Quotes about sketch, page 13
This heart within me I can feel, and I judge that it exists. This world I can touch, and I likewise judge that it exists. There ends all my knowledge, and the rest is construction. For if I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, if I try to define and to summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers. I can sketch one by one all the aspects it is able to assume, all those likewise that have been attributed to it, this upbringing, this origin, this ardor or these silences, this nobility or this vileness. But aspects cannot be added up. This very heart which is mine will forever remain indefinable to me. Between the certainty I have of my existence and the content I try to give to that assurance, the gap will never be filled. Forever I shall be a stranger to myself.
quote by Albert Camus
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Go for match
It is painful and hurtful to go for match
Equally troublesome for desperate bid to catch
You can see nothing in well prepared sketch
Yet you see intensely and carefully watch
This is normal wish and desire
You want everybody to look at you and admire
You want it to be as perfect as possible
Always to be praised in close circle
It is not one side hunt
Worry has to be shared and bear the brunt
It is good to be on cautious line
To find perfect man/woman is difficult time
We may be dreaming about particular person
It may have logic with some reasons
No one can be claimed lucky on final pair
But yes it has to be reasonable and very fair
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Edges Of A Muse
I trace my thoughts over ragged edges
His latent uncertainties played taut
Realities tango, some for want, some on a roll
Unable to resist borders, edges close in
He queries me on shenanigan thoughts
And I quiz him about his solo life
Answers left in canvases un-sketched
They color palettes left untouched yet
I sketch him out from old sunshine
From corridors around him that don't quite give
I see him poised on forgotten rainbows
Where thoughts turn in as languages go mute
I watch him race life, and I bar my gypsy thoughts
Turning away from the realities he is threading
He fights hard, his battles deep and honest
While I watch, painting different sunsets
[...] Read more
poem by Bindu Vijayan
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Honesty And Integrity
HONESTY AND INTEGRITY
Honesty and integrity shades of accolade is esteem of humans
Replacement is none priceless they are redemption is a stretch
Riches they are beyond assessment of disdains of commons
Paintings they are in abstract of virtues of moral sketch
Chartered it is in sublime of demeanors procured by attainment
Character is inutile minus the probity like flower without fragrance
One lapse is more than many smutch is for permanent
Worshipped they should be wearing on the sleeves with reverence
Respiring its essence in every breath with dedication and passion
Sculpting an image in its fable as treasure of heirloom
To be passed on as embroidery on fabric of tradition
Infinitely refined to keep its gloss in loom of wisdom
Burning the glow of flames of fire shedding the light
On virtues of honor letting spirit of soul burn bright
poem by Ashram Ashram
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Sumatran Tiger
Sumatran Tiger! Look at you!
So many frowns you've got!
As if you don't know what to do,
So you don't do a lot!
I see you resting all alone,
Pretending that you're fine,
But you don't like it on your own,
You need a Valentine...
I know you're proud, stiff-upperlipped,
But that's bravado, friend!
It's outward show, emotions gripped!
You'll soon go round the bend!
There's some cute tigress all depressed
With frowns as long as yours!
Go get her, tiger! Do your best!
Caress her with those paws!
You're made of flesh and blood! Yes, you!
You lucky so-and-so!
[...] Read more
poem by Denis Martindale
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In The Beauty Of A Lower Heaven
Autumn in Paris is like summer in a lower heaven.
Sycamores and chestnuts paint the air,
Pencil-thin branches sketch the city like Utrillo,
The Seine sets leaves in moon-glass.
We caught the metro at Bir-Hakeim
Near Vel’ d’Hiv, the Nazi detention center.
Cyclists went flying into fire and ash
In the beauty of a lower heaven.
Something grotesque in the accordion
Like a fascist playing Mozart.
Something hypnotic in the sound,
The bellowing of giving birth to terror.
In the beauty of a lower heaven
All the people are lovelier, tranquil,
Even at rush hour music tames
The writhing beast of megalopolis.
[...] Read more
poem by Salvatore Ala
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A Psychedelic God - A Thank You Note
The drift of a percussion nib
A mental voyager, a bohemian cosmonaut
Exploring uncharted frontiers of the whimsical mind
In the vastness, the infinitude of galactic spaces
Perforating ingenious black holes
Chutes of inspiration, free falling to the plea of gravities
As the wandering mind chisels on stone paper
Its journeys and treks, legendary tales exuding the essence
Of an overgenerous chimera, surpassing sight's farthest prophecies
Cerebral odysseys transcending mythical epics, medieval folklore
To capture the nomadic spirit, yet the exemplary purity
Of the suppleness of creation, masterminded
By another horizon-less wayfarer, an apical journeyman
A celestial potter, nom de plume ‘Lord the creator'
As a humble poet parts with a thanksgiving note
For the gift of a boundless providence, to sketch his own tale of fatum
As he tributes the imaginative force of a psychedelic God
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Request to a Year
If the year is meditating a suitable gift,
I should like it to be the attitude
of my great- great- grandmother,
legendary devotee of the arts,
who having eight children
and little opportunity for painting pictures,
sat one day on a high rock
beside a river in Switzerland
and from a difficult distance viewed
her second son, balanced on a small ice flow,drift down the current toward a waterfall
that struck rock bottom eighty feet below,
while her second daughter, impeded,
no doubt, by the petticoats of the day,
stretched out a last-hope alpenstock
(which luckily later caught him on his way).
Nothing, it was evident, could be done;
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poem by Judith Wright
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Lifetime
Cry now, but smile for a lifetime
Mourn this hour but celebrate the years
Memories will be sunny and words bring smiles
Through the tears.
The afternoons of summer, the evening's winter frost
Relationships grow number it's how we pay the cost
But then the times you shared
The sketch book in your soul
Will show that you both cared
Before time took its toll.
So celebrate a lifetime
The pain will bring some doubt
But remember lovelight flicker
When candlelight goes out.
Together in the world that teaches smile and kill
Together now in spirit
The union closer still
The guilt that we all feel
Devoid of hug and kiss
Shows us our love is real
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poem by Kevin East
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The Artist as an Old Man
If you ask him he will talk for hours--
how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers
raw with cold, and later painted bowers
in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers
for two weeks in jail, and lived on dark bread;
how he fled the border to a country
which disappeared wars ago; unfriended
crossed a continent while this century
began. He seldom speaks of painting now.
Young men have time and theories; old men work.
He has painted countless portraits. Sallow
nameless faces, made glistening in oil, smirk
above anonymous mantelpieces.
The turpentine has a familiar smell,
but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies.
Perched on the maulstick, it nears the easel.
He has come to like his resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cossacks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
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poem by Erica Jong
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