That pink sweatpants has never been good in my eyes.
And those turquoise nails have always looked strange.
It all changed when you made up a combination of colours.
A colour bomb, a rainbow, walking perfectly through the room, looking like a piece of minimalist art.
every pain in life is art
i just have the wrong brushes
or a shaky hand
If love is an art,I can never be an artist
form the envisioned end
grown by inner
suns and sprays
forged from seeing nerves
the naked wood or stone
resisting yielding to form
clay pressed turned into
carved wings blue flame birds
pecking our walls
to fire
the thought and blood
into a song
from someone like us
dreaming seeing
finding us
Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard--the aim was song.
And listen--how it ought to go!
He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be--
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song--the wind could see.
Bits of straw and clay and woman's hair, —
So shall be builded my house :
Oh to lose the world and gain a song !
Let the clouds flit through the window at the left ;
The dancers shapeless in pain and pride,
From the right dance in as a tide :
A spirit of pagan days, sick in joy,
That rose at the sound of their stamping feet,
I'll sing a song that makes the seas the hills.
(Morality begins, I am afraid, where I stop my song.)
Rags to roll me in, pieces of dream,
So with my heart of nocturnal fear ;
I have choice of the sky red in memory and art.
Let the stars fall in the garden rose :
The leaves and my souls in a thousand guises
Hurry to the ground to build a grave.
What of the silence of the keys
And silvery hands? The iron sings...
Though bows lie broken on the strings,
The fly-wheels turn eternally...
Bring fuel--drive the fires high...
Throw all this artist-lumber in
And foolish dreams of making things...
(Ten million men are called to die.)
As for the common men apart,
Who sweat to keep their common breath,
And have no hour for books or art--
What dreams have these to hide from death!
I VISITED the palaces of kings,
And marvelled at the storied treasure brought
With vast expenditure of time and thought
To play upon the heart's imaginings;
All cunningly devised and priceless things —
Fine sculptured forms, rare, costly gems that caught
The sun, great canvases, and fabrics wrought
With wondrous skill to give the fancy wings.
But, coming forth, there crowded round my way
Such opulence of nature's tapestries,
That I reflected how the humblest may
Inherit all those lavish treasuries
Beside which human art is children's play,
And kings' possessions merest travesties.
In quivering translucent light,
Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky,
Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water,
Sleeps Beauty,
Turned to stone by a miracle of art.
And though she never stirs,
But slumbers on in a worn and faded robe
Rose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white,
We come from far-off cities,
And we turn to her our hungry eyes,
Even away from sunlit sky and sea.
I loathed you, Spoon River.
I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you.
I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
And there in Rome, among the artists,
Speaking Italian, speaking French,
I seemed to myself at times to be free
Of every trace of my origin.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art
And to breathe the air that the masters breathed
And to see the world with their eyes.
But still they’d pass my work and say:
“What are you driving at, my friend?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s
At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”
In this woman, whose business it is to prepare my dinner,
I find the most surprising sensitiveness to works of art,
With splendid qualities of sympathy and heart,
And now I learn her father was a sinner.
His lines were laid in unadventurous places;
He was a tradesman in a little town.
But whiles, he laid the yardstick down
And went and lost his money at the races.
The draper had his quiver very full:
At the thought of his thriftlessness my heart should harden.
But had he lived and died like a churchwarden,
I know my housekeeper had been dull.
There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.
He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.
When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.
He thought only of roses,
And silk.
When he could get no more silk
He stopped painting