Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'The Conversion of St. Paul' At 4 a.m.
to George Elder
In the shorter light, the extended
night of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or palette but make offering for your
own work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Related quotes
I Once, Your Other Darkness
for two paintings, one by Caravaggio,
'The Conversion of St. Paul, '
the other by William Hawkins, 'Horse'
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
of seasons of dryness in the bitter pitch midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe intimate, felt in that greater
scape - inner - making poems from orphan woe, from
furtive grace which eludes then storms, in bleakest
place sudden parses in the greener green,
newly, of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
In the shorter light, the extended
night, of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or pen but make offering for your own
work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
Caravaggio, (1571 – 1610) , Italian painter,
'in painting not equal to a painter, but to Nature itself'
- from his epitaph
William Hawkins, (1895-1990) , self-taught American artist
'His dynamic, artistic style was forged from his optimistic,
hard-charging, 'survivor' mindset.'
poem by Warren Falcon
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Missive For Darkness As Vocation, William Hawkins In Mind
[after viewing a film clip of the American
self-taught artist, William Hawkins]
How would he depict it, your
great sorrow now,
even a corner of it?
Perhaps
forge on, find a
photo, a horse
to paint, as in the film,
then busy himself with the making
of it, then see how the belly is too much,
needs to be thinned, a back haunch
trimmed to size,
a concise seizure of eye and paint
dependent upon hands,
a monumental concern which arights,
or at least, perspectives one's own suffering
amidst, against,
or, in the
teeth of daily concerns
taken on as ultimate-form,
gives visual commentary,
response in an image-horse
painted upon cast off wood,
backyard ruin put to good uses
with kindness extended in
the hammer's claw, crows near
the barred door, and, with meds
providing limit to dulling descents,
you may find again that desire to plunge
further/deeper, deeper still, into the muck
and magic of the shorter days
given in winter, in the long nights
generously dumped without
portion control upon the human.
Hawkins, elder of the American tribe, worn,
no, softened at edges apparently fortified,
fortifying vision and metal, painted on,
worked those objects of art making,
occupied himself with familiars,
and allusive smears,
serving now and ahead who
ancestrally will partake of his offering,
be held/healed in their beholding,
nuanced in cloud swatch,
land swath tumbled.
And you, too, do that,
still here, have helped bring
him out to me, to others,
an inner imperative; a torment,
it urgently insists that you continue on
within the maelstroms hopefully soon
to blow themselves out while tending
to your allotted concerns.
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
'seasons of dryness, ' in the bitter pitched midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe personally felt in that greater
perspective, making poems from orphan woe,
from ever furtive grace which eludes then surprises
in bleakest place, sudden, parses newly in the
greener green of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
The shorter light, the extended nights of cold and
star-bright questions, may cast clumsy net forward
into what it all might mean to fretted you, to me,
stretched, though I will not thrust these words any
longer upon your pen or paint but make offering
with thanks for your own work to feed us through
the eyes, perhaps time to mount that Hawkins horse
and soldier on or to fall off again, gain Damascus
perspective yet, from one's back watch vision
distort the massive horse into God receding into
necessary darkness foregoing image in order to
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Paint The Sky With Stars
Suddenly before my eyes
Hues of indigo rise
With them how my spirit sighs
Paint the sky with stars
Only night will ever know
Why the heavens never show
All the dreams there are to know
Paint the sky with stars
Who has paced the mightnight sky
So a spirit has to fly
As the heavens seem so far
Now who will paint the midnight star?
Night has brought to those who sleep
Only dreams they cannot keep
I have legends in the deep
Paint the sky with stars
Who has paced the midnight sky
So a spirit has to fly
As the heaven seem so far
Now who will paint the midnight star?
Place a name upon the night
One to set your heart alight
And to make the darkness bright
Paint the sky with stars
song performed by by Enya
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Verses On Night And Day
In the forest at night
my good old horse
has lost his way.
