Citatepedia^®.com

The painter constructs, the photographer discloses.

quote by Susan Sontag
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Painter Man

Went to college, studied arts
To be an artist make a start
Studied hard, gettin my degree
But no one seemed to notice me
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Tried cartoons and comic books
Dirty postcards could have done
Here was where the money laid
Classic art has had its day
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Did adverts for t.v.
Household shops and brands of tea
Labels all around the cans
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
La...la...la...la...la...la...
La...la...la...la...la...la...la...
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man

song performed by Boney M.
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Last Instructions to a Painter

After two sittings, now our Lady State
To end her picture does the third time wait.
But ere thou fall'st to work, first, Painter, see
If't ben't too slight grown or too hard for thee.
Canst thou paint without colors? Then 'tis right:
For so we too without a fleet can fight.
Or canst thou daub a signpost, and that ill?
'Twill suit our great debauch and little skill.
Or hast thou marked how antic masters limn
The aly-roof with snuff of candle dim,
Sketching in shady smoke prodigious tools?
'Twill serve this race of drunkards, pimps and fools.
But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes,
As th' Indians, draw our luxury in plumes.
Or if to score out our compendious fame,
With Hooke, then, through the microscope take aim,
Where, like the new Comptroller, all men laugh
To see a tall louse brandish the white staff.
Else shalt thou oft thy guiltless pencil curse,
Stamp on thy palette, not perhaps the worse.
The painter so, long having vexed his cloth--
Of his hound's mouth to feign the raging froth--
His desperate pencil at the work did dart:
His anger reached that rage which passed his art;
Chance finished that which art could but begin,
And he sat smiling how his dog did grin.
So mayst thou pérfect by a lucky blow
What all thy softest touches cannot do.

Paint then St Albans full of soup and gold,
The new court's pattern, stallion of the old.
Him neither wit nor courage did exalt,
But Fortune chose him for her pleasure salt.
Paint him with drayman's shoulders, butcher's mien,
Membered like mules, with elephantine chine.
Well he the title of St Albans bore,
For Bacon never studied nature more.
But age, allayed now that youthful heat,
Fits him in France to play at cards and treat.
Draw no commission lest the court should lie,
That, disavowing treaty, asks supply.
He needs no seal but to St James's lease,
Whose breeches wear the instrument of peace;
Who, if the French dispute his power, from thence
Can straight produce them a plenipotence..
Nor fears he the Most Christian should trepan
Two saints at once, St Germain, St Alban,
But thought the Golden Age was now restored,
When men and women took each other's word.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Marvell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Rhemese

NO city I to Rheims would e'er prefer:
Of France the pride and honour I aver;
The Holy Ampoule and delicious wine,
Which ev'ry one regards as most divine,
We'll set apart, and other objects take:
The beauties round a paradise might make!
I mean not tow'rs nor churches, gates, nor streets;
But charming belles with soft enchanting sweets:
Such oft among the fair Rhemese we view:
Kings might be proud those graces to pursue.

ONE 'mong these belles had to the altar led,
A painter, much esteemed, and who had bread.
What more was requisite!--he lived at ease,
And by his occupation sought to please.
A happy woman all believed his wife;
The husband's talents pleased her to the life:
For gallantry howe'er he was renowned,
And many am'rous dames, who dwelled around,
Would seek the artist with a double aim:
So all our chronicles record his fame.
But since much penetration 's not my boast,
I just believe--what's requisite at most.

WHENE'ER the painter had in hand a fair,
He'd jest his wife, and laugh with easy air;
But Hymen's rights proceeding as they ought,
With jealous fears her breast was never fraught.
She might indeed repay his tricks in kind,
And gratify, in soft amours, her mind,
Except that she less confidence had shown,
And was not led to him the truth to own.

AMONG the men attracted by her smiles,
Two neighbours, much delighted with her wiles;
Were often tempted, by her sprightly wit,
To listen to her chat, and with her sit;
For she had far the most engaging mien,
Of any charmer that around was seen.
Superior understanding she possessed;
Though fond of laughter, frolick, fun, and jest.
She to her husband presently disclosed
The love these cit-gallants to her proposed;
Both known for arrant blockheads through the town,
And ever boasting of their own renown.
To him she gave their various speeches, tones,
Each silly air: their tears, and sighs, and groans;
They'd read, or rather heard, we may believe,
That, when in love, with sighs fond bosoms heave.
Their utmost to succeed these coxcombs tried,

[...] Read more

poem by La Fontaine
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Painter Dreaming in the Scholar’s House

in memory of the painters Paul Klee
and Paul Terence Feeley

I

The painter’s eye follows relation out.
His work is not to paint the visible,
He says, it is to render visible.

