The Finishing Touch
With a stroke of the brush,
A dab of paint,
A portrait, I drew,
Blew into it the breath of life,
Lo! There it stays my Masterpiece
poem by Valsa George
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Related quotes
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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You Only Paint The Picture Once
(Teddy Gentry/Randy Owen/Ronnie Rogers/Greg Fowler)
Look at those evening shadows
Casting a peaceful light
The sun is disappearing
It's a beautiful sight
Moments caught forever
By the master's touch
A lasting reminder
To us
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
Love is the canvas
That's where it all starts
A lifetime together
Becomes a work of art
Just look what's been created
Between your heart and mine
Oh I believe that we're one of a kind
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
It's a portrait of life
You can't live it twice
You only paint the picture once
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Why?
If I could paint
I would paint a portrait
of a shot out Ratel armoured car
standing in a landmine field.
Out of which the smoke still rises
And I would print in defencelessness
with every brush stroke
of armoured steel failing
against projectiles
and then becoming a coffin
and enemy soldiers standing grinning
with teeth brilliant white
and bones of fallen comrades
that tried to stop a horde of barbarians
and hyenas and jackals standing drooling
and vultures turning in the sky
and in the background till the horizon
enemy tanks, armoured cars
and men would lay shot to pieces
with pools of blood, intestines
and shot of legs and hands
and the title would be: Why?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Still Life In Oils-De Jour
You painted a most exquisite picture
...Brush stroked her canvas delicately
With feathered brush-a touch
...Tinting with royal hues-
And crimson red coloured views...
'Tis a still life of a woman in degrees...
...A breath-taking piece of divinity...
A true masterpiece of elegance...
...Your virgin work of art...
Captured by your most artistic keen eye
...Creme De la Creme Ala Carte...
poem by Theodora Onken
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Portraitures....
she lays there
her legs spread on the table
like a turkey
dinner
he kneels
and surrenders all that he has owned
he breathes
and then takes time
to take back what he has exhaled
it is a picture of having to give
and having to take
someone may call it love perhaps
but actually
it is not what is intended to be
it is but a portrait
and nothing else
it is still life
it is nothing but the connivance of the brush
and the paint
and the keeping that lies within the boundary
of the frame
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Portrait of life...
Awakened to the rough sketch of another morning,
The birth of this new day but a canvass of new creation,
The pallette of life felt in every breath and sense I feel,
My portrait slowly takes shape as the day unfolds,
I am the artist painting life upon another days canvas,
The beauty I preceive has influence on those around me,
For I possess a power within known to all true poets,
The power to paint a beautiful landscape of hope,
Or to darken man's reality with visions of despair,
What picture of eternity shall you paint upon life's journey? ...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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A white paper - Brush,
Fine brush made it
A beautiful portrait!
haiku by V.K. Kanniappan
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Am I a master
I am the master, master of art
have painted true pictures,
of rising sun, mountain, sea
through jungles flowing rivers,
shining stars, birds, cloudy sky,
can paint anything and everything.
insects, lions, bear and deer.
just like the living things.
I am the master, master of art,
can make my own paint and brush
Alas! but cannot create raw material
of any of paint, brush or canvas.
Oh! can not paint these seven
which are made only in heaven:
smell, touch, look, hear and taste,
emotions, thought and breathe.
No, I am not the master, master of art
can paint uncountable things yet not.
Not possible to paint love and laugh
I have to go again and again to learn
to the supreme master, who painted
the universe, stars, moon and sun
(C) S. D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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I do not paint a portrait to look like the subject, rather does the person grow to look like his portrait.
quote by Salvador Dali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The reason that I'm an actor, or an artist, is ultimately because I'm trying to paint a self-portrait, and the most complete and beautiful self-portrait that you can.
quote by Terrence Howard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dedication
In youth I longed to paint
The loveliness I saw;
And yet by dire constraint
I had to study Law.
But now all that is past,
And I have no regret,
For I am free at last
Law to forget.
To beauty newly born
With brush and tube I play;
And though my daubs you scorn,
I'll learn to paint some day.
When I am eighty old,
Maybe I'll better them,
And you may yet behold
A gem.
Old Renoir used to paint,
Brush strapped to palsied hand;
His fervour of a saint
How I can understand.
My joy is my reward,
And though you gently smile,
Grant me to fumble, Lord,
A little while!
poem by Robert William Service
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With the smell of turpentine
With the smell of turpentine
and paint in front of the fireplace
you paint magical lines
with blue, green and gold
and I look at you
while brush strokes
like magic make abstract images appear.
