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jane taylor May 2016
i fight to peel each moment
of pure stagnation
off of me

a tinnitus cacophony whines in my ears
as my dilapidated fan
keeps slow rhythm to the faucet drip

minutes drag like molasses
handcuffed to the daily lag
groundhog day

i escape into the forest
running, the breeze caresses my face
wildlife pries open my desperate eyes

a spider’s web bends and sways in the wind
fine strands of silver silk flow
soaring they meld in crescent waves

a butterfly glides gently by
befriending gusts of air
softly breathing in another tomorrow

the conductor of the symphony
with sculptor’s hands i cannot see
whispers ever graciously

life is not your enemy
drink it in and let it seep
drop your sword i’m molding thee

©2016janetaylor
Megan Sherman May 2017
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a town cryer you will surely find her,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off her soul's fire,
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a preacher, she's a beseecher,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off, her skills as a teacher.

You can tell her from her song,
A divine ditty,
It sings true and pretty,
That lifts itself above the throng,
Singing to the children,
As the adults go blithely by,
Like they do when they hear a bird in the sky,
The adults are absent minded,
Spiritually blinded,
Playing games,
But the children are kindred,
They see her flames,
And dance in its fire,
To the adults' shame,
They dance along to her lyres,
Who among us can say they came?
To witness her fitness, suffice to inspire,
Love and eternal desires.

She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a town cryer you will surely find her,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off her soul's fire,
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a preacher, she's a beseecher,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off, her skills as a teacher.

She's writing alone,
Typing madly in to her iPhone,
Catching snippets of her mind's moan,
With inspiration at the fingertips she foams,
Half-assedly rolling smokes,
******* hard when she's taking tokes,
Finding ways to crack jokes,
Taking aim, cussing blokes
Taking wide and long strokes
That *** a whole in one,
She's not serious she's real fun,
A sizzling, smoking gun,
Who runs with the sun,
All at one,
Says it all yet there's so much more,
Can tell she feels it raw,
To love, pity and adore,
She begs the children and implores.

She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a town cryer you will surely find her,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off her soul's fire,
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a preacher, she's a beseecher,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off, her skills as a teacher.
ryn Dec 2015
.
•i've depleted my font,
my creative well•for each
day passed, with a story to tell
•staining white and barren land-
scapes•by sculpting my words into
myriad shapes•from factory fumes to
a wedding ring•an ominous tombstone
to a flash of lightning•an hourglass to track
elapsing time•the untold story behind a loved

                   nursery rhyme•            |  
                   with this i conc-             |  
                lude my 30 day run          o  
•it's been quite a stretch but
all in good fun•rest assured that
more will come when the time is
right•for now i'll turn off my
bedside lamp and bid
you all a goodnight•

.
Concrete Poem 30 of 30

Thank you so much for your continued love and support! If you have missed any of the entries, click on the "30daysofconcrete" hashtag below to view them all. Thanks again!!!
.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Everything in quotations marks and italics was written by TS Eliot.

eyes knowing glossy men,
sheer women, creatures,
not all artists, but artists,
always thus,
centrifugal, simple

from their core,
emanate, resonate,
expand the exterior
with interior precision sculpting

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity,
oriented to their locality

the simple purpose of inhalation,
to exhale, after transformation,
the calculus of thought into emotion:

"the tongues of flame are in-folded
into the crowned knot of fire and
the fire and rose are one"


the dancers hear the music:

"so deeply that it is not heard at all,
but you are the music
while the music lasts."


**”Quick now, here, now always –
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well"
"Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)

Inspired this evening by the Martha Graham Company, the words and wisdom of TS Eliot, from whom she took inspiration in her choreography of modern dance
loisa fenichell Jan 2014
The baby is born to the death walls
that line the cellar. The cellar is dark
and musty like the inside of a mouth
that has seen every forest in the world
that needs to be seen. There is animal
screaming and cheeks wailing and blood
smashed. There is the floor: cold as bath
water or lungs or teeth or healing. She
wanted a midwife. The midwife looks
ashes of change, her hands shake  
like a pale fire. Her hands shouldn’t
be shaking, I want to say please, leave
the shaking hands to us, we are only
a professional family, but you are really
a professional, your brain is snowed with
palms that knead proper parturition. But
my mouth is tight with breath and ash.
Ellen Joyce Jul 2013
And life came in, crowned in blood, kissed and messed,
announcing itself with a cry.  
A girl-child, missing piece, fitted to my breast
her weight absorbed with my heart's sigh
She was fear personified, so heavenly blessed,
she made my terrified simpers her lullaby.

I felt my heart's core swell to absorb her scent,
and my eyes overflowed with love's cascading cry.
She cast light into my darkened chaotic hurt -
sparked a desire to wake, to live, to try,
clasping her whole fist around my ring finger,
holding me still; the whole world passing by.

And in her absence she left her shadow nestled in my chest.
And in my absence I hid my kisses in her sigh.
She grew with eyes of blue and a sympathetic smile -
all faerie dust on the wing of a butterfly,
an almost echo of a girl I once knew.
Except she didn't know that kind of cry,
wouldn't know anything less than rainbows,
than Christmas mornings and endless blue skies.

We tripped, clicked heels through the passing years,
from little girl to little woman in the blink of an eye,
till we were both wearing her shoes instead of mine.
And like Alice, she snapped from low to high
she grew - time sculpting curvy definitions
of who I hope and fear she will be.