Being a man, and not a god, he stands
Already in a world of sense, from which
He borrows, to begin with, mental things
Chiefly, the abstract elements of language:
The point, the line, the plane, the colors and
The geometric shapes. Of these he spins
Relation out, he weaves its fabric up
So that it speaks darkly, as music does
Singing the secret history of the mind.
And when in this the visible world appears,
As it does do, mountain, flower, cloud, and tree,
All haunted here and there with the human face,
It happens as by accident, although
The accident is of design. It is because
Language first rises from the speechless world
That the painterly intelligence
Can say correctly that he makes his world,
Not imitates the one before his eyes.
Hence the delightsome gardens, the dark shores,
The terrifying forests where nightfall
Enfolds a lost and tired traveler.

And hence the careless crowd deludes itself
By likening his hieroglyphic signs
And secret alphabets to the drawing of a child.
That likeness is significant the other side
Of what they see, for his simplicities
Are not the first ones, but the furthest ones,
Final refinements of his thought made visible.
He is the painter of the human mind
Finding and faithfully reflecting the mindfulness
That is in things, and not the things themselves.

For such a man, art is an act of faith:
Prayer the study of it, as Blake says,
And praise the practice; nor does he divide
Making from teaching, or from theory.
The three are one, and in his hours of art
There shines a happiness through darkest themes,
As though spirit and sense were not at odds.

[...] Read more

poem by Howard Nemerov
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

What is Sometimes Hidden.

Just as Minnie gets in the mood
to play the Debussy Violin

Sonata her mother says the
photographer is waiting and

so she has to go along to the
lounge and pose and have her

picture taken and as she stands
there with her violin dressed

to the nines the photographer
says no do not smile it cheapens

the effect and so she stiffens
her lips and stares at the young

photographer's moustache and
her mother says do has the man

wants dear and don't pout so
and so she ceases to pout and

gazes at the box camera and man
hidden behind the cloth his hand

visible and do not move he says
hold it do not fidget dear her

mother says and puts her hands
on her shoulders and places her

in the position her mother thinks
the photographer wants is that it?

her mother asks the photographer
smiling in that way she smiles that

gives the impression of an imbecile
yes yes he says that is it and so she

stands as placed the sensation of
wanting to urinate suddenly upon

her and so she squeezes her thighs
together her knees touching her

hands gripping the violin trying
silently to keep the urine in.

poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Of Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper

I
Query: was ever a quainter
Crotchet than this of the painter
Giacomo Pacchiarotto
Who took "Reform" for his motto?

II
He, pupil of old Fungaio,
Is always confounded (heigho!)
With Pacchia, contemporaneous
No question, but how extraneous
In the grace of soul, the power
Of hand,—undoubted dower
Of Pacchia who decked (as we know,
My Kirkup!) San Bernardino,
Turning the small dark Oratory
To Siena's Art-laboratory,
As he made its straitness roomy
And glorified its gloomy,
With Bazzi and Beccafumi.
(Another heigho for Bazzi:
How people miscall him Razzi!)

III
This Painter was of opinion
Our earth should be his dominion
Whose Art could correct to pattern
What Nature had slurred—the slattern!
And since, beneath the heavens,
Things lay now at sixes and sevens,
Or, as he said, sopra-sotto—
Thought the painter Pacchiarotto
Things wanted reforming, therefore.
"Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore?
When earth held one so ready
As he to step forth, stand steady
In the middle of God's creation
And prove to demonstration
What the dark is, what the light is,
What the wrong is, what the right is,
What the ugly, what the beautiful,
What the restive, what the dutiful,
In Mankind profuse around him?
Man, devil as now he found him,
Would presently soar up angel
At the summons of such evangel,
And owe—what would Man not owe
To the painter Pacchiarotto?
Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sapientia Lunae

The wisdom of the world said unto me:
'_Go forth and run, the race is to the brave;
Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!_'
'As tarrieth,' I said, 'for sure, the grave.'
For I had pondered on a rune of roses,
Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

The wisdom of the world said: '_There are bays:
Go forth and run, for victory is good,
After the stress of the laborious days._'
'Yet,' said I, 'shall I be the worms' sweet food,'
As I went musing on a rune of roses,
Which in her hour, the pale, soft moon discloses.

