Identity (as self to self before God) | Poem by Allison Grayhurst

Identity as self to self before God

Identity (as self to self before God)

Identity as explorer,
as an eagle with a powerful spread,
or as a sparrow, budding delicate, stirring
tenderness in others.
Identity as a mother, as a single flame monk
in the 4 a.m. quiet, under a dome, encased
in creativity and loneliness. Identity
as drink, poverty, excessive cash flow or beauty
beside the grave of the visibly mediocre.

Identity in discipline or free-spirit strength
that enriches the landscape with humour and charm.
Identity as a man whose skin has become core,
and the burden of time has passed through his sky
like a setting moon.

Stoic or gregarious, just the shape of a cloud,
changing, merging with other clouds
than dissipating. Speaking – backwards, forwards –
when the bearer of that identity dares to skip over the madness
of self-loathing, self-congratulating, skip
the moan in summer, the ovation indoors

and be in love,
like when first in love, ever swallowing
the joy into the fear, then the fear into joy,
the how-can-this-be? the will-I-ever-be-pure-enough?
struggling to keep up with such a devouring-bliss. Devour me,

more, more, let it be, be what never rests,
what is always too much, always
electrified, perfect. Heal me of identities,
allow me to step longing for divinity with every step,
engulfed in a splintering ecstasy while longing –
this beat, this beat – folding over, under and
everywhere, mastering the dance,

where my identity is just like a child with a toy,
there to enact a deed of great imagination.

Bio: Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Four times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017, she has over 1125 poems published in over 450 international journals and anthologies. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

I stood musing in a black world Poem

I stood musing in a black world | Poem by Stephen Crane

————————————————————————–

I stood musing in a black world,
Not knowing where to direct my feet.

And I saw the quick stream of men
Pouring ceaselessly,
Filled with eager faces,
A torrent of desire.

I called to them,
“Where do you go? What do you see?”
A thousand voices called to me.

A thousand fingers pointed.

“Look! look! There!”

I know not of it.

But, lo! In the far sky shone a radiance
Ineffable, divine —
A vision painted upon a pall;
And sometimes it was,
And sometimes it was not.

I hesitated.

Then from the stream
Came roaring voices,
Impatient:
“Look! look! There!”

So again I saw,
And leaped, unhesitant,
And struggled and fumed
With outspread clutching fingers.

The hard hills tore my flesh;
The ways bit my feet.

At last I looked again.

No radiance in the far sky,
Ineffable, divine;
No vision painted upon a pall;
And always my eyes ached for the light.

Then I cried in despair,
“I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?”
The torrent turned again its faces:
“Look! look! There!”

And at the blindness of my spirit
They screamed,
“Fool! fool! fool!”

————————————————————————–

Stephen Crane – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Stephen Crane – Wikipedia

Buy Stephen Crane
at Amazon

Buy Stephen Crane
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

How to Paint Like the Masters

Historically, imitating someone else’s work was part of forming your own style, but it wasn’t a way to make your own work. The imitation of subject matter, though, was part and parcel of the humbler genres of documentary art–still lifes, landscapes, portraits. The pinnacle of artistic production was instead what they called history painting, and this involved imagining scenes from mythology, history, or the Bible; how one imagined was supposed to depend on the canon of previous imaginings. Artists who practiced history painting shaped their approach by emulating other artists, whether contemporaries or the ancients. That’s how I’ve trained myself over more than thirty years, by drawing in museums, churches, and the great houses of Europe……..Artists Network

Our friends at Artvilla have started a series of video pages on how to paint like the masters. “Good artists copy, great artists steal”….Attributed to Picasso…..Art is a trade, a guild. One must learn any trade from the masters of that trade., This was true in the High Italian Renaissance and it’s true today.

