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Erich Segal

This isn't a watercolor, it's a mural.

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The procedure was that an artist got a mural and then he would have anywhere from two to ten assistants depending on the size of the mural and how many assistants he needed, or she needed.

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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.

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Early one afternoon

Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.

a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.

There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.

Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.

At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.

The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.

In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.

I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.

[...] Read more

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Garden in my inner square

I planted a vegetable garden
in the inner square opposite a mural
and next to it there are flowers that only in the morning hour
spread their cups and spiral up against every side,
where it finds a holding place and grow hillock on hillock
over every thing with purple flowers that only last a short time.

I planted a vegetable garden
in the inner square opposite a mural,
where mountains tooth out blue in the background
and field after field of purple lavender bushes stand at the front
and there’s a shop owner sending his servants on bicycles around
and at the bottom in fruitful red sand
a vegetable garden was planted by me.

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Madonna on a wall

Its another thing to see
how a mural,
gets a life of its own.

I see her measure and draw
the outlines and I wonder how,
she calculates the image that unfolds

With a palette
on which she mix different colours
and a painter’s pencil,
she paints an image

[See picture of the madonna mural at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1420_Madonna_on_a _wall.htm]
that comes out of a wall.
.
I am struck by what she’s doing
and how her fingers,
perform magic with a brush
and the art and beauty
that unfolds almost without bother.

Its as if the Madonna’s eyes
follow me as if she’s alive,
to where I move
all over the room

There’s something of her soul
and a new presence,
that’s caught on the wall.

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Before an Old Painting of the Crucifixion

I ponder how He died, despairing once.
I've heard the cry subside in vacant skies,
In clearings where no other was. Despair,
Which, in the vibrant wake of utterance,
Resides in desolate calm, preoccupies,
Though it is still. There is no solace there.

That calm inhabits wilderness, the sea,
And where no peace inheres but solitude;
Near death it most impends. It was for Him,
Absurd and public in His agony,
Inscrutably itself, nor misconstrued,
Nor metaphrased in art or pseudonym:

A vague contagion. Old, the mural fades...
Reminded of the fainter sea I scanned,
I recollect: How mute in constancy!
I could not leave the wall of palisades
Till cormorants returned my eyes on land.
The mural but implies eternity:

Not death, but silence after death is change.
Judean hills, the endless afternoon,
The farther groves and arbors seasonless
But fix the mind within the moment's range.
Where evening would obscure our sorrow soon,
There shines too much a sterile loveliness.

No imprecisions of commingled shade,
No shimmering deceptions of the sun,
Herein no semblances remark the cold
Unhindered swell of time, for time is stayed.
The Passion wanes into oblivion,
And time and timelessness confuse, I'm told.

These centuries removed from either fact
Have lain upon the critical expanse
And been of little consequence. The void
Is calendared in stone; the human act,
Outrageous, is in vain. The hours advance
Like flecks of foam borne landward and destroyed.

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Ansel Adams

I have often thought that if photography were difficult in the true sense of the term -- meaning that the creation of a simple photograph would entail as much time and effort as the production of a good watercolor or etching -- there would be a vast improvement in total output. The sheer ease with which we can produce a superficial image often leads to creative disaster.

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What is it about possessing things Why do we feel the need to own what we love, and why do we become jerks when we do We've all been there-- you want something, to possess it. By possessing something you lose it. You finally win the girl of your dreams, the first thing you do is change her. The little things she does with her hair, the way she wears her clothes or the way she chews her gum. Pretty soon what you like, what you changed, what you don't like, blends together like a watercolor in the rain.

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To me, that's one of the things that I love about doing this stuff. One day I can work on this piece in watercolor, and then work on something else on the computer, or work on something else that's a completely different approach.

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If London is a watercolor, New York is an oil painting.

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For My Lover, Returning to His Wife

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission—

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound—
for the burying of her small red wound alive—

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stockings,
for the garter belt, for the call—

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts

[...] Read more

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On a Drawing by Charles Tomlinson

By a swath of inks the eye
thinks it sees solidities
which alter with the watercolor
way his brush washes its dye

in distance, though even this
finds a faraway fixed not
by the surveyor's plumb but
by the action of the thumb

delaying all the fingers meant
to draw out of the paper,
splashed dry. The clean grain

catches what it should retain
if enough pressure pleasure
is applied to the stain to lie.


Note: Tomlinson is not only a distinctive poet, but a visual artist of repute. His graphics grace the covers of many of his books. This Homage attempts to imitate his verse style, or rather one of his verse styles.

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Fractured Time

He would set them free,
words. On cityscape.
For extended release of connotations.
Part of him, not his way,
and become weaponless.

Once the silence descended,
nothing was left to be known.
Between doubt and belief
anguish was palpable.
Truth was a capped fossil.

The rumors and denials
were similar. Fractured time.
From lie to lie watercolor ticks the clock,
fells the tribe of seekers
and breaks the mirror.