Then said my voices: '_Wherefore strive or run,
On dusty highways ever, a vain race?
The long night cometh, starless, void of sun,
What light shall serve thee like her golden face?_'
For I had pondered on a rune of roses,
And knew some secrets which the moon discloses.

'Yea,' said I, 'for her eyes are pure and sweet
As lilies, and the fragrance of her hair
Is many laurels; and it is not meet
To run for shadows when the prize is here';
And I went reading in that rune of roses
Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Painter (Ang Pintor)

The Painter...
He colored the sky
He colored the sea
and even the mountains
and the field.

The Painter...
He colored the roses
and even the birds
and animals
in the farm.

The Painter...
even my life...
He colored.

But the Painter,
I guess no one
have seen Him yet.

The Painter...
can anyone paint the colors
of His life?

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A Painter Passing Through

Once upon a time I was on my own
Once upon a time like youve never known
Once upon a time I would be impressed
Once upon a time my life would be obsessed
Once upon a time, once upon a day when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know my secret dont come runnin after me
For I am just a painter passing through in history
Yesterday is gone, yesterdays alright
Yesterday belongs in my dreams at night
Yesterday is swell, yesterday is great
Yesterday is strong, remembering can wait
Once upon a time, once upon a day when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know an answer I cant turn your life around
For I am just a painter passing through the underground
I was in my stride, always at my game
Here comes mister cool, along the walk of fame
I was in demand, always in control
The world was in my hands, my touch had turn to gold
Once upon a time, I was in a daze when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know my secret dont come runnin after me
For I am just a painter passing through in history
Now that I am old, let me rest a spell
All that I am told, I can never tell
Never in my life, never will it pass
I am still alone, remembering at last
Once upon a time, once upon a day when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know an answer I cant turn your life around
For I am just a painter passing through the underground
If you want to know my secret dont come runnin after me
For I am just a painter passing through in history

song performed by Gordon Lightfoot
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Epilogue To Lessing's Laocooen

One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd,
My friend and I, by chance we talk'd
Of Lessing's famed Laocooen;
And after we awhile had gone
In Lessing's track, and tried to see
What painting is, what poetry--
Diverging to another thought,
'Ah,' cries my friend, 'but who hath taught
Why music and the other arts
Oftener perform aright their parts
Than poetry? why she, than they,
Fewer fine successes can display?

'For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece,
Where best the poet framed his piece,
Even in that Phoebus-guarded ground
Pausanias on his travels found
Good poems, if he look'd, more rare
(Though many) than good statues were--
For these, in truth, were everywhere.
Of bards full many a stroke divine
In Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's line,
The land of Ariosto show'd;
And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd
With triumphs, a yet ampler brood,
Of Raphael and his brotherhood.
And nobly perfect, in our day
Of haste, half-work, and disarray,
Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,
Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song;
Yet even I (and none will bow
Deeper to these) must needs allow,
They yield us not, to soothe our pains,
Such multitude of heavenly strains
As from the kings of sound are blown,
Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn. '

While thus my friend discoursed, we pass
Out of the path, and take the grass.
The grass had still the green of May,
And still the unblackan'd elms were gay;
The kine were resting in the shade,
The flies a summer-murmur made.
Bright was the morn and south the air;
The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair
As those which pastured by the sea,
That old-world morn, in Sicily,
When on the beach the Cyclops lay,
And Galatea from the bay
Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay.

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Arnold
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Amateur Photographer

Beware of those who slyly pilch
In many cunning ways;
Beware of little lyres that filch
From undisputed bays!
Beware the tumbler's beaded brim,
The ass in fiercer fur;
But most of all beware of him
Who makes my pen to stir--
THe Insecure
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!

Beware lest, thieving for your thirst,
An earwig's in the plum!
Beware of folly, gay at first,
That later makes you glum!
Beware of pits when stars are dim,
The tooth of vagrant cur;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The masterful
Disasterful
Implacable Photographer!