She is golden curls and girlish giggles
ever wondering the where or the why
ever seeking to help, to heal, to try
to pour her heart into an undeserving world.
She has legs she claims to stand her ground
to be, to free, to hold her own.

And though like me, she is not me,
since she is so much braver than I.
Her finger is wrapped around her innocence
holding strong to consent or deny.
This life will make her cry her tears
and this world will realise her fears
but she will ever have the wings to fly
and I will ever ready to sing her our lullaby.
For my god daughter.  With love.
Joel A Doetsch Jan 2012
What would I do for you?  There's lots of things, actually


I would spontaneously start speaking Hungarian for you...but it probably would sound like nonsense

and some Hungarian dude

   Would be all like "Haver, nem beszél magyarul"

        I would shrug, because
        
              I don't know Hungarian...

But I'd still do it for you, if you wanted me to.



I would fly us to ancient Mayan burial grounds, where we could

   Learn all about a lost culture

           We would run into a cursed
                
                   Mayan Chief, but he'd actually be pretty cool
          
              He would teach us how to do a rain dance,

         Every once in awhile he'd look at you and say "kíichpan"
  
   and I'd be like..."Dude, back off..."

                       He's like 2000 years old...
                                
                         ­    He's way too old for you.



I would carve you an Ice Sculpture in your likeness

        Taking care to make sure that every detail was perfect and reflected
          
            Your beauty
              
               In every possible way.

     I'm not too good at Ice Sculpting, though, so it might just end up looking
              
            Like an oddly-shaped block of ice.


      Sorry...

            I hope you would like it anyway



For you, I would count to infinity

     Which might not sound like a feat, at first

   But then I would count back to zero

  I'm pretty sure no one's done that before....

     I won't be able to do it all in one day

So it might take awhile...

                  Hope you don't mind waiting for me




    I would write poetry every day for you


            Because I know that I would never run out of things
  
       To write about







....Well, maybe every 'other' day.
"Haver, nem beszél magyarul" means "Dude, you can't speak Hungarian" in Hungarian.  For some reason, though, when you put it through a translator, it will tell you that it means "You cannot speak English".  This is somewhat offputting.  "kíichpan" means "pretty" or "beautiful" in Mayan.
Eudora Mar 2017
It is absolutely breath-taking..

how each of his exquisite poems sing..
a distinctive melody,
*how his mind works like magic...

sculpting the most incredible forms no one could.
Brilliance just shines through his woven pieces...
no words could really define how awe-inspiring his work is.
His meticulous sublime words...
uniquely create ingenious and flawless stanzas,

making each and every one of his craft...
out of this universe.


That is truly..
*
how gifted he is.
spysgrandson Apr 2017
Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare

to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years  

yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls

she kneads the big *****, pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another

then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see

she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter

the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them

now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang

Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name

nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun

Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven

it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve

holy, holy, holy...
Adrian Ware May 2017
In the making of something incredible
For you are polished stone, that has been created
But are not representing the purpose that you were meant to serve
Tools are needed to complete the details
In which you will be put to work
And taken off the list that says reserved
With a hammer in one hand, and a nail in the other
The sculpting shall begin
For every chipped piece starts a journey that possibly won't end
But will continue on long after you're gone
For a legacy will be built
As the nail and the hammer will be passed on
For others to sculpt and have their dreams fulfilled
©Words of the Wise Poetry
Annelyra Oct 2013
Crash
And you're awake
Fighting with eyelids
Losing
tick tick tick
you're
running out
of
time
half an arm in your sleeve
and one shoe missing
girlfriend
this is modern life
the right to run yourself
absolutely ragged
was earned for you
by other better women
so run faster run faster runfaster
and make sure
your nails are as immaculate
as your
work/life balance

trickle trickle
down the centre of your back
fully paid-up member
of the local leisure centre
sculpting that body
for everyone else's sake
see the angel in the marble
and sweat until
you set it free
you're a modern-day
Michaelangelo
take out your chisel
and get back to work

tease those eyelids open
oh god
crash
crash
crashcrashcrash
heartbeat elevating
along with your blood pressure
have you forgotten..
no its ok
thank god
heart slows
with a family to support
and a mortgage to pay
you can't afford to forget
anything
and you can't afford
the sleep it requires
to sharpen that memory
you're paying in minutes
and you need more
than you can get

remember
if you can't touch it
it ain't worth nothing
glass coffee tables with
object d'art languishing beneath
that's what life is all about
fill your place with
minimalist furniture
have a feature wall
in every room
be edgy and creative
monochrome not florals
darling
seriously consider an extension
and a yacht
install a corner jacuzzi
in magenta temptress
that you'll never use
shout at the children
for spilling on the
cream wool carpet
invite friends over to
drink Merlot with you


carbon footprint aside
work is an hour away
so at the end of every day
get in your car
and hurtle towards home
weaving between cars
and lorries
and motorbikes
autopilot
thinking of emails
writing emails
receiving emails
gottapickupthekidsandsortoutthe..
then
you realise
with your chest bangbangbanging
that your eyelids gave up
just momentarily
as a lorry pulled out
driven by a 44-year-old
who will later
much later
joke weakly
women drivers
over his pint of Carlsberg
and in two seconds flat
you're going
to
crash.
RAJ NANDY Nov 2015
GREAT ARTISTS & THEIR IMMORTAL WORKS :
CONCLUDING ITALIAN RENAISSANCE IN
VERSE.  -  By Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

Dear Readers, continuing my Story of Western Art in Verse chronologically, I had covered an Introduction to the Italian Renaissance previously. That background story was necessary to appreciate Renaissance Art fully. Now, I cover the Art of that period in a summarized form, mentioning mainly the salient features to curb the length. The cream here lies in the 'Art of the High Renaissance Period'! Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.