The Creator must have looked like this
while He looked at the world
while building it
and I see your golden eyes
looking carefully at the painting
and at times you frown
while you try to draw perfect lines
and light and colour
create magical feelings
and flow into each other
and you build shade and depth.
Gasping for breath lovely are you
while your fingers play with the brush
and there are more than curves and lines
from which your beauty comes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sunday afternoon rest
The Kenwood plays
soft soothing instrumental music
and three dogs,
lies stretched out in front of the fireplace.
Tongs of fire lick hungry orange
on pieces of yellow and brown firewood,
while at the bottom
the coals are glowing red.
You paint a white Greek marble statue
of Aphrodite
and I see your painter’s pencil,
giving brush stroke upon brush stroke
of magic.
The afternoon drags on nicely
and red Barberton daisies,
on long green stems
hang out of a glass vase above the fireplace.
The dark painting
of the holy girl with the red garment
against the wall,
watch me amused
and the golden spaniel
sleeps with her head
on my lap.
I will forever
be able to enjoy
the pleasure,
of being with you.
a Hot cup of tea
steals me a kiss or two
and a DVD with the antics of Monk,
makes us laugh at dusk.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tonight
blew, blew away
but i don't wanna fade
blew, blew, oooh
and if you love her
you know it will come true
and if you need her
you know that she'll be there
stay awake, i lie here
with her and i fall
and when i wake inside you
i know you know i'm yours
blew, blew away
but I don't wanna fade
blew, blew, oooh
and if you're sad, too
until the angel sings and touches you
don't confuse my only life
i said blew, and please don't ever leave
And i will greive, and (re)member thee
Hope to meet you there
(solo)
i wanna let her know
And i wanna let her go
i wanna let her know
That i love her so
i'm blew, blew, blew away
but I don't wanna-
blew, I love you
blew
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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My Picture
I made a picture; all my heart
I put in it, and all I knew
Of canvas-cunning and of Art,
Of tenderness and passion true.
A worshipped Master came to see;
Oh he was kind and gentle, too.
He studied it with sympathy,
And sensed what I had sought to do.
Said he: "Your paint is fresh and fair,
And I can praise it without cease;
And yet a touch just here and there
Would make of it a masterpiece."
He took the brush from out my hand;
He touched it here, he touched it there.
So well he seemed to understand,
And momently it grew more fair.
Oh there was nothing I could say,
And there was nothing I could do.
I thanked him, and he went his way,
And then - I slashed my picture through.
For though his brush with soft caress
Had made my daub a thing divine,
Oh God! I wept with bitterness,
. . . It wasn't mine, it wasn't mine.
poem by Robert William Service
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Canvas
Before my eyes brilliant colour, perfection
Dancing gracefully in every direction,
The world of trees, the art of nature
Are simple reasons for a painter.
The power mother nature can release
Could make a painting, a masterpiece
A gallery of natures finest hues,
Enough to stir the most reluctant muse.
Should mother nature tutor me in art
My tree would show a living beating heart,
And should I save one single living tree
My canvas would inspire the world to see.
Red, orange, yellow, green and brown
Colours of beauty my brush would put down
Bright and vibrant Maple Red and Golden Oak
Living, breathing felt with every brush stroke..
©2011
poem by Hazel Connelly
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And Once You Will Learn..
As I mix a hundred colours to paint your picture,
My canvas shrinks in size
And cries it foul.
There you stand with a smile mysterious.
As I hold a brush with a thousand quills on it,
My right hand shivers
And calls it uncommon.
Someone stands by you a with a frown.
You think I wouldn’t draw your picture at all.
You feel it’s my indifference
And colossal lack of concern.
Your mind turns into an ocean of skepticism.
Still on my large frame of mind
Your portrait hangs for ever
And there I see your smiling face.
My love has ever been thus…
Once when you begin to learn things,
My canvas and right hand will wither away.
Then your portrait drawn in a thousand colours
Will be your last concern perhaps.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Good Life
real life
still life do
good life
real life
an art dealer's stew
good life
a shut up life
keep the breath
skin tight
good life
paint life
portrait hanging loose
good life
tune life
a melody
to choose
good life
food life
keep the stew up boil
good life
feel life
wrapped in arty's foil
good life
real life
still life do
good life
real life
an art of dealer's stew
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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