Beware of angling in a stream
Whose trout are not for you;
Beware of trusting in a dream
That's gone before the dew!
Beware of truckling to a whim;
Of folks that always purr;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The premature
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!

poem by Norman Rowland Gale
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Master's Hand

The painter was a genius,
His pupil knew this well,
For in the times that they discuss
They bond as in a spell...
They think such thoughts that change their art,
Their purpose and their style,
Such that new wisdom can impart
Its reasons for a smile...

The pupil spent a whole weekend
Within the studio,
Together with his brand new friend,
Who seemed all things to know...
The painting pupil's Easter scene
Was called The Cross of Christ.
Behold the Man... The Nazarene...
God's Lamb here sacrificed...

The pupil thought his painting done
When Sunday night came round,
He smiled as if a war was won,
As if a treasure found...
The master painter let him leave
So he could travel home
And yet Christ's painting made him grieve
The cruelty of Rome...

And in the night, he painted on,
Transforming here and there,
A stream of light to shine upon
The Saviour's bleeding hair...
With Pilate's words now coloured gold,
For all the world to see
The greatest story ever told...
Christ died for you and me...

When morning came, he painted still,
The gamblers at Christ's feet,
The thieves who died there on that hill,
The sort you'd hate to meet...
The scoffers in the crowd below
And Mary full of tears...
The crown of thorns, Christ's blood in flow,
While Satan stares and cheers...

Then something new the painter felt
That he should add that day...
A weeping angel humbly knelt
At Christ's feet there to pray...
He was Death's angel sent ahead

[...] Read more

poem by Denis Martindale
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Juan De Paresa, The Painter's Slave

'T was sunset upon Spain. The sky of June
Bent o'er her airy hills, and on their tops,
The mountain cork-trees caught the fading light
Of a resplendent day. The painter threw
His pencil down, and with a glance of pride
Upon his beautiful and finish'd work,
Went from his rooms. And Juan stood alone—
Gazing upon the canvas, with his arms
Folded across his bosom, and his eye
Fill'd with deep admiration, till a shade
Of earnest thought stole o'er it. With a sigh,
He turn'd away, and leaning listlessly
Against the open casement, look'd abroad.
The cool fresh breezes of the evening came,
To bathe his temples with the scented breath
Of orange blossoms; and the caroll'd song
Of the light-hearted muleteer, who climb'd
The mountain pass—the tinkling of the bells,
That cheer'd his dumb companions on their way—
The passing vesper chime—the song of birds—
And the soft hum of insects—soothingly
Stole in with blended sweetness to his ear.
And then the scene! 't was of Spain's loveliest;
Mountain and forest, emerald pasture slopes,
Dark olive groves, and bowers of lemon-trees;
Vineyards, and tangled glens, the swift cascade,
Leaping from rock to rock, the calm bright stream,
The castle, and the peasant hut, were there,
All group'd in one bright landscape. Juan gazed,
Until the spirit of its beauty pass'd,
Like some fine subtle influence to his heart,
Filling it with rich thoughts. He had not known
The teachings of Philosophy, nor fed
The cravings of his spirit, from the page
Of intellectual glory; but his eye
Had been unseal'd by Nature, and his mind
Was full of nice perceptions; and a love,
Deep and intense, for what was beautiful,
Thrill'd like vitality around his heart,
With an ennobling influence.

He had stood
Beside the easel, day by day, to feed
The pallet of the Painter with the hues
That lived upon the canvas, and had watch'd
The fine and skilful touch, that made a thing
Of magic of the pencil, till he caught
The o'ermastering glow of spirit, and he long'd
So to pour out his soul, and give the forms
Of beauty, that were thronging it, to life.

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Pleasures of Imagination: Book The First

With what attractive charms this goodly frame
Of nature touches the consenting hearts
Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores
Which beauteous imitation thence derives
To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil;
My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers
Of musical delight! and while i sing
Your gifts, your honours, dance around my strain.
Thou, smiling queen of every tuneful breast,
Indulgent Fancy! from the fruitful banks
Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull
Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf
Where Shakespeare lies, be present: and with thee
Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings
Wafting ten thousand colours through the air,
Which, by the glances of her magic eye,
She blends and shifts at will, through countless forms,
Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre,
Which rules the accents of the moving sphere,
Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend
And join this festive train? for with thee comes
The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports,
Majestic Truth; and where Truth deigns to come,
Her sister Liberty will not be far.
Be present all ye Genii, who conduct
The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard,
New to your springs and shades: who touch his ear
With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye
The bloom of nature, and before him turn
The gayest, happiest attitude of things.

