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R Sep 16
Kyra is a painter, but she's colorblind.

She makes someone else's world colorful but hers is grey.

Whenever she draws in the middle of spring afternoon, she tends to whispers to the singing bird on her shoulder.

"For whom I draw still hasn't been decided, and I wish to meet my muse soon after the season's end."

Two days after spring.

She's being asked to attend her friend's rehearsal.

A pair of her brown eyes is glued to the pianist as his melody hits her right. His fingers gracefully dance in tuts, faster than anyone's breathe, but not so fast compared to Kyra's hand sketching him.

"I find my muse." She whispers in happiness. Gaze falls to the quick sketch on her hand.


She asks her friend about his name, eyes sparkles with love, so pure, so honest.

"His name is Will. He's special like you."

Her brows furrow in confusion as she skips a heartbeat.

"Special? Like me?"

"He's a pianist but he's deaf."
Hands on brush and pallet tightening,

Ready eyes dissect the hills.

Taking aim, he strikes as lightning,

Carving deep, with studied skills.

Dashing streaks of leaden colour

Flash across the canvas bare.

Abstract lines of gallant valour

Pierce the flesh and slice the air.

Random arcs of crimson, spraying,

On the verdant backdrop fall.

Peppered strokes of fire weighing

On the artist’s tortured soul.

Fingers grip the cold steel trigger,

Gritting teeth and shoulders braced,

Sits the gunner’s tragic figure

Spitting shells as bullets raced.

Dripping sweat on greasy flannels,

Roaring rattle bursts the ear.

Drawing strength from mystic channels,

Praying, now, in silent fear.

Thankless is the art of killing,

Filling frames with grieving doom.

Bitter hearts of gunners willing,

Hang theirs in some secret room.
In the poem Artwork, I try to create an extended metaphor between the abstract artist and the machine gunner. The ground for this comparison is in the act of execution but the artwork of the gunner is exhibited privately in the secret, bitter gallery of his soul. The trochaic tetrameter used in epic poetry (such as the Finnish national epic, the Kalevala and the Greek national anthem, Hymn to Freedom by Dionysus Solomou) is adopted here rather cynically to give an air of pomp. I hope you enjoy it.
I wish I could paint the sky like Sally does,
And catch the clouds that gather on the ground,
The bright round picked-up penny of the moon;
The point where blue and pink can bleed together.
For my sister, who is a painter.
Elliot Munro Aug 22
A Story of guilt.
Not for him, for us.
Vincent.

Strokes and flicks,
Glides of guilded golds
Hushed in the Blues,
Innocence in the Greens;
Boldly infused oils
Spilling out on a canvas;
A legacy built on
Sorrow. Toil. Turmoil.
Who with dark indents on a page shaded in
Shadows showed
Work. Work, work,
Constant work.
A Starry Night’s muse.
All the while cowards saying they always
Knew,
Always loved,
Always loving
Vincent.
The greatest piece of art
is found in the movement
of bodies

the fluidity of the wrist
to paint the nakedness
of humanity

the speed of fingers
strumming and plucking
our souls

the sensuality of flesh
moving in rhythm
of life

the meticulous eye
capturing little moments
of society

Art is beauty
and beauty is movement
of bodies.
umm e rubab Jul 5
She is far gone,
But her spirit will never die
The painter has loved her even after the sigh,
Beauty remained within his heart
Which never let their souls apart,
He painted her on the canvas with the feather
Which could narrate her even better,
From the strokes he painted a smile
That always take him away in the heaven for a while,
A smile on her pale face
Turns everything into grace,
With glitter on her lashes
That now burning him into ashes,
All the beauty that lies within her eyes
Always leave him mesmerized,
Her lips are stained with the colors of her hair
Leads him to find her everywhere,
Lips, that makes him weak
Weakness that exploited his chest,
He felt her every curve
Exposing her from all the rest,
Love utterly made him fly
Because she can never die.
Sunny Gulati Jul 3
A maverick personality with

a bohemian style of dressing.

A flowing beard and a hat worn obliquely.

He was a painter par excellence,

exhibiting his piece de resistance.

His painting was to any eye a treat

but a part of it was left incomplete.

Left inadvertently or maybe intentionally.

My curiosity got the better of me

and prompted me to inquire brusquely.

The artist answered rather politely,

“I leave it incomplete to stay away from conceit.

To avoid being coloured with it vainly.

And prevent my ego from craving more than what my skill can achieve.

The incomplete painting now made sense to me as I continued to  marvel at his masterpiece.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 19
I can't cope when my
page stares at me
White, soft and gentle
Empty, dull, lifeless
And the burden to fill it
becomes so heavy
My quill in the inkpot
Pen and pencils, unused
And I feel so flustered
when I am unable to
tell my truth

Words I think wither
Creative juices dry
My mind becomes a
disastrous chorus line
And I feel so trapped,
unable to talk with
my pen

I'm taken back to the
days where my soul
was heavy with pain
That pain was soothed
when I stained my page
with words because now
I had a medium and I
could go forth, confident
and free

When I stare at the canvas
I remember that little girl
who found a way to be
seen and still be unseen
That's the feeling I have,
was born with, that gives
me so much comfort
I can protect myself and
guard myself from how
the world wants girls to
be seen and how I don't
fit the mold

I find I feel more at peace
to be part of that world
that draws it breath
from the words
on my tongue
drawn onto the
canvas by my
right hand

But the words, I find hard
to pour on the page in new
verses. The page that is
empty and free, is
somehow grinning
at my misery
Writer's block sucks.
Seriously. I have never been so flustered. I hate it because it reminds me of when I was little. Long in short, I did NOT have a happy childhood. The cause - the man my mother married. The man who was no father to me or my siblings. Long in short, it physically hurts when I can't write. I end up emotionally and mentally strained, and my body aches. Like I feel the years of aching pain pulse through my body.
It may sound dramatic but it's true. This is how I feel.
I can only ever right how I feel, even when I find it hard to really articulate it.
Anyway, thank you everyone for 92 followers!
Be back soon!
Lyn xxx
You're a painter with brush
My face isn't worth painting

You're a writer with pen
My story isn't worth writing

You're a poet with soul
My umbra isn't worth rhyming

You're a photographer with camera
My appearance isn't worth capturing

You're a director with 35mm
My action isn't worth watching

You're the artist
I am the creative block
Daidaiiro Jun 9
Paint on the floor
Sketches on the door
Pastel chalk dust everywhere;
A painter lives here
He stays up late
He loses weight
His paintings so deep
He barely eats or sleep

Poor painter is stressed
With his work obsessed
But doesn't get anything done
Inspiration is gone
It hurts to the core
He can't take it anymore
Throws the brush on his bed
Which stains the sheets red
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