                          INTRODUCTION
“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, &
  Poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
                                                        – Leonardo Da Vinci
In the domain of Renaissance Art, we notice the
enduring influence of the Classical touch!
Ancient Greek statues and Roman architectures,
Inspired the Renaissance artists in their innovative
ventures!
The pervasive spirit of Humanism influenced
creation of life-like human forms;
Adding ****** expressions and depth, deviating
from the earlier stiff Medieval norms.
While religious subjects continued to get depicted
in three-dimensional Renaissance Art;
Portraits, **** figures, and secular subjects, also
began to appear during this great ‘Re-birth’!
The artists of the Early and High Renaissance Era
are many who deserve our adoration and artistic
due.
Yet for the sake of brevity, I mention only the
Great Masters, who are handful and few.

EARLY RENAISSANCE ARTISTS & THEIR ART

GITTO THE PIONEER:
During early 13th Century we find, Dante’s
contemporary Gitto di Bondone the Florentine,
Painting human figures in all its beauty and form
for the first time!
His masterwork being the 40 fresco cycle in the
Arena Chapel in Padua, depicting the life of the
****** and Christ, completed in 1305.
Giotto made the symbolic Medieval spiritual art
appear more natural and realistic,
By depicting human emotion, depth with an
artistic perspective!
Art Scholars consider him to be the trailblazer
inspiring the later painters of the Renaissance;
They also refer to Giorgio Vasari’s “Lives Of
The Eminent Artists,” - as their main source.
Giotto had dared to break the shackles of earlier
Medieval two-dimensional art style,
By drawing lines which head towards a certain
focal point behind;
Like an illusionary vanishing point in space,
- opening up a 3-D ‘window into space’!
This ‘window technique’ got adopted by the
later artists with grace.
(
Giorgio Vasari, a 16th Century painter, architect & Art
historian, was born in 1511 in Arezzy, a city under the
Florentine Republic, and painted during the High
Renaissance Period.)

VASARI’s book published in 1550 in Florence
was dedicated to Cosimo de Medici.
Forms an important document of Italian Art
History.
This valuable book covers a 250 year’s span.
Commencing with Cimabue the tutor of Giotto,
right up to Tizian, - better known as Titan!
Vasari also mentions four lesser known Female
Renaissance Artists; Sister Plantilla, Madonna
Lucrezia, Sofonista Anguissola, and Properzia
de Rossi;
And Rossi’s painting “Joseph and Potiphar’s
Wife”,
An impressive panel art which parallels the
unrequited love Rossi experienced in her own
life !
(
Joseph the elder son of Jacob, taken captive by Potiphar
the Captain of Pharaoh’s guard, was desired by Potiphar’s
wife, whose advances Joseph repulsed. Rossi’s painting
of 1520s inspired later artists to paint their own versions
of this same Old Testament Story.)

Next I briefly mention architects Brunelleschi
and Ghiberti, and the sculptor Donatello;
Not forgetting the painters like Masaccio,
Verrocchio and Botticelli;
Those Early Renaissance Artists are known to
us today thanks to the Art historian Giorgio
Vasari .

BRUNELLESCHI has been mentioned in Section
One of my Renaissance Story.
His 114 meter high dome of Florence Cathedral
created artistic history!
This dome was constructed without supporting
buttresses with a double egg shaped structure;
Stands out as an unique feat of Florentine
Architecture!
The dome is larger than St Paul’s in London,
the Capitol Building of Washington DC, and
also the St Peters in the Vatican City!

GILBERTI is remembered for his massive
15 feet high gilded bronze doors for the
Baptistery of Florence,
Containing twenty carved panels with themes
from the Old Testament.
Which took a quarter century to complete,
working at his own convenience.
His exquisite naturalistic carved figures in the
true spirit of the Renaissance won him a prize;
And his gilded doors were renamed by Michel
Angelo as ‘The Gates of Paradise’!
(
At the age of 23 yrs Lorenzo Ghiberti had won the
competition beating other Architects for craving the
doors of the Baptistery of Florence!)

DONATELLO’S full size bronze David was
commissioned by its patron Cosimo de’ Medici.
With its sensual contrapposto stance in the
classical Greek style with its torso bent slightly.
Is known as the first free standing **** statue
since the days of Classical Art history!
The Old Testament relates the story of David
the shepherd boy, who killed the giant Goliath
with a single sling shot;
Cutting off his head with Goliath’s own sword!
Thus saving the Israelites from Philistine’s wrath.
This unique statue inspired all later sculptors to
strive for similar artistic excellence;
Culminating in Michael Angelo’s **** statue of
David, known for its sculptured brilliance!

MASSACCIO (1401- 1428) joined Florentine
Artist’s Guild at the age of 21 years.
A talented artist who abandoned the old Gothic
Style, experimenting without fears!
Influenced by Giotto, he mastered the use of
perspective in art.
Introduced the vanishing point and the horizon
line, - while planning his artistic works.
In his paintings ‘The Expulsion from Eden’
and ‘The Temptation’,
He introduced the initial **** figures in Italian
Art without any inhibition!
Though up North in Flanders, Van Eyck the
painter had already made an artistic innovation,
By painting ‘Adam and Eve’ displaying their
****** in his artistic creation;
Thereby creating the first **** painting in Art
History!
But such figures greatly annoyed the Church,
Since nudes formed a part of pagan art!
So these Northern artists to pacify the Church
and pass its censorship,
Cleverly under a fig leaf cover made their art to
appear moralistic!
Van Eyck was also the innovator of oil-based paints,
Which later replaced the Medieval tempera, used to
paint angles and saints.