His head nods sleepily –
perhaps he dreams
of fields green by day.
The owls are hooting,
the night is cold,
the ground is hard,
but all night long
my good old horse
will stand his guard.
Daylight will come
to light the woods
at break of day,
and at that time
my horse will know
to find the way.
The night and darkness
are as nothing
to my old horse,
for he knows to wait
as time shall pass, and life
shall take its course.
poem by Rory Hudson
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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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Rockin' Horse
Guy Allison, Keith Knudsen
EarthWalk Music (ASCAP) K-KUAD Music (ASCAP)
Take me back to an easy life,
Robin Hood and Marian,
A lone ranger on a silver horse.
Make believe in a box of sand,
Bang, bang, we all fall down.
Just about dinner time
I'm eatin' bullets. Come on Fury - take me for a ride.
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Sun down with a chorus girl,
Ragtime and whiskey pour.
Midnight in a rented room
With a key inside the bedroom door.
Bang, bang, we all fall down.
Just about out of my mind.
Come on Lily. Come on honey - take me for a ride.
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Last chance for an easy life
Double down and let it ride.
Lone ranger with a silver bullet
For the one arm man inside.
Bang, bang, we all fall down.
Just about run out of time.
Come on seven. Come on eleven - take me for a ride.
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Guest Artists:
George Hawkins, Jr. - Bass
Chris Thompson - Background Vocals
song performed by by Doobie Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Dirt Cowgirl
Nature grows the weeds and grasses
The wind whips the horse's mane.
They travel, horse and a pretty cowgirl
Through a land that starts with Maine
There is no trail that they follow
No red dirt roads to be seen
Here they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless fields of green
Is this real, or is this make believe
The horse glides on through the night
Searching ever searching for red dirt
With a neon moon providing the only light
Is this real, or is this make believe
Will a red dirt road become a reality
We look toward the western sky
And feel the sweat as the wind rushes by
There on a distance horizon... Wow!
Is that fabulous red dirt road ever so proud
Just across a few more fields and streams
Is that ultimate answer to our many dreams
poem by John McCornack
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What is a Horse?
What is a horse?
A horse has eyes as dainty as a mink.
The grace is interrupted merely by a blink.
A horse is beauty.
What is a horse?
A horse is a tree in a storm that never goes down.
A horse is a weathered rock that stays around.
A horse is ancient.
What is a horse?
A horse waltzes like breeze over rivers.
She curvets and leaps like rain shivers.
A horse is a marionette.
What is a horse?
A horse is determination, that never stops flowing.
A horse is fondness, that never stops growing.
A horse is poetic power.
poem by Lily Whittaker
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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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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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Dark Man
I was in deep, profound sleep,
Suddenly, I heard a quick knock.
I got up and rubbed my eyes.
And oh! it was a great shock!
In thin darkness, I saw a horse-rider,
stood near my semi-dark door.
Who are you and whom do you come for?
'I came crossing the ocean's shore,
to take you there, to king's court.'
The thunderbolt voice replied, then.
Out of sheer fear, I reclined to go.
'I'm at my days end, nothing to gain-'
Told I but, no reply from his end came.
He turned back, and signaled to follow.
Mesmerized I leaving everything
rode on the horse, and bore the wallop.
How long the horse galloped,
I could not tell you all...
The night fell to days lap,
and at last the waning moon did fall.
I heard the sound of ocean's tide,
stopped the horse on its coast!
We, got down from the horse's back-
I saw his mouth's part most.
He was death, and none else,
the dark man took my hand...
A boat came, sailed us away from
the shore lagging behind dust and sand
poem by Nilakshi Das
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The Dark Knight
Out of the mist and darkness he comes
I smell the sweat
I hear the rattle of armor
The thunder of the horse hooves
The ring of the metal shoes on rock
I cannot see his eyes
His intent
There is only form
And sound
Louder and louder
There is no color
He reins hard to his left
Missing me by inches
The lather from the horse
Slaps across my face
The lance remains sheathed
I fear him
He will be back
I do not know the time
The place
He decides
He gives me not a glance
This time
poem by Merle Steinmann
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The Signboard
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother’s pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses a chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him –
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard –
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathesome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling’s side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin
Labelled with one word – ‘Lost’
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know
But I’ll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Sign-Board
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard-
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathsome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word-'lost,'
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Creative Perceptions
Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.