Back to Art Lessons
How to Paint Like Monet
How to Paint Like Picasso
How to Paint Like Vincent Van Gogh
How to Paint Like Renoir
How to Paint Like Rembrandt
How to Paint Like Vermeer
How to Paint Like Jackson Pollock
How to Draw Like Michelangelo
How to Draw in the Renaissance Style

The Sick Muse | Poem by Charles Baudelaire

The Sick Muse Poem 

………………. by Charles Baudelaire

_______________________________________________________________________________________

My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
In your cheek’s cold and taciturn reflection,
I see insanity and horror forming.

The green succubus and the red urchin,
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?

I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity,
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,

Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables,
Where reigns in turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Charles Baudelaire – Wikipedia

Charles Baudelaire – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Buy Charles Baudelaire
at Amazon

Buy Charles Baudelaire
at Barnes and Noble

_______________________________________________________________________________________

We hope you enjoyed the The Sick Muse Poem by Charles Baudelaire

In heaven Poem

In heaven | Poem by Stephen Crane

————————————————————————–

In heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.

“What did you do?”
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.

This one stayed a small way behind,
Ashamed.

Presently, God said,
“And what did you do?”
The little blade answered, “Oh my Lord,
Memory is bitter to me,
For, if I did good deeds,
I know not of them.

Then God, in all His splendor,
Arose from His throne.

“Oh, best little blade of grass!” He said.

————————————————————————–

Stephen Crane – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Stephen Crane – Wikipedia

Buy Stephen Crane
at Amazon

Buy Stephen Crane
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

Behold the grave of a wicked man Poem

Behold the grave of a wicked man | Poem by Stephen Crane

————————————————————————–

Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.

“No flowers for him,” he said.

The maid wept:
“Ah, I loved him.

But the spirit, grim and frowning:
“No flowers for him.

Now, this is it —
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?

————————————————————————–

Stephen Crane – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Stephen Crane – Wikipedia

Buy Stephen Crane
at Amazon

Buy Stephen Crane
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

An Autumn Rain Scene Poem

An Autumn Rain-Scene | Poem by Thomas Hardy

————————————————————————–

There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.

————————————————————————–

Thomas Hardy – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Thomas Hardy – Wikipedia

Buy Thomas Hardy
at Amazon

Buy Thomas Hardy
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

I saw a man pursuing the horizon Poem

I saw a man pursuing the horizon | Poem by Stephen Crane

————————————————————————–

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.

I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.

“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never -“

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.

————————————————————————–

Stephen Crane – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Stephen Crane – Wikipedia

Buy Stephen Crane
at Amazon

Buy Stephen Crane
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

I Saw a Chapel Poem

I Saw a Chapel | Poem by William Blake

————————————————————————–

I saw a chapel all of gold
That none did dare to enter in,
And many weeping stood without,
Weeping, mourning, worshipping.

I saw a serpent rise between
The white pillars of the door,
And he forc’d and forc’d and forc’d,
Down the golden hinges tore.

And along the pavement sweet,
Set with pearls and rubies bright,
All his slimy length he drew
Till upon the altar white

Vomiting his poison out
On the bread and on the wine.

So I turn’d into a sty
And laid me down among the swine.

————————————————————————–

William Blake – Poet | Academy of American Poets

William Blake – Wikipedia

Buy William Blake
at Amazon

Buy William Blake
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

I Rose Up at the Dawn of Day Poem

I Rose Up at the Dawn of Day | Poem by William Blake

————————————————————————–

I rose up at the dawn of day–
`Get thee away! get thee away!
Pray’st thou for riches? Away! away!
This is the Throne of Mammon grey.

Said I: This, sure, is very odd;
I took it to be the Throne of God.

For everything besides I have:
It is only for riches that I can crave.

I have mental joy, and mental health,
And mental friends, and mental wealth;
I’ve a wife I love, and that loves me;
I’ve all but riches bodily.

I am in God’s presence night and day,
And He never turns His face away;
The accuser of sins by my side doth stand,
And he holds my money-bag in his hand.