Oft have the laws of each poetic strain
The critic-verse imploy'd; yet still unsung
Lay this prime subject, though importing most
A poet's name: for fruitless is the attempt,
By dull obedience and by creeping toil
Obscure to conquer the severe ascent
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath
Must fire the chosen genius; nature's hand
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings
Impatient of the painful steep, to soar
High as the summit; there to breathe at large
Æthereal air: with bards and sages old,
Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes
To this neglected labour court my song;
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task
To paint the finest features of the mind,
And to most subtile and mysterious things
Give colour, strength, and motion. But the love
Of nature and the muses bids explore,

[...] Read more

poem by Mark Akenside
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Elegy XVI. He Suggests the Advantage of Birth To a Person of Merit

When genius, graced with lineal splendour, glows,
When title shines, with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flowery pomp it shows,
The pride, the perfume, of the regions round.

Then learn, ye Fair! to soften splendour's ray;
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temperate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.

Pity the sandall'd swain, the shepherd's boy;
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull applause of vulgar joy,
He mourns his lot; he wishes, merits fame.

In vain to groves and pathless vales we fly;
Ambition there the bowery haunt invades;
Fame's awful rays fatigue the courtier's eye,
But gleam still lovely through the chequer'd shades.

Vainly, to guard from Love's unequal chain,
Has Fortune rear'd us in the rural grove;
Should --'s eyes illume the desert plain,
Even I may wonder, and even I must love.

Not unregarded sighs the lowly hind;
Though you contemn, the gods respect his vow;
Vindictive rage awaits the scornful mind,
And vengeance, too severe! the gods allow.

On Sarum's plain I met a wandering fair;
The look of sorrow, lovely still, she bore;
Loose flow'd the soft redundance of her hair,
And on her brow a flowery wreath she wore.

Oft stooping as she stray'd, she cull'd the pride
Of every plain; she pillaged every grove!
The fading chaplet daily she supplied,
And still her hand some various garland wove.

Erroneous Fancy shaped her wild attire:
From Bethlem's walls the poor lymphatic stray'd;
Seem'd with her air, her accent, to conspire,
When, as wild Fancy taught her, thus she said:

'Hear me, dear Youth! oh, bear an hapless maid,
Sprung from the scepter'd line of ancient kings!
Scorn'd by the world, I ask thy tender aid;
Thy gentle voice shall whisper kinder things.

[...] Read more

poem by William Shenstone
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Apertures

Life imposes on us.
Memory superimposes,
layering life’s imprints.

Into an aperture
between life and memory
moves the photographer,

who listens to light,
convenes shadows,
constructs position.

In the dark room,
life and memory wait
while hallucination bathes,

inscribes itself on a
pane of white-space,
coalescing like epiphany

and now rising from the
translating pool, prepared
to confess to eyes.

poem by Hans Ostrom
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Song of Quoodle

They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe.

They haven't got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the law of Moses
Will let you steal a smell.

The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone.

The wind from winter forests,
The scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides' adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.

poem by G.K. Chesterton
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Song of Quoodle

They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe.

They haven't got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the law of Moses
Will let you steal a smell.

The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone.

The wind from winter forests,
The scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides' adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours

*

And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Delusional Tool

He has made such a mess of things.
How dare he expose,
Our dirty clothes.

He brings attention and demeans.
And discloses,
Truth we oppose.

Popular he may be.
And yet he stings.
He speaks with too much honesty.
And that discomfort to us he brings.

He has made such a mess of things.
How dare he expose,
Our dirty clothes.

He brings attention and demeans.
And discloses,
Truth we oppose.

With ammunition given,
To our enemies they use.
Showing us to be beneath perfection.
And perfect we are.
Since this is what we will always choose.

Our filthy laundry has always been ours...
To hide and deny.
Who is he to determine,
Our way of life...
Has been a delusional tool?

His truthfulness is appalling.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!