Masaccio’s fresco ‘The Tribute Money’ requires
here a special mention,
For his use of perspective with light and shade,
Where the blithe figure of the Roman tax collector
is artistically made.
Christ is painted with stern nobility, Peter in angry
majesty;
And every Apostle with individualized features,
attire, and pose;
With light coming from a single identifiable source!
“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,
and unto God things that are God’s”, said Christ;
Narrated in Mathew chapter 22 verse 21, which
cannot be denied.
Unfortunately, Masaccio died at an early age of
27 years.
Said to have been killed by a jealous rival artist,
who had shed no tears!

BOTTICELLI the Florentine was born half a
century after the Dutch Van Eyck;
Remembered even to this day for his painting
the ‘Birth of Venus’, an icon of Art History
making him famous.
This painting depicts goddess Venus rising out
of the sea on a conch shell,
And the glorious path of female **** painting
commenced in Italy, - casting a spell!
His full scale **** Venus shattered the Medieval
taboo on ******.
With a subject shift from religious art to Classical
Mythology;
Removing the ‘fig-leaf cover’ over Art permanently!

I end this Early Period with VERROCCHIO, born
in Florence in fourteen hundred and thirty five.
A trained goldsmith proficient in the skills of both
painting and sculpture;
Who under the patronage of the Medici family
had thrived.
He had set up his workshop in Florence were he
trained Leonardo Da Vinci, Botticelli, and other
famous Renaissance artists alike!

FOUR CANONICAL PAINTING MODES OF
THE RENAISSANCE:
During the Renaissance the four canonical painting
modes we get to see;
Are Chiaroscuro, Sfumato, Cangiante and Unione.
‘Chiaroscuro’ comes from an Italian word meaning
‘light and dark’, a painting technique of Leonardo,
Creating a three dimensional dramatic effect to
steal the show.
Later also used with great excellence by Rubens
and the Dutch Rembrandt as we know.
‘Sfumato’ from Italian ‘sfumare’, meaning to tone
down or evaporate like a smoke;
As seen in Leonardo’s ‘Mona Lisa’ where the
colors blend seamlessly like smoke!
‘Cangiante’ means to ‘change’, where a painter
changed to a lighter or a darker hue, when the
original hue could not be made light enough;
As seen in the transformation from green to
yellow in Prophet Daniel’s robe,
On the ceiling of Sistine Chapel in Rome.
‘Unione’ followed the ‘sfumato’ quality, but
maintained vibrant colors as we get to see;
In Raphael’s ‘Alba Madonna’ in Washington’s
National Gallery.

ART OF HIGH RENAISSANCE ERA - THE
GOLDEN AGE.

“Where the spirit does not work with the
hand there is no art.”- Leonardo

With Giotto during the Trecento period of the
14th century,
Painting dominated sculpture in the artistic
endeavor of Italy.
During the 15th century the Quattrocento, with
Donetello and Giberti,
Sculpture certainly dominated painting as we get to
see!
But during the 16th century or the Cinquecento,
Painting again took the lead commencing with
the great Leonardo!
This Era was cut short by the death of Lorenzo the
Magnificent to less than half a century; (Died in 1493)
But gifted great masterpieces to the world enriching
the world of Art tremendously!
The Medieval ‘halo’ was now replaced by a fresh
naturalness;
And both Madonna and Christ acquired a more
human likeness!
Portrait paintings began to be commissioned by
many rich patrons.
While artists acquired both recognition and a status
of their own.
But the artistic focus during this Era had shifted from
Florence,  - to Venice and Rome!
In the Vatican City, Pope Julius-II was followed by
Pope Leo the Tenth,
He commissioned many works of art which are
still cherished and maintained!
Now cutting short my story let me mention the
famous Italian Renaissance Superstar Trio;
Leonardo, Raphael, and Michael Angelo.

LEONARDO DA VINCI was born in 1452 in
the village of Vinci near the City of Florence,
Was deprived of a formal education being born
illegitimate!
He was left-handed, and wrote from right to left!
He soon excelled his teacher Varrocchio, by
introduced oil based paints into Italy;
Whose translucent colors with his innovative
techniques, enhanced his painting artistically.
Sigmund Freud had said, “Leonardo was like a
man who awoke too early in the darkness while
others were all still asleep,” - he was awake!
Leonardo’s  historic ‘Note Book’ has sketches of a
battle tank, a flying machine, a parachute, and many
other anatomical and technical sketches and designs;
Reflecting the ever probing mind of this versatile
genius who was far ahead of his time!
His ‘Vituvian Man’, ‘The Last Supper’, and ‘Mona Lisa’,
Remain as his enduring works of art and more popular
than the Leaning Tower of Pisa!
Pen and ink sketch of the ‘Vitruvian Man’ with arms
and leg apart inside a square and a circle, also known
as the ‘Proportion of Man’;
Where his height correspondence to the length
of his outstretched hands;
Became symbolic of the true Renaissance spirit
of Man.
‘The Last Supper’ a 15ft by 29ft fresco work on
the refectory wall of Santa Maria, commissioned
by Duke of Milan Ludovic,
Is the most reproduced religious painting which
took three years to complete!
Leonardo searched the streets of Milan before
painting Judas’ face;
And individualized each figure with competence!
‘Mona Lisa’ with her enigmatic smile continues
to inspire artists, poets, and her viewers alike,
since its creation;
Which Leonardo took four years to complete
with utmost devotion.
Leonardo used oil on poplar wood panel, unique
during those days,
With ‘sfumato’ blending of translucent colors with
light and shade;
Creating depth, volume, and form, with a timeless
expression on Mona Lisa’s countenance!
Art Historian George Varasi says that it is the face
of one Lisa Gherardini,
Wife of a wealthy Florentine merchant of Italy.
Insurance Companies failed to make any estimation
of this portrait, declaring its value as priceless!
Today it remains housed inside an air-conditioned,
de-humidified chamber, within a triple bullet-proof
glass, in Louvre France.
“It is the ultimate symbol of human civilization”,
- exclaimed President Kennedy;
And with this I pay my humble tribute to our
Leonardo da Vinci!

