for a bus stop with a little boy waiting
With his dog on a lead, then a little puddle
For boys love to jump in em’.
Just finished lots of black and white cows
Feeding in this huge green paddock,
With horses frolicking fresh from the stables
Running and kicking chasing, hope I get it right
Better paint a fence near the road an’ add a few sheep.
Now let me see ah....Trees lot of trees green as green
To the left and to the right with birds flying all around,
Oh in the distance near the foot of the mountain
I’ll paint the school bus coming down the road
That boy has been waiting for ages.
I think that’s it, oh I’ll add a couple of butterflies,
No flowers its winters end and
They are still pushing up underground.
Now let’s look at this picture and see
What the mind can see.

poem by Ken e Hall
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Paint Me Down

Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Im walking into studio
Consider strange appeal
Paint me in the home
Im brushing up on sketchbook
Designs for love unreal
Paint me in the home
Oil and skin youll need to buy it
Consider what I mean
She sinks beneath thr moving pictures
Prepare the brush for me
Im craving with this need
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down
Im soaking up the surface
Conceaiving new idea
Paint me in the home
Shes oiling up her subject
But all still life is here
Paint me in the home
All the boys with framed dimension
A cover up on lust
Hell take his pain and paint it over
Prepare the brush for me
Im craving with this need
Paint me down
Paint me down
Paint me down

song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Brush With Genius

Before the brush was in his hand,
The artist said a prayer!
For all his friends across the land
With whom he planned to share...
Lions, tigers and bears, oh, my!
The artist sketched them all,
So expertly, for by and by,
Each one would grace his wall...

Each canvas like a photograph,
A treasure to behold,
As if that wasn't quite enough,
Each one was framed in gold...
Each masterpiece was well received
And prints were sold worldwide,
As tributes to what he'd achieved,
Of which he should take pride...

And yet here was a humble man,
Self-taught and yet what skill,
Yet when we do the best we can,
There's bound to be a thrill...
Release your hidden genius
And God will bless you, too!
Like Stephen Gayford can bless us
With paintings old and new...

Denis Martindale, copyright, December 2011.

The poem is based on the magnificent paintings by
artist Stephen Gayford of gayfordgallery-dot-com

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Assassin, the Artist, and the Dog

Walking across this dangerous land
In this magical but corrupted world
The assassin, the artist, and the dog travel

This world is unbalanced
It surely is a world in ruin

The assassin, the artist, and the dog travel
And they know
That to survive
They must fight
Whether they like it or not

The assassin has his dangerous swords
and sharpened throwing tools
The artist has her enchanted paintbrushes
and magical paints
The dog has his bark and bite
And that's good enough for him
Everything else is perfect for the rest of them

During the day
During the night
As they travel along
It's a world on the brink of madness
But the assassin, the artist, and the dog know
of that
They know of the choices and chances they'll
have to make and take
It's tough out there to survive
But they know what it will take
They know what the world is like
They know how the world is

poem by Justin Gildow
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The First Artist and Author.

The first artist painted the sky with colors, such beauty,

Look at those sunsets, and the mountains, such reality;

The mountains, have shadows, of splendor that only the Master can do,

Yes! It's God who was the first Artist, and He also taught me too.

The first great artist painted the colors on the sea,

Blues, greens, aquas, Only one could do this you see;

And when there is a storm near, the sea goes so dark blue,

Yes! God is the first great artist, to paint it for me and you.

The first great Artist, loved to teach David to write poetry,

And also king Solomon, writing words of such beauty;

Oh such magnificent works, of color and in each word,

Yes! There is only one who could do this it is the Lord.

Then. We see in every rainbow, and in each shell as well,

Look at the colored sands, and in every bird, it does tell;

Then look at each animal, and also the petals of each flower too

Then as you look at these, , give Thanks for doing it for me and you.

poem by Margaret Haig
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When is a Painting Finished?

I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.

I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.

But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.

Painters have different opinions
about this.

Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.

However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?

And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.

Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.

Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.

A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.

I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”

He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”

poem by Paul Hartal
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The Artists

you are the best artists
You hang my skin on the wall and drew me with ulna dip into my blood
You are great
You drew my face on your heart and paint it with love
You sew my name on your lip and pin it to the cloud
You background me with you in the distant future
Holding our seeds with smile of euphoria
You are my artist
You drew my mistakes on my chest and erase
It with your hand wrapping me softly
You blend our soul and mind and mount it as a kite flying the banner of bliss
You are beautiful
I've paint your heart with musk, your lip with honey and you skin with amber
We are both an artist
We carved ourselve with due
You clipped my eyes to the moon
I clipped the stars to you hair with galaxies of flower decorating our world
You my artist
You drew me with the world gazing at your statue hanging on the sky with flying nymphs sing songs of our artistic shadow

poem by Kemurl Fofanah
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Her

I was a laughing child
That did not know and
Did not fathom
Time was catching up with me when
Everywhere behind me
Whether looking towards the future or
Leaving the past behind,
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadow and
Her hair, thick, with wisps of gray,
Would frame her countenance,
So young and beautiful, and
Her hands, thin, delicate and pristine, as
Those of an artist…