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Watercolor sky
Painted by Master of Art
Creator Supreme

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Death & Fame

When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in
Manhattan
First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother
96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-
in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters
their grandchildren,
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan--
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche,
there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting
America, Satchitananda Swami
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche,
Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau
Roshis, Lama Tarchen --
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each
other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand
day retreat --"
"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he
loved me"
"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"
"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly
arms round each other"
"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my
skivvies would be on the floor"
"Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master"
"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
sleep in his captain's bed."
"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"
"I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my
stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- "
"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth
& fingers along my waist"
"He gave great head"
So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin-
gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!"
"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."
"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender
and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick,

[...] Read more

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Lost Treasure Chest

Magical treasure chest made of gold,

has in it many stories to be told.

On one uneventful day,

Golden treasure chest was taken away.

I had it packed in back room with shoes,

that’s when someone decided to lose,

my treasure chest right on site,

hide it from me with all their mite.

Luckily I went to store

found 20 treasure chests more galore.

Painted one up really quick,

I had a art show party within a week.

Watercolor paintings of Melodie,

hang on wall for children to see.

see along with Krendoll island set,

They would play on it and not forget

Forget the magic of Krendoll island I did make,

with birthday props like birthday cake.

Art show birthday party at Mexican Bizarre,

I set up the birthday party with a star.

Children showed up to find presents and unfreeze,

dragons that would begin to sneeze.

Once they had the heat device,

which was magical and would suffice,

To melt the spell on them,

[...] Read more

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In an Old Book

Forgotten between the leaves of an old book—
almost a hundred years old—
I found an unsigned watercolor.
It must have been the work of a powerful artist.
Its title: "Representation of Love."

"...love of extreme sensualists" would have been more to the point.

Because it became clear as you looked at the work
(it was easy to see what the artist had in mind)
that the young man in the painting
was not designated for those
who love in ways that are more or less healthy,
inside the bounds of what is clearly permissible—
with his deep chestnut eyes,
the rare beauty of his face,
the beauty of anomalous charm,
with those ideal lips that bring
sensual delight to the body loved,
those ideal limbs shaped for beds
that common morality calls shameless.

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A Father's Legacy

My Father's words are my legacy
He gave the pen of ardent writing.
The love for books and careful study,
And wealth of knowledge gained by reading.

The gift of painting self portraits
In oil and watercolor mediums
As artist he had various traits
That lingers now like sweet perfume.

He taught me best the gift of laughter,
Sincerity in friendships made,
In conflict silence is much greater
And cursing he always forbade.

'Strive to gain sound education
Value work and your family
Respect the race of any nation
Live well your life with integrity.'

He never schooled at parenting
And he may not be a perfect one
Through all mistakes and human failings
He lived this life an honest man.

He passed the torch and made life rich
By leaving me with all these lessons
Though in my heart I suffer grief
His love and memory will live on.

God bless you Daddy, you're the best!
With love and thanks - goodbye!
You've made the mark and passed your test
And now with angels you can fly.

FOR YOU DADDY ****

Vicente de Jesus Buhain Jr.
April 27,1920 - May 5,2009

FROM CYNTHIA


'And after my skin has been destroyed,

[...] Read more

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Erica Jong

Eveningsong at Bellosguardo

Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c'e certezza.
-Lorenzo di Medici

In the poplars' lengthening shadows on this hill,
amid the rows of marigolds and earth,
and through the boxhedge labyrinth we walk,
together, to the choiring twilight bells.
Their fugue of echoes echoes through the hills
and sings against this time-streaked, flowering wall
where breezes coax the potted lemon trees,
the pendant, yellow fruit and shiny leaves.
Beneath the flaming watercolor sky,
the cultivated, terraced dropp of hill,
a gleaming city with its towers and domes,
the Arno shimmering as its drowns the sun.

Chameleon-like, I am tranformed by light,
and wine has blurred the edges of the night.
What gifts I give on this or any night
may be refracted in another light.
You understnad this in a foreign tongue,
but vaguely, for these things will not translate.
I feel it in the cadence of your walk:
you are not whom moonlight can create.
And you will think the loosening of these thighs,
the sudden, urging whiteness of the throat
are muted but distinctly pagan cries
and in your triumph you will fairly gloat.

Tonight the unplucked lemons almost gleam.
And with their legs, the crickets harmonize.
The trees are rustling an uncertain hymn,
and unseen birds contribute trembling cries.
When did the summer censor choiring things?
We know the blood is brutal though it sings.

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Swansong

A poor ferryman is crossing the quiet river
and suddenly she changed into a whirlpool.
The swing bridge is in full swing
with the east wind
and the fading twilight sky
looks like a watercolor painting.
I can hear the ferryman's whimper
who hides at all.
A dealer, poor girl's money lending uncle
who takes her cunningly to a Manor for housekeeping.
I read the ferryman's teary eyes
where it stuck the hidden words there.
'Be careful my little red riding hood
when sweeping the garden
specially under the thorn-bearing trees
don't be in barefoot.
I am waiting for you my sleeping beauty
and whatsoever I promise you to marry
in the next equinox'.

To the poetess Amanda.Lukas

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