(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)
Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.
Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Images accompany
free originality.
(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.
(16 February 2002 robi03_0986)
for previous version see below
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets insight channel, air: -
one canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams with rare
sensitive perspective, care.
When true to self then neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, to share
with perfect strangers anywhere
how beauty may beyond the brink
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free...
(16 February 2002)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Little Angels Are Sleeping
mechanical bulbs light
shines a seeing light
not to fierce or bright
for this small desk site
so I may write by night
by a cast artificial light
little angels are sleeping
they return to me creeping
once or twice for kisses
for their good night kisses
after their first off to bed
younger first then elder
then kisses cuddles fed
they depart again for bed
to rest a weary little head
where now is their sleepy mother
in precious moments of no bother
why she is happily watching the tv
to my work she always leaves me free
I am here for you as you are for me
when I sleep my wishes watch over thee
so twinkle twinkle little star near or far
worry not for I am as near as I am far
with love for you where ever you are
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Universe Embraces Written Souls
Turn album of memories
holds time in our hands
heart throbs paint images
we ran our souls in light
as we ran wet flow fingers
through paint breath canvas
deep colours blaze in hues
shape soul gift open flowers
we set flower sails on water
streams sparkle seed shapes
ripples ride diamond light river
celebrations perfume daylight
candles warm birth womb night
our souls hold time in serenity
star smiles illuminate light sky
pulse in glow depths time space
spreads shadows veils shimmer
black lace spreads wind ripples
beautifies bodies breath bright
beauty ripe graces eyes beholders
bliss embrace heaven sung melody
sparkle eyes thrill flash flesh radiant
blows soft whispers into comic seas
angels sing joy celebrate soul maker.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Dedicated to Unwritten Soul
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Rembrandt's Darkness, Rembrandt's Light
Here’s a painting by Rembrandt van Rijn –
mark how he bestows the light…
the light of Rembrandt’s conscious painted scenes
falls where consciousness itself shines strongest:
here on a thinking head, deep
in contemplation of the truth invisible;
here on a melting heart; there,
on a pregnant belly full of life;
on this marriage bed, her body
dissolves into the light of love;
here, the golden helmet and the breastplate
say, heroism has descended on mere man.
But mark, too, that other miracle:
see in this corner, the area of black paint:
this is not darkness; not negation of the light;
this is what cannot comprehend the light;
this is the darkness of the unmanifest,
from which all miracles shall in time arise:
this is the black paint stroked on the canvas
by the same dazzling intelligence
which was Rembrandt; the light
yet stored in darkness; what would that light
of things seen, be, without the mind
that understood and marked the not yet lit?
The secret of that darkness fills
with a brightness that's more beautiful than beauty,
the mind that knows to shut its mortal eyes.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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High Horse
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
And get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Moonlit shadow, she starts a trippin' firelight
Jumpin' the trees lyin' across the right of way
Silvery mornin' it glistens down the valley
But she don't stop 'til we ride the night away
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Blonde braids tangle at the misty break of mornin'
Catchin' light through a dusty window pane
Lost in lust, in denial of the warnin'
She digs her heels in this stallion's flank again
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Get up on your high horse, woman
You paid the price, you get to play
Get up on your high horse, woman
You're gonna ride to the break of day
To the break of day
To the break of day
To the break of day
Get up on your high horse, woman
Get up on your high horse now
Get up on your high horse, woman
I'll make it up to you somehow
Get up on your high horse, woman
You paid the price, you get to play
Get up on your high horse, woman
You're gonna ride to the break of day
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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