Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ART MOMENT, VOL 1
By Darcy Prince

Time or reality is ungoverned, it will remain so for at least in the indefinable future. Innovations will come along. If ethical education has taught us anything. It always changes. Devoid of not making an effort.

I tried painting for a bit. I’m not that good. Several years ago, my housemate recommended watching an Andy Warhol documentary. I honestly became fascinated & dived into several art documentaries, honestly quite a fantastic learning experience. Looking, I regret not collecting all the links to those documentaries, even though I got the time to do so now. This was during the time of getting to know myself again, or getting a sense of direction. Painting, drawing, more attempts to learn, using online videos to learn how to draw a person's eyes or hands was a somewhat slightly disappointing experience, that I should try something else. I can remember the pacific moment to try art writing a go or even getting into any sort of criticism. But I ended up there.

I remember watching the program, ‘different ways of seeing’, aesthetics became a new subject for me. With Alain De Botton, now taking into consideration the larger impact, things have on society. Being utterly fascinated on how some, not all painters have a lasting print on peoples society. Like how Van Gogh never sold a painting within his lifetime. The relation between what we see & what we know is a comforting, settling thing. Seeing the painting ‘scream’, perhaps an early meme or trolling act, without a notice, reflects the inner fear we share. Feeling desired as a lover, maybe the most Holy feeling in the world. For those who aren’t, their artworks are a displaying force of nature. Rothko has provided a new way in expression, with his drape like paintings in a tone of red, as his edges before the canvas ended seemingly lazy at a time when art was supposed to be serious & realistic. And so far, people are the common thread between forms of art.

A time for action is in art. In modern speaking or our armchair conversations over coffee, maybe you’re a tea drinker. My cigarettes will be there. The hashtag learn to code was quite popular, especially when universal income became a new subject for our politicians we are voting in and started to be talked about. Games are a large industry. There’s even arguments for it being art. It does make use for graphics & storytelling. Whether you play it or not. It does include a large amount of thinking to put together. Sure we can talk of the violence it uses. Though outside those who read or try to keep up with modern times. The rise of deep fakes. *** doesn’t belong to a group, race, a part of the city, race. It honestly belongs to the world. Yes, some works of art will rise from it. The obscure thinking never actually seems to fit in. Even in the Star Wars films, there’s a use of passed away actors to be acting in the films they’re releasing now. To remain innocent, is to remain ignorant. Statues of past figureheads of culture may have been adored by the art critic, but the average person has someone they know to be entered in their private virtual world.

I don’t know what your story is. I think art can offer what we’re languishing inside of us. Personally, over the last couple of years, I’ve been wounded by my last breakup. I spent it in bed, I cried, I couldn’t do anything, even food started to taste differently. In romance art, novels in particular, supplemented so much. Being heartbroken. Can you believe that individuals can do so amongst themselves? I’ve heard it argued & arguing successfully, that identity comes from an idea. Art I think, that comes along with that. But art does provide a certain grief, with tragedy developing as its own genre.

I really don’t know where I was going with this. I just wrote it out. But leaving it here, to add to the body of work when I die. But what reconciles an individual with society, to what that person created.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHsRhWASbvk&t=23s
It's okay not to be okay
When you smile
Yet,
filled with frown
Its okay not to be okay
When emanating bliss
Yet,
burning with rages of yesteryears
It's okay not to be okay
when  engulfed
In flames of bruises, cuts and hurts
Yet
Play chords of empty, seamless laughter
It's okay not to be okay
when you are not okay,
But have to be okay
Dedicated to a pal who is "emotionally unavailable" and to anyone facing this kinda turbulence
Running to u, perhaps
results in
A heartbreak;
a tear
or
a sigh.
Galloping across pulses
Perchance, is a chase
of the wind.
Even so,
I'll run to u.
Based on ben e king's stand by me. Dedicated to all those who still hope for love and meaningful friendships one day. May you find the person you can always run to.
Rain falls from
our cheeks,
Pages of memories
are burnt
inside fate's tower.
Life is a Hydra.
We often shed tears over struggles and losses of loved ones. I dedicate this to all seeking for another day in paradise
Norman Crane Feb 4
Five red haired maidens / resting symmetry
Draped in bluest sky / arranged peacefully
Interwined pink flowers / chaining togetherly
One composition / from Antiquity
Arms wilt with leisure / classically painted
Their wild thoughts blooming / a pale recreation
Seated in judgment / of time untainted
By modernity / By degradation
in eternal youth / in a single row
They sit and they watch / seasons come and go
I fell for her like rain.
Droplets of
emotions,
dropped hastily
from clouded minds
carved in skies of doubt;
with interludes of
Thunder and illusion.

