Quotes about sketch, page 15
My Pen Is Weeping Blood / Ma Plume Pleure Du Sang
My pen is mourning the agonies and the sufferings
Of my people, who are drowning in the sea of misery.
My keyboard' strokes are shadowing the slow rhythms
Of the wandering beggar, who's lost in the sanctuary.
My voice denounces the filthy cholera and the injustices,
Which are punishing the weakest souls of the valley.
A tiny oligarchy is meagerly being rewarded;
What a shame for a man-made world corrupted with vices!
My brush defaces the inequality and the imbalance,
Which fool the image of a so called free world.
My laser beams burn the iris of the blind peasants,
Who can now see clearly the mini-sketch of my people.
I am the brother-in law of the cowardly executed poet
And the great-grandson of the poorest assassinated emperor.
I abhor the vanity and the lowliness of mankind in horror,
Oh! Lord, I'm going to read aloud twelve psalms, from my seat.
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poem by Hebert Logerie (November 2010)
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Sweet Dreams
It doesn't matter what you are,
Lion, tiger or bear,
Or small child wishing on a star,
While at the moon you stare...
If you can't sleep, you'll toss and turn,
You'll hate those sad extremes
And how you'll sigh and fondly yearn
The comfort of your dreams...
Your eyes may droop and eyelids, too,
While your nose breathes in deep,
Yet everything you try to do
Proves not enough for sleep...
Insomnia is what it's called
And it gets on our nerves,
When precious resting time gets stalled,
Is that what each deserves?
Sweet dreams, we say to every child,
Sweet dreams and God bless you!
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poem by Denis Martindale
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When Will Life Begin
Seven A.M., the usual morning line-up
Start on the chores, and sweep 'til the
floor's are
clean
Polish and wax, do laundry and mop and
shine up
Sweep again
And by then
It's, like, seven fifteen
And so I'll read a book
Or maybe 2 or 3 Ill add a few new
paintings
To my gallery
I'll play guitar and knit and cook
And basically
Just wonder, when will my life begin?
Then, after lunch, it's puzzles, and
darts, and
baking...
Paper-mache, a bit of ballet, and
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poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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A General Summary
We are very slightly changed
From the semi-apes who ranged
India's Prehistoric clay;
He that drew the longest bow
Ran his brother down, you know,
As we run men down to-day.
"Dowb," the first of all his race,
Met the Mammoth face to face
On the lake or in the cave:
Stole the steadiest canoe,
Ate the quarry others slew,
Died -- and took the finest grave.
When they scratched the reindeer-bone,
Some one made the sketch his own,
Filched it from the artist -- then,
Even in those early days,
Won a simple Viceroy's praise
Through the toil of other men.
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The main street (01-2009)
The main street
To every corners of the street darkness starts to creep
The awaited hour of triumph of their restless souls
To embrace the night, the world of eternal deep
Shadow’s secret –the flesh’s trade, business of the fools;
Sketch the gloom, the every venture to make it known
The sons of Adam and their flight, in-search of stroke
Their endless desire to fill the chest’s hollow, pawn
Penetrate the hole between them, to palpate before they mock;
The hands who adore the manhood, who praise its strength
The mouth who tastes man’s sweet nectar of purity
That, from the intense dance, there it blows the scent
While the world is asleep –to witness nay the art of insanity,
They, in-vision of touch the belt’s masculinity of she
Before it dies let the thrill -the femininity of he.
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poem by Jordan Legaspi
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School report
You stood behind me
Watching, looking over my shoulder
I saw you writing
'Could have done better'!
I screwed up the paper
It missed the bin
My destination.... to write? ? or
There was more poetry in watching you
Unravelling the argument from your eyes
Burning still
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poem by Yvette Smith
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The Hand Of Benediction
Sometimes from no evident cause,
Emotions spring up by their own accord,
Heart begins weeping shriekingly,
The eyes shed molten scaring drops,
Drenching deep scalding the cheeks,
And thick dark clouds of depression,
Wrap mind from all sides around.
The stifled heart at mid-night moaned,
The screaming voices compelled to call,
One of the Helpers to render help,
For they are assigned by God to work,
In the east and west, north and south.
Impatient tongue uttered evoking sounds,
Gurgled up from the recesses deep,
“Help! Help! O! Helper help.”
Besought I not in the form abstract,
But in concrete, visible lifelike figure.
On the call third, a complete outer sketch,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On a close-up of Anthony Delius, on his Questions to the Universe
So tell me Anthony you start
your wailing against the gods / God
with the sketch of a man gone mad
who does not know his own integrity
nor if he is in reality either good or bad
and maybe a little bit of both
does not know where he stands in life
if he’s cruel to his kids or letting them run amok
if sex with his wife wedded or not
satisfies her or is she only acting it out
and is he a wimp or what, who wears a pink shirt
and hides behind her skirt?
Could he find any help from a doctor,
minister or priest to mend
or is he in the end only a waste to the human race?
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Turns and Movies: Zudora
Here on the pale beach, in the darkness;
With the full moon just to rise;
They sit alone, and look over the sea,
Or into each other's eyes. . .
She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand,
Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon,
Comes up for you and me.
Just like a blind old spotlight there,
Fizzing across the sea!'
She pays no heed, nor even turns her head:
He slides his arm around her waist instead.
'Why don't we do a sketch together--
Those songs you sing are swell.
Where did you get them, anyway?
They suit you awfully well.'
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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Zudora
Here on the pale beach, in the darkness;
With the full moon just to rise;
They sit alone, and look over the sea,
Or into each other's eyes. . .
She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand,
Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon,
Comes up for you and me.
Just like a blind old spotlight there,
Fizzing across the sea!'
She pays no heed, nor even turns her head:
He slides his arm around her waist instead.
'Why don't we do a sketch together--
Those songs you sing are swell.
Where did you get them, anyway?
They suit you awfully well.'
[...] Read more
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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