Rain would fall in torrents the day
I decided no longer to fear the
Raucous sounds about our home-
She would bake bread and sing tunes,
Leaving me to wonder why
She had stayed in bed for days and nights past-

Those days went by quickly as
The second hand spun around the clock
Above the kitchen table- under which
I would play-
Though always in solitude,
I was an Indian, a princess or
On the best of days a queen-

It was a wonder that
Years later
I was the same laughing child
Weeping tears of despair,
Dark shadows cast upon the walls of
My bedroom would
Obliterate any sunlight left in our lives…

Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadows,
Now tear filled as her hair,
Now gray in the dark of the world outside …

Her laughter, now was transforming to deadly silence;
Flowers stood limply in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table where
She would sit, her head resting between her hands-
Long and thin as those of an artist,
Wrinkled, now, years later-
A tear cascading down her cheek-

I hardly understood
Life’s meaning-
My life was far from under that same table-
My world so very small,
But all mine and mine alone-
I had picked those flowers-
Wilted dandelions- and a single rose
From father’s garden-
Though always alone,
Never laughing, never weeping,
Never smiling-

At night, stars were falling and
My thoughts were screaming
“Come back! Come back! ”
That was the moment I first heard them-
The unfamiliar voices-
She would sit at the same table,
Not noticing the dandelions, but only the rose-
The second hand spun as quickly around the clock as
My world was spiraling out of control-
And she would sit on the edge of her
Wrought iron framed queen sized bed
Her head resting in her hands
Still long, thin and like those of an artist-
Frozen
Still…

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As The Master Suggests

Wasn't it just yesterday,
It was said...
He was too incompetent to lead.
And today they hope he succeeds,
To keep them protected...
From experiencing total economic devastation.

And yes,
The situation is a mess.
But guess who's gotta clean up...
After they have treated themselves,
Less than guests.

Guess who's left to paint the veranda,
As the master suggests?
Then joke...
Sitting from a chair,
Known to be the master's favorite seat.
Overlooking the cleanup.
And sharing jokes with similar minds...
About eating fried chicken,
Watermelon.
And who commits all the crime!
Producing babies 'they' can't feed.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
Me!

Wasn't it just yesterday,
It was said...
He was too incompetent to lead.
And today they hope he succeeds,
To keep them protected...
From experiencing total economic devastation.

And yes,
The situation is a mess.
But guess who's gotta clean up...
After they have treated themselves,
Less than guests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda,
As the master suggests?

And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The main reason he wanted to be a recording artist was because it gives you much more freedom in your writing. You only have to please the artist and the artist is you so you can be more daring and experimental.

quote by Cynthia Weil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paint Dimensionality Soul In Oils

if I painted pictures
I would draw you in charcoal
wash away drama tears in watercolours
paint dimensionality of durability soul in oils
span a universe of senses touch emotions thoughts

if I painted pictures
I would paint dream images
I would paint visions of inner mind's eye
I would paint life in veils swirling kaleidoscopic moods
I would paint canvasses imprinting fabric expanding universes

but I travel eons far
load canvasses are too heavy
I walk journey through many phase worlds
seasons landscapes in many climates beckon bled feet
I paint mind songs in words life haunting edges spaces

swallow flame words into soul at own risk
I paint distances between seen unseen at world's edges
I paint portraits above beneath mask as multi veils
I paint shift faces figures skin deeds intended done deeds
I paint poetry life in shifting kaleidoscopic images souls

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Painter Named William

WILLIAM THE PAINTER
With a great smile that always shines,
he is a great painter, he paints art real fine.
William makes paintings with acrylic, oils and pastels,
he is a realistic painter, muralist and cartoonist as well.
I went to William’s art event,
it was at a church is where I went.
He did a mural on their wall,
it was huge, it wasn’t small.
William has a great eye for shape and form,
he is an original artist, not in the norm.
Now I just saw William today,
he was happy to see me and we talked away.
I will do a mural with him in Lake Worth soon,
we will paint a wall with some cartoons.
Looking forward William to see more of your art,
your art is unique, it sets you apart.

poem by Christina Sunrise
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As An Artist

As an artist,

I carefully paint
a picture on my
canvas

with each stroke
I wipe away a tear

causing a smile to
reappear

As an artist

I endow your face
with my brush

making it more
perfect as I go

until at last the
image of my love
I see.

poem by Heather Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paint Brush

We forget
We’re humans in disguise
We lust for angels
We lust for demons
We cannot exorcise the human inside.

We paint a layer of lies
No water can wash it off
Human doesn’t let paint spread
In the end humans peel paint off.

Some are left buried
With paint left unpeeled
The paint dries away
But human never dehydrates.

We may paint on thorns,
But flowers we remain inside.

poem by Mehreen Mujeeb
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