Confusing
Speeches, displayed
in lightning lies
and Jasper eyes
I fell in haste.
Till the scorching sun
dried up the well.
I fell like rain.
This is a remake of my own poem poetry2. It is dedicated to my friend Mawunya, a fellow poet on hepo. It is also for unrequited lovers and those who fell for a special someone.
verus Oct 2020
my life is not beautiful.
it just is and that is enough.
refraining from falling
into the hopelessness I've created,
that prison of my own manufacture.

I put water over the stove
and sit in this carcass
while I myself,
a cadaver if you will,
wait for it to complace me.

the lost dreams and
suspires wander these walls
that have trapped
every abandoned hope hides
behind these eternal furniture.

how am I supposed
to thread beautifully with
all this weight? my arms
are full, with bruises and plates;
***** plates I carry on
from door to door before
running away holding more.

should I drop, let them shatter?
is it cowardice, or care for the self?
my friend has said they
are no different.

to know there is no expectation present
you mustn't know what an expectation is.
so, do you, my friend?
the flies on the still life
are agreeing with us.

do you allow them dictate
that which is beautiful, why,
when they haven't got a feeling?

do you allow me dictate
that which isn't?
tell me beauty's antonym
and I'll teach you to survive

between humans and the flies
that peck at the remains
of what once lost I retrieved,
and corrupted it came back.

on my floors the plates stay shattered
my soles bleed on every step
on the edge of hopelessness.

it is not for us; romantics,
sinners of massacre, thieves of all kinds.

lives cannot be made beautiful,
yet you found beauty in its lack.
I wanted encouragement yet only found courage—
to write, grieve, and die.
at the late night kitchen
Traveler Oct 2020
This is a gift I brandish alone
My sheath is my passion
My sword is my poem
Intellectual aesthetic‘s
My centre of pleasure
My creativity flows on
This body is tethered

People can make me feel quite strange
They roll their eyes and shake their brains
Seldom are they on the same page
Where poetry flows
In an aesthetic array

But this is who we are
And there is no need to change
The expanding universe
Is calling our names
...................
We are the creative ones of our societies
It is not a burden but the gift,

Traveler Tim
Aaron E Oct 2020
Paint myself a stone.
Equipped to roam aesthetic empire.

I walk the street,
Peeling up the corners of posters
for those who reach toward victory over death,
to see the stone beneath.

The pedestrians beside me sulk in rain
so eternally present,
it's pulsing collisions with the pavement
have drummed it's echoes into the soundtrack.

Engines stirring.
Rain pouring.
Walkers chattering.

Unnoticed erosion.

I watch the posters bleed.
A warning of their shared fate with the stone.
Canaries painted up with the brightest feathers.
Monuments like gleaming limestone pyramids.

But we won't remember the feathers as bright.

We'll remember the colors bled out, when they're bled out.
The paint on our pantheon will wash to white marble.
And they'll re-remember it as white marble.
They'll re-remember the lustrous white
limestone as dirt and sand,
when its dirt and sand.
Our history will be rewritten, as its remembered.
I haven't posted much, so I decided to put this up before I edited it all into rhyme. This is a small excerpt of a larger thread of thought I plan on continuing to write about.
This is not a poem
Just a thank you
Message
It's ma birthday
Just want to say
Thank you
Poets of hello poetry
Thank you for the love.
It's ma birthday and I want to thank all poets of how who have patronized ma art. Amanda, dr. Lim, and a host of others. Thank you very much
Next page