I saw beauty
In places others ignored
Most of the times I ignored this
But sometimes
You know we have a desire to communicate
I would go there and say
Hi this is what I have got
A pearl from the shore
They would look puzzled
Baby what is this
It didn't move me
I would go on with it
And touch myself even more that night
Until my legs trembled with spasms
Until the last drop of cum wetted the sheets
And in the morning I was fresh anew
I was ready to do it once more.
The beau idéal of art commemorates Frida Kahlo's
Habitual self-portraits donning Mexican dahlia halos
Worshiped feminist by LGBTQ & Chicano cult artsy
Wife of master mural painter both activists in leftist party
If I knew how to make the clouds dance,
I would teach them to waltz across vast skies.
They would never dissolve into nothingness—
And they would always inspire searching eyes.
If I knew how to make the clouds dance,
I would be a musician of bright notes and vivid colors.
I would take them by the hand like friends,
So they would never grieve as lonely drifters or lovers.
I would teach them how to be like the swans,
Moving gently with grace as they glide.
A composer floating endlessly in the lake of dreamers.
Wysocki’s world always feels like a place paused in time,
and here the old house rises with its many angles~
gable stacked upon gable
like thoughts a century deep.
The clapboard walls hold the color of weathered memory,
a soft, seasoned brown
that seems to remember every storm
and every quiet morning after.
Windows watch from every direction,
small square eyes
that have seen too many seasons
to be surprised by anything now.
A cat sits on the fence
as if appointed guardian of the view,
tail curled in the calm certainty
that nothing important escapes its notice.
The yard is tidy in that Wysocki way~
grass trimmed, path swept,
a place where time moves slowly enough
for chores to feel like rituals.
Standing in front of it
I sense a rush of stories
that never needed telling~
a house content to keep its history
folded into wood and windowlight.
The house feels like a pause in time,
a place where the wandering mind
can rest a moment
and imagine the lives still echoing inside.
Self taught was Samuel Shelley
maybe he loved the bee's royal jelly
Founder of the Water Colour society
& a famous miniaturist was he
DEGAS DELIGHTFUL DAMES
Edgar Degas did not mingle
so shy he remained single
His art self contained & absorbed
perfect though expensive 'daubs'
Dancers everywhere
to pose on toes
& as art lover knows
PAINTING After wise words of Degas
so,so easy to do..
when we don't know how,
so,so true..but
so,so dificile..
when we do!
Thou anchor of my all, of love and life,
For in a marriage, hearts both beat for two;
For thou art woven with me, wove and wife,
For thus, while growing old, we do renew.
The ocean of intelligence waves my faith
Between the horizon clouds fall asleep
The science of the mind shows my traite
Upon surrendering my soul no one must weep
Under the twilight merge the lamp of my dream
the silence have awaken my deep sorrow
With the sharpened moon the arrows beam
faster than the wind my mind will follow
Surrounded by boundaries of mental fear
the stars are awakened to challenge and fight
What happens to the old souls who disappear
all the answers in the future will come to light
To unveil the mystery of life is a difficult path
look for the sage who knows the silent art
I met her in the dark, her breath like stone,
A predator carved from some vast unknown.
Her gaze a weight, a grave of quiet fire,
Unchained from what the mortal soul could own.
There are no pacts where lions tread the dust,
Their truth is claw and silence, raw and just.
Yet still, I stand, a fool before the shrine,
My blood a whisper, offering ash and trust.
Each word she gives is fanged, with edges sharp,
Her laughter hums, a brutal, hollow harp.
The ache inside me folds beneath her grin,
As though her teeth could sever guilt and harp.
No common bond; no mortal tie can weave
This force of ruin clutching hearts to cleave.
Still, from her weight, I breathe an alien calm,
A portrait burned in charcoal, fierce to leave.
Her truth is art, the savage kind, unbound.
I wear its scars, a silent battleground.
No treaties hold, no hand can tame her core,
Yet in her chaos, I find something profound.
There are no pacts where men and lions meet,
Our truths collide, a thrum, a lethal beat.
In mirrored fangs, I howl my darkest self,
And let her teeth consume my soul, complete.
The art of creating a visual response to a piece of writing is known as a reverse ekphrasis ie the inverse of the centuries old poetic form of ekphrasis.
The most well known example being Charles Demuth 'Figure 5' based upon a W C Williams Poem.(see link in notes above)
EMAGI is a recent (fun) variation of a reverse ekphrasis derived by the advent of the widespread use of hand held digital communication devices -where words in digital symbols /letters can be represented as a shape
and uses a poet's poem to inspire the digitised 'drawing'
Edward Thomas 'HAYMAKING'
\\///
//\\
//\\
//\\
.. ..\\///
...... //\\
.. ... //\\
.......//\\
The brightest flame is most doomed.
It arrives like clean gravity, sudden.
A flare in the hollow chest,
clockwork chewing the wick of hours.
It makes ruin look like scripture.
It gilds dust, names it heaven.
It teaches the dark to blink,
then laughs porcelain teeth, shattered.
We gather, rugged witnesses, alone,
palms open under ember rain.
We swear it will not vanish.
We speak vows into static walls.
But fire is a feral engine.
It eats its own oxygen, tenderly.
Marvel bleeds; the self is prison.
Release comes bright, then brutal.
O brief seraph of heat,
you governed our pulse with light.
You made the void feel mortal.
You made our names ring, once.
Now ash repeats your outline.
Stillness spins, merciless, patient.
Nothing stops. Nothing starts.
Only a glow, remembering collapse.
Let this elegy hold your flare:
a scream folded inside brightness.
Trust grew fanged, loyalty grew wings.
Then soot, soft mercy closed your mouth.
Calm is your nature so fair
O maiden of meticulous metaphor
like the white lilies in the garden, balms soft air,
amongst autumn’s signature rustling leaves
upon dried maples once green
In warm tones of terracotta her spirit roams free,
on earth she manipulates the mariposa monarca
butterfly migration in Michoacán’s fir forests,
clusters color trees with golden orange tones
trimmed in black lace philigree
skies are filled with beating wings
like a flurry of a rain's pitter-patter
O butterfly if you flutter by, I’ve left you aster
for your returns refuel in my yearning yard
Tonantzin our venerable Mother, goddess virginius
of virtue of vim and vigorous miss
Q3 keeper of chaos and order,
I’m forever thankful for your service ~
An artist wandering round the glittering city
Soaking up inspiration from both
the beautiful and the gritty,
He got a camera to document the nights
That frankly,he might not always
remember otherwise
The hard living isn't something
I'd want to glamorize,
but the raw talent remained,
and sometimes got to shine
By:J.N.R Dutton
Sunday fellowship
Henri Le Sidaner's 'Le Dimanche
so ' typique 'of a muted Symboliste branch
Dreamy, Sunday, atmospheric date
a tranquil imagination in quintuplicate
Le Dimanche (Sunday) by Henri Le Sidaner
usually set aside by faithful for prayer
Here in his imagination
lovely ladies of delightful a 'cinquation'
Have you heard the one about sheeren?
Sold out, Macklemore, so deciev'n !
At (one blast from kraft ')
That friendships now past
He's so rich' with dystiopian leanings !
Art Categories
Definition | What is Art in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
craft, profession, dexterity, artistry, knowledge, adroitness, ingenuity, mastery, facility, trade, imagination, know how, aptitude, expertise, inventiveness, knack, method, virtuosity, craftsmanship, guile, duplicity, artfulness, deceit, artifice, craftiness