MICHEL ANGELO BUONARROTI (1475-1564):
This Tuscan born sculptor, painter, architect, and
poet, was a versatile man,
Worthy to be called the archetype of the true
‘Renaissance Man’!
At the age of twelve was placed under the famous
painter Ghirlandio,
Where his inclination for sculpting began to show.
Under the liberal patronage of Lorenzo de Medici,
He developed his talent as a sculptor as we get
to see.
In the Medici Palace, he was struck by his rival
Torregiano on the nose with a mallet;
Disfiguring permanently his handsome face!
His statue of ‘Bacchus’ of 1497 and the very
beauty of the figure,
Earned him the commission for the ‘PIETA’ in
St Peter’s Basilica;
Where from a single piece of Carrara marble he
carved out the figure of ****** Mary grieving
over the dead body of Christ;
This iconic piece of sculpture which along with
his ‘David’ earned him the ‘Superstar rights’!

Michel Angelo’s **** ‘DAVID’ weighed 6.4 tons
and stood 17 feet in height;
Unlike the bronze David of Donatello, which
shows him victorious after the fight!
Michel’s David an epitome of strength and
youthful vigour with a Classical Greek touch;
Displayed an uncircumcised ***** which had
shocked the viewers very much!
But it was consistent with the Mannerism in Art,
in keeping with the Renaissance spirit as such!
David displays an attitude of placid calm with
his knitted eyebrows and sidelong glance;
With his left hand over the left shoulder
holding a sling,
Coolly surveys the giant Goliath before his
single sling shot fatally stings!
This iconic sculpture has a timeless appeal even
after 500 years, depicting the ‘Renaissance Man’
at his best;
Vigorous, healthy, beautiful, rational and fully
competent!
Finally we come to the Ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel of Rome,
Where Pope Julius-II’s persistence resulted in the
creation of world’s greatest single fresco that was
ever known!
Covering some 5000 square feet, took five years
to complete.
Special scaffoldings had to be erected for painting
scenes from ‘The Creation’ till the ‘Day of Judgment’
on a 20 meter’s high ceiling;
Where the Central portion had nine scenes from
the ‘Book of Genesis’,
With ‘Creation of Adam’ having an iconic significance!
Like Leonardo, Michel Angelo was left-handed and died
a bachelor - pursuing his art with devotion;
A man with caustic wit, proud reserve, and sublimity
of imagination!

RAFFAELLO SANZIO (1483-1520):
This last of the famous High Renaissance trio was
born in 1483 in Urbino,
Some eight years after Michel Angelo.
His Madonna series and decorative frescos
glorified the Library of Pope Julius the Second;
Who was impressed by his fresco ‘The School
of Athens’;
And commissioned Raphael to decorate his
Study in the Vatican.
Raphael painted this large fresco between 1510
and 1511, initially named as the ‘Knowledge of
Causes’,
But the 17th century guide books referred to it
as ‘The School of Athens’.
Here Plato and Aristotle are the central figures
surrounded by a host of ancient Greek scholars
and philosophers.
The bare footed Plato is seen pointing skywards,
In his left hand holds his book ‘Timaeus’;
His upward hand gesture indicating his ‘World
of Forms’ and transcendental ideas!
Aristotle is seen pointing downwards, his left
hand holds his famous book the ‘Ethics’;
His blue dress symbolizes water and earth
with an earthly fix.
The painting illustrates the historic continuance
of Platonic thoughts,
In keeping with the spirit of the Renaissance!
Raphael’s last masterpiece ‘Transfiguration’
depicts the resurrected Christ,
Flanked by prophets
MU May 2017
Photography* is poetry using light.
Poetry is painting with words.
Painting is sculpting on eyes.
Sculpting is music for stones.
Music is writing through feelings.
Writing is pottery with thoughts.
Pottery is photography of clay.
Artists have their own understanding of what they are doing...
Sydney Victoria Nov 2012
Don't You Dare Speak,
Your Words Trying To Make Blue Streaks,
On The Monalisa Of My Soul,
Black Graffiti Stains My Wishes,
And Teeth Bare At My Well Being,
Am I Daft?
Or Sane?
My Head Pounding With Lyrics,
About How Cruel Life Can Utterly Be,
Sharpie Crossing Out My Faith,
Paint Vandalizing My Mended Heart,
Rust Dressing The Hinges Of My Heartbeat Itself,
And Golden Irises Reset,
Back To Seaweed Green,
Resting On A Bloodshot Background,
Crayons Scribbling On The Coloring Book,
Of My Dreams,
Making It A Midnight Sky Mask,
Flecked With Miserable Maroon Tears,
Slang Covers My Intellect,
Making It Foggy And Usless,
You Can Thank Society,
For Sculpting My Strength,
From A Slab Of Clay,
Burning It In A Kiln,
To The Foundation Of Life,
I Am Art,
Sculpted From The Earth's Face,
Yet I Sit On A Shelf,
Collecting Dust,
And All Of The Arrogent People,
Doodle On My Shell,
Colors Make An Ugly Mix,
On My Bodies Skeleton,
And What Is Making Me Special,
Is Slowly Drowning,
Underneath A Sea Of Graffiti
Amitav Radiance Sep 2014
Time is the eternal sculptor
Chiseling away through centuries
To create innovative masterpieces
Where many facets of life emerge
Bridging the past, present and future
Shaping the moments we dwell in
Where events are scheduled
To display the varied installations
Which cannot be replicated
Recorded in the chronicles of time
When our world will fade away
But time will be there till eternity
Relentlessly sculpting for the future
For, time brings change
And everything changes, except time itself
Debra in Silence Dec 2017
What happened to the beautiful boisterous screaming queens of the 80's full of Gloria Gaynor dancing on bars & pianos & teasing & strutting & grabbing life by the *****?
Every time I go to the Op Shop & see a pair of size 11 patent leather red pumps I think of you & put them on & walk around the shop just to remind me of the fabulous times.
Are you making lounges in the shape of Cadillacs or corsets or sculpting **** - tail glasses delicately gold leafed - centre table?
Back up x 30 in the Botanical Gardens at Mardi Gras & remember the good times, the sad times, the Carmen Miranda, feather boer, wig, **** & lipstick times my friends........
smooth jazz grand piano

