Poems and Poetry

poems about art

Driftwood | A Poem by Roy Pullam

The spring rains
Brought driftwood
Down the river
Depositing it
At the boat ramp
A mess
That blocked the launch
Of recreational craft
I saw her approach
Pulling a little cart
She gleaned the pile
Moving the limbs
Searching for the pieces
Bleached white
By the turgid foam
She eyed it
Rejecting some
Gathering others
She seeing a finished product
Something special
Where I only saw sticks
Her little cart full
She pulled it away
With glue, ribbons and insight
The rubble had new life
Cute folk art
She would sell
It is the artist vision
That sees beauty
When others
See only trash
It is the master
That reminds us
How narrow
Is our sight
How much
We have yet to see

A Creative Explosion | A Poem by Paul Tristram

The smell of freshly sharpened pencils
upon her slender, stained fingertips.
The taste of daisies and forget-me-nots
upon her pursed, concentrating lips.
She shudders, as her imagination
runs rampant up the throat of her soul
and bursts colourfully out of her mind
through wide, dazzling eyes.
Attacking the workbench with majestic arcs,
finger whips and thumbprint smudges.
Water is easy… it’s trickling the depth
whilst retaining the veneer that counts.
Fog… still has to be focused.
Trees… firework up out of the ground.
Hills roll or are monument.
The shadows… alive
or merely dormant, wasted spaces.
To trap ‘Energy’ within a single teardrop.
To mirror a ‘Love Sonnet’ upon the reflection
of a mischievous, half-scowling raven’s eye.
To creatively EXPLODE from the roots of the heart…
out onto the page or canvas,
is the very difference between mere pictures and Art.

Visit Paul at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

Master of the Wheel | A Poem by Roy Pullam

Throwing mud
Making a being
From the clay
The essential element
Of the earth
Shaping with molding hands
A vision
Others cannot see
Until it is done
It is a lonely world
The artist vision
That sees beyond
The wheels turning
Both in the head
And with the manipulation
The earth showing
Its resistance
Just like
The times
When it pulls down
But there is a stubborn will
The long-sought perfection
He will never know
But the potter’s fingers
Are much more
Than the critic’s eye
His is the path
To an immortality
None of us
While living
Will ever reach