Quotes about sketch, page 14
One Second Behind(for Junie)
Memory takes
the chair
places it perfectly
in mid-air
yet erases the stair
that brings me there
forgets to sketch in
the rest of the house
the storm is placed
just outside the window
(just as it was)
livid with lightning
the voice of the thunder
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poem by Dónall Dempsey
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At Twilight
You are a painter—listen—
I'll paint you a picture too!
Of the long white lights that glisten
Through Michigan Avenue;
With the red lights down the middle
Where the street shines mirror-wet,
While the rain-strung sky is a fiddle
For the wind to feel and fret.
Look! far in the east great spaces
Meet out on the level lake,
Where the lit ships veil their faces
And glide like ghosts at a wake;
And up in the air, high over
The rain-shot shimmer of light,
The huge sky-scrapers hover
And shake out their stars at the night.
Oh, the city trails gold tassels
From the skirts of her purple gown,
And lifts up her commerce castles
Like a jewel-studded crown.
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poem by Harriet Monroe
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Robin
The robin rested, looking back
At me, while I looked out.
For there I stood, all dressed in black,
No hope and full of doubt...
Just like a statue, so forlorn,
No focus at that time...
Weak as the day that I was born
With one huge hill to climb...
My loneliness was hard to bear,
No friends, no family...
No sweetheart stood with me to share
The loss, the tragedy...
The robin sang despite the cold
And greyness of the day...
As if with faith as good as gold,
He soothed the pain away...
That tiny creature brought me hope
No heavenly choir could sing...
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poem by Denis Martindale
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Invincible Companion
Sometimes, you feel possessed…,
You hear voice whisper verses to your ears,
You pick your pen and write.
Sometimes, you want to add your line,
But, the voice will say; ‘No, it is not that way,
Listen very attentively, and, write’.
Sometimes, you will add your own line, and the voice
Will say, “Fine, it is alright”…,
Sometimes, you write before you think,
Sometimes, you omit some lines, then, you will have to wait
Long-temporally to get them back.
Sometimes, you get just the sketch, it becomes
An assignment to complete….
Sometimes, you argue with the voice for days
Before you turn out a piece; you listen, you think,
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poem by Akachukwu Chukwuemeka
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Another Near To Perfect Day
In the sky the sun brightly shining the blue sky with some clouds of gray
On an afternoon in late October another near to perfect day
The white surf waves are gently rolling one reason no surfer in sight
And the silver gulls on the white beach search for food in the warm sunlight
An artist may well sketch such beauty and writers about it may write
By the coastal town on the surf beach there is beauty in peace and quiet
Today the ocean is not roaring no big waves for surfers to ride
The waves on the beach gently lapping so timid the sea at low tide
In the park the magpie larks calling the only notes they sing pee wee
And wattlebirds on the flowering coastal banksias their harsh calls familiar to me
On a beautiful day in the Springtime of around 24 degrees
And there is a cool sort of freshness in the cool freshening coastal breeze
Save for the silver gulls the beach is deserted and so clean is the fresh coastal air
A good memory to keep and to cherish and a good memory with others to share.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Life is a painting! !
Coloured hues make up our life,
A role modelling brush shapes up our life,
Pure water mix our sorrows with joys,
A canvas's always there to put on your life,
A stand will always place you high in life,
A person is always beside to guide you in life,
And at last the whole world exists to look at your life....
You first paint your life on a piece of white,
you strive hard to shape your life,
but remember you always enjoy the strife you put in your life,
you first succeed when you sketch your life,
you then succeed when you paint it right,
you last succeed when you frame it bright....
Remenber a small jurk may spoil your thing,
bit of misguidance or excess of showing,
may not seem big when you ae doing,
but finally while looking,
that makes all the spoiling....
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poem by Koushik Poolla
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The Hopkins River
Centuries before the black people to this Land came
An unknown Country that did not have a name
The river now known as the Hopkins through the scrublands did flow
And that is going back many centuries ago.
The dinosaurs came at the twilight of the day
For to slake their thirst at the quiet water-way
And though the dinosaurs from the World are forever gone
The old Hopkins river keeps babbling on.
Through the flat brown Countryside to Warrnambool to the sea
The Hopkins has flowed for century on century
Through places dry and stony and places remote
The river has inspired the artist and poet.
For to sketch and sing of it in decades gone by
The river that has never stopped flowing through Summer's warm and dry
And though the artist and poet now with the deceased lay
The Hopkins keeps babbling on night after day.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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0114 Winter Sunlight
Delicate, so frail now, almost
apologetic for their presence,
like the longtime bed-bound
taking their first unaccompanied walk,
hardly able to believe their fortune, on
this unexpected day of sunlight
offering hope to weakest winter body -
yet exploratory, determined, in
their frailty; invisibly heroic –
the tendrils of the jasmine explore,
survey with vegetable mind, the frontiers of the empire which
they plan to flood with scent some secret
time ahead; how can a stem that looks
like fine, dead wire, carry all the ruthlessness
of Nature’s will, in so tentative disguise?
the sunlight on this white winter wall,
as a slight breeze waves the exploratory tendrils,
throws up the sharp shadow of this filigree
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Deformed Angel
Sometimes life gives us severe shock,
Undermines the plans and does block,
The ways of wisdom leading ahead,
Reveals the hands that secretly mock.
An artist thought to paint an angel,
To use the brush for the masterpiece,
But could not conceptualize the image,
Beauty combining innocence, purity.
One morn, at last, he luckily found,
A child playing on the grassy ground,
Having angelic countenance and grace,
Incarnation he was of sublime serenity.
Painted he the angel with skill utmost,
And earned he the world wide fame.
And he after three full fleeting decades,
Thought for the second master-sketch,
Now not of an angel, but of a devil.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Dinkum Aussie Block
What have we missed? Now he returns no more
We are left with but our blindness to deplore,
But, concentrating on his spats instead,
Missed all the lure of that impressive head.
Caricaturists, gazing at his feet,
Drew little else, and deemed the sketch complete;
Likewise cartoonists, whose gaunt fingers crept
Unconsciously to limn him as they slept.
And we poor Aussies of the rough hewn 'dile,'
Think to salve our vanity the while,
Who said: 'Though we've a gargoyle for a face,
At least 'tis typical of our strong race'
Where are we now? Where is our last excuse
For owning features so unlike a Bruce?
The Bruce, round whom admiring artists flock
Because he owns the dinkum Aussie block.
He kept his block; and keeping it became
A classic type to spread his country's fame.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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