.......
Third Eye Candy Feb 2013
surge
into the plinth
of your
monument.

i
will catch you.
my hands are like all things -
eager to please your
marble nape.

in recline
you hoist heavens.
in love's
shape.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Always listen to music
at the most inappropriate hours,
sing in bed and at the table
to honor the loveliest, perfect fools.
Never quit smoking
to avoid that terrible cough you warned me about, Nara,
at the hospital, veins
stitched together with paper clips.

Still and calm, cold, merry,
didn’t you need me to tell you
that grandpa’s been smoking
(do you remember that time,
sawdust caught fire
outside, in the workshop, us
sculpting african masks?),
that daddy’s been smoking,
that sister’s been smoking.

In the backyard you found one,
gone,
head flowing on the pavement
like cherries;
in his room you found the other,
reversed in cigarette-stained curtains,
orange juice flowing on the carpet
like a mother’s love.
How good of a cook you were
for that last supper that came late!
To go by bike dangerously,
buy fried fish and those swamp courgettes
unequalled and too urgent
even to touch the plates.
To badly sing chords in the
living room, in the long-gone
house by the sea, you
don’t need me anymore.
How good of a charleston was yours,
me mere copy, me spawn of forlorn saints
programming channels on your TV, you
don’t need me anymore.

Lady of mushrooms and candy,
of crystal glasses and tricot
and ***** jokes “where the sun doesn’t shine”, you
pride of bribery, our pride
I can’t quit;
it is family tradition, after all.
Afia Sep 2018
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
13 Jul 2014
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass ****** and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.

Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don’t know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.

All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or honest
Easiest way to wash the attic and eyes of the tax officers.
Feigning effigies and respect in the face of media
As they donate to those they’ve stolen from with a hearty smile.
Neither will recognize, but be eternally grateful the other exists.
Just another excuse to wake up in the morning and not feel awful.
Posted on December 10, 2013
Jared Eli Aug 2013
Sand and glass, glass and sand
In my face, in my hand
Sculpting me as I demand
Sand and glass, glass and sand

Sand and glass, glass and sand
Dancing with me, feeling grand
Ace of spades and a big brass band
Sand and glass, glass and sand

Sand and glass, glass and sand
Crushed beneath my soggy feet
Tip-toe gently, what a treat
Biting more than you can eat
Thought that she was oh so sweet
Never mind, I can't be beat
Here, the bodies hit the street
As I cut them down like wheat
Sand and glass, glass and sand

Sand and glass, glass and sand
In my face, in my hand
Sculpting me as I demand
(just a dream, it wasn't real
wasn't true, how can I feel
a beating, rushing, flutter-pulse
my mind and heart as one convulse
cannot stop the great illusion
leading me into confusion
what is real what is fake
have I made a grave mistake?
cannot be, it mustn't be
bring forth my reality)

Sand and glass, glass and sand
Falling from my bleeding hand
No more follows my command
Sand and glass, glass and sand
sunprincess Feb 2018
★★★
When God created woman
He came up with a well devised plan
Make woman super special
Gentle as a dove
And like a silky rose petal
with a heart for love
Make each woman
unique in her defined beauty,
Like mother earth with curves
to soothe a man's nerves
Make woman
kind with a voice divine
So like an angel of heaven
Her songs of love
will carry notes high
Then God went to work
molding her and sculpting her
and threading red streams
of life giving  blood
through her veins
And when he was finished
God smiled quite pleasantly
And thought,
What a masterpiece I have created
God then whispered in her soul
Come to life my beautiful creation
For I have created
A universe of stars for you
And so woman shone brightly
When she came to life
Like those stars God created
She stretched and sighed,
and thus woman
became poetry
For she sang praises of love
for both God and Man
★★★
Robert C Howard Jul 2015
Two billion years ago
the river we call Colorado
opened a **** in the Kaibab Plateau

sculpting sandstone, granite, and limestone spectra
on the rugged canyon walls -
reflecting the seering Arizona sun.

Millennial torrents scoured the surface.
Juniper and Aspen, torn from the expanding banks,
****** into the river's red-stained vortex.

All the while the restless Colorado,
obedient to gravity's law,
scoured its bed a mile below the rim.
The last dinosaur perished - choked by volcanic soot.

Pangaea rumbled, groaned and split
and an eye-blink ago our African parents
stood to take their first faltering steps.

Their progeny crossed the Bering bridge
roaming south to build stone shelters
tucked against these canyon walls.

Did the Havasupai huddle in fright
of the jagged firelight searing the skies -
pounding the air across the hollows?

And emerging at storm’s end
did they gaze at the rainbow mist
spread over the buttes and valleys?

After dusk, with fires withering to embers,
did they rest supine,
heads pillowed on their arms,
pondering the jewel case universe above?

*November, 2006
Included in Unity Tree, published by Create Space available from Amazon.com in both book and Kindle formats.

http://www.amazon.com/Unity-Tree-Robert-Charles-Howard/dp/1514894432/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1447340098&sr;=8-1&keywords;=Unity+Tree
People continuously follow a religion of which has preconditioned regulations that disregard all science and also leave no allowance for the follower to use an open mind and discover the road that best suits them on their own. They preach to unknown past lives that claim to be the only ones who knew the answers and the way to maintain a successful journey is by their standards alone instead of teaching the follower to look into their own being.

You can't discover the truth by denying your right to knowledge. This I will never understand. This is why I choose spirituality over religion. I choose the buddhist philosophy to help light my way while I create my own steps through inner peace, science, the mind and knowledge gained.

I am finally waking up.

(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro
Dougie Simps Mar 2014
Her colors I start to blend, painting a woman's masterpiece
Her heart pumps honesty, while her soul condones peace.
A couple more paint strokes to form her ambitious eyes
To create her sincere integrity, to mold her intelligent mind
Sculpting her genuine smile,
adding detail to an aura so kind.


Women, are a beautiful master piece
That can't be rushed, it must be worked on over time.

*& when I get one... I will paint her forever. I will never stop helping her create her design, I will mix her love with my passion...I will make this precious masterpiece truly mine.
Masterpiece
Yue Wang Yidhna Aug 2018
I have returned
To the land of the living
After all life have perished
To see all traces of existence
Time and space, gravity and love
Without the restriction of our limited vision
To see the imprints of our touch and impressions
Laid out in front of me in its infinite and eternal presence
Every interaction, attraction, mutual and unrequited
Left its mark, like the trails of a snail
Now visible to me in perfect clarity

I could have ran to the beginning
And walked through every moment to the end
Seen life for what it truly was for all creations

Yet, all I wanted
Coming back at the end of time
When time cease to exist
When every being, every moment
Will never again cease to exist or change
Was to find that thread
Between us
And see whether it was connected
At the very moment of sight
When I saw you for the very first time
And ever since
Tugged and pulled
At every hint of longing
Transforming me with sculpting pain and tears
And tore away my fears

And see that it was never just my hopeful Imaginations and creations of the mind
That the threads of every twinge
Every pull of my soul
Had been there
Always there
Still there
True and real
Between every you and me
I have been reading Lovecraft recently to inspire me and pull me back from a wordless abyss.

Inspired by Lovecraft, among others.
Vivek Jul 2012
Over smiles gliding away towards the dim light,
smile I; but in random strangeness am I?
Rapid prototyping I mean every single quark,
that Oh my sweet sugar! I too have a mark,
from that rain that whispered to you and me,
whispered smiles, tears and fears;
Dreams many; good, bad and ugly,
Copper reflection on waters even,
Amidst viscous colloidal air we crawl,
we crawl, we wander with the ghost,
sculpting puddles of mud into shapes,
shapes we knew one too many, A ritual;
a melodic romance, a trance; how spiritual!!
Dangling and lingering, on cozy clouds,
conversations lie hanigin', pretendin', being!!
Unharmed random rainlets, dropping,
screaming, loving, inspiring living,
masking inner selves, a little guilty,
a little blooded, my little beloved!!
underneath religious rain,
sculpting carbon dance under raining eagles,
wondered if I was turning tender tables!!
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley

this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans

growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot

the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits

diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals

get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?

beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill


Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero

Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
I am nobody, I am nothing
I hate me, this is the truth
I am the enemy, my own worst enemy
I am a victim, I am a fool
I am who I am, a useless man
I am weak, I am fearful
I was rejected, I have accepted
that I am pathetic, I am a tool
Life is pointless, so very pointless
until the day I finally meet you

I am able, so very able
to open my heart, and follow through
I am humble, I am willing
I am ready, to start rebuilding
I am caring, I am loving
I am happy to say I do
I am sharing, my heart mending
I love me, cause I love you

I am checking, I am questioning
I am worried, I can take no more
You lie to me, you use me
you brake me, you hurt me
you left me
so I am banging on your bedroom door
I am angry, I am furious
I am kicking
till it crumbles to the floor
You are screaming, you are running
I am about to settle the score
I am pulling, I am yanking
on the chainsaw starter cord
You are crying, you are begging
to me and our heavenly Lord
Then it rumbles, and it starts up
and the engine begins to roar
I look down and remind you
I am an artist to the very core
I am sculpting
I am painting
I am writing
a metaphor
© JDMaraccini 2013
Robert Gutierrez Jul 2014
I've always been cold until I visited the Far East and you pranced into my life like a wild gazelle in the grasslands. I've always been cold until you laid your head on my chest while you fell asleep and the aroma of your cocoa brown hair intoxicated me to the point of snores and the most pleasant dreams I've ever had. I've always been cold until you wrapped your arm around my stomach and I could feel your veins circulating on the contours of my abdomen. I've always been cold until you looked at me with your macchiato eyes and my state of matter went from solid to liquid as I tried to construct myself back together like an artist sculpting an ice statue outside in the middle of May in Mexico. I've always been cold until your kiss electrified my lips like an underwater eel and I felt 12,000 watts circulate my body bringing to attention every cell that flows within my valves. I've always been cold like an iceberg near the Antarctic and nothing's ever changed that. Nothing except for you. Thank you for being my fireplace in the middle of an ice cold winter. Thank you for being my heat.
Chloë Fuller Dec 2014
he always longed for a pair of arms and legs to caress with his young face
his hands were delicate, though bruised and burned from creation
he stared into his gallery full of art
his lovers
he invests himself and gives everything to his current piece
when he's done, he's done
on to the next

he grew tiresome of psychedelic colors and infinite prisms.
he always grew tiresome though
fickle as freckles, indecisive as the ocean, easily bored as a child

he spotted the white gleam of the marble almost instantly
and he wanted it.
the giant, luminescent block wasn't as heavy as it looked
he carried it home on his hip and held it like a mother bird
he already saw the beauty inside

it took very little effort to mold what he saw
or wanted to see
the marble was softer than it looked
each piece that was chiseled off began to reveal a woman
she had curves like an old country road
big eyes that were filled with magic and adoration
he created her in a goddess' image
the time he spent on shaping her hips, *******, thighs, and waist were endless

the last piece of her he caressed with his chisel was her lips
details
the cupids bow, fullness, shape, and color

when he kissed her, she came alive
the color of an overcast sky filled her eyes
and she smiled
his hands pulled her close and he enveloped her
he brought her to life
they made love on the floor of the gallery
in front of all the other art
and he was so unapologetic about it
bringing her ecstasy over and over that she had never felt

inspiration struck him again
or maybe he was just bored of marveling over the same sculpture
he assured her that he needed time away from his art
all of it

he put in her the corner
and began sculpting something new
right before her eyes
but again, he assured her that he wasn't sculpting anything
even though she could see the work in front of her

the sculptor just wanted a full gallery.
Jubail Aquino Oct 2018
In rhyming
in flying verses
in sculpting
in painting
or in any
form of my artwork,

...I think by my heart.
When the morning came up

I woke up

Facing that holy dead body of yours

I looked over myself and blushed

I was only wearing the smile that you gave me

Remembering what happened last night

Couldn't handle it, so I held you tight

Oh God!

You smell like heaven

Your aesthetic shape just turns me on

No philosopher, no scientist, no religionist, no therapist could solve my issue

Staring at your pale skin

Oh god I just wanna sink in

The way you shrink in

When you sleep

Makes me wanna stop time

Just to enjoy this visual masterpiece for a lifetime

The way I feel

In every holy step you make

Discovering every inch of my body

Sculpting blue love marks on the borders of my neck

The touch of your lips

Mesmerizing me as if I'm watching an eclipse

The movement of your fingertips

Dancing the smoothest choreography from my chest running down reaching my hips

Your husky deep voice

Eargasming my ears

Oh my God!

I'm lying down next to my treasure

Wake up and give me that painful pleasure

I love to suffer

Attach me to your bed with a tie made of a fancy leather

**** me slowly

Heal me

Take me to your world

Fill me in

Stick with me

Make our bodies as if they are one

Let's hear our hearts bumping our hot blood

Harmonizing the beat in the same rhythm

Creating our own beautiful symphony

And that when I finally moaned

" Wake up!  You are my sweetest agony "
My first poem here, hope you enjoy it!
Jackie Wilson Feb 2016
my bicycle
moves over
a clean slate
of white-snowed sidewalk,
its studded tires
sculpting a piece
of modern art
out of winter
for the city.
Brian Sarfati Oct 2014
To render strings of scenes from your head
into words on paper
that another person could read in order
to recreate the voice of someone unmet,
and at the same time be presented beautifully and clearly;
to choose the right words making the right phrases
making the right sentences making the right paragraphs
making the right chapters, and to have these chapters
interweave into a cohesive story that manages to
fulfil the reader and make him feel
joy, sorrow, despair, or hope;
is insanely meticulous,
and inanely ridiculous.

And to come up with characters
that need to feel alive:
to have to be so many people at once,
each with their own dreams, wants,
thoughts, feelings, identities,
and treasured memories,
how can one not explode?
How can a mind not erode?

And of all the hobbies, passions or pastimes
a human being can engage in—
from juggling chainsaws on a tightrope
to playing the piano while  painting yourself playing the piano
to sculpting a hypercubic klein bottle,
nothing is as delicately difficult
as juggling a thousand possibilities of plot
on a swinging tightrope of self-doubt
while playing the instrument of your vocabulary
to paint a scene revealing itself magically
all the while sculpting an entire universe(!)
piece by piece from the flesh and bone of your own
pregnant imagination.

Who, then, but only the most idiotic,
brave, ambitious, and diabolic self-haters and self-lovers
would write a book?
It's a noble task, to be sure,
for without its fair dose of literature,
mankind would crumble and un-create
back to the unthinking, unfeeling dirt from which it is made.

— The End —