For my worldly things God makes him pay,
And he’d pay for more if to him I would pray;
And so you may do the worst you can do;
Be assur’d, Mr.
Devil, I won’t pray to you.

Then if for riches I must not pray,
God knows, I little of prayers need say;
So, as a church is known by its steeple,
If I pray it must be for other people.

He says, if I do not worship him for a God,
I shall eat coarser food, and go worse shod;
So, as I don’t value such things as these,
You must do, Mr.
Devil, just as God please.

————————————————————————–

William Blake – Poet | Academy of American Poets

William Blake – Wikipedia

Buy William Blake
at Amazon

Buy William Blake
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

I met a seer Poem

I met a seer | Poem by Stephen Crane

————————————————————————–

I met a seer.

He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.

“Sir,” I addressed him,
“Let me read.

“Child — ” he began.

“Sir,” I said,
“Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.

Aye, much.

He smiled.

Then he opened the book
And held it before me.

Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.

————————————————————————–

Stephen Crane – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Stephen Crane – Wikipedia

Buy Stephen Crane
at Amazon

Buy Stephen Crane
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

I Love The Naked Ages Long Ago Poem

I Love The Naked Ages Long Ago | Poem by Charles Baudelaire

————————————————————————–

I love the naked ages long ago
When statues were gilded by Apollo,
When men and women of agility
Could play without lies and anxiety,
And the sky lovingly caressed their spines,
As it exercised its noble machine.

Fertile Cybele, mother of nature, then,
Would not place on her daughters a burden,
But, she-wolf sharing her heart with the people,
Would feed creation from her brown nipples.

Men, elegant and strong, would have the right
To be proud to have beauty named their king;
Virgin fruit free of blemish and cracking,
Whose flesh smooth and firm would summon a bite!
The Poet today, when he would convey
This native grandeur, would not be swept away
By man free and woman natural,
But would feel darkness envelop his soul
Before this black tableau full of loathing.

O malformed monsters crying for clothing!
O ludicrous heads! Torsos needing disguise!
O poor writhing bodies of every wrong size,
Children that the god of the Useful swaths
In the language of bronze and brass!
And women, alas! You shadow your heredity,
You gnaw nourishment from debauchery,
A virgin holds maternal lechery
And all the horrors of fecundity!

We have, it is true, corrupt nations,
Beauty unknown to the radiant ancients:
Faces that gnaw through the heart’s cankers,
And talk with the cool beauty of languor;
But these inventions of our backward muses
Are never hindered in their morbid uses
Of the old for profound homage to youth,
?To the young saint, the sweet air, the simple truth,
To the eye as limpid as the water current,
To spread out over all, insouciant
Like the blue sky, the birds and the flowers,
Its perfumes, its songs and its sweet fervors.

————————————————————————–

Charles Baudelaire – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Charles Baudelaire – Wikipedia

Buy Charles Baudelaire
at Amazon

Buy Charles Baudelaire
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

I looked here Poem

I looked here | Poem by Stephen Crane

————————————————————————–

I looked here;
I looked there;
Nowhere could I see my love.

And — this time —
She was in my heart.

Truly, then, I have no complaint,
For though she be fair and fairer,
She is none so fair as she
In my heart.

————————————————————————–

Stephen Crane – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Stephen Crane – Wikipedia

Buy Stephen Crane
at Amazon

Buy Stephen Crane
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–

 

CONTEMPLATION Poem

CONTEMPLATION | Poem by Charles Baudelaire

————————————————————————–

THOU, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still,
The eve is thine which even now drops down,
To carry peace or care to human will,
And in a misty veil enfolds the town.

While the vile mortals of the multitude,
By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on,
Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood–
Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone

Far from them.
Lo, see how the vanished years,
In robes outworn lean over heaven’s rim;
And from the water, smiling through her tears,

Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim;
And in the east, her long shroud trailing light,
List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.

————————————————————————–

Charles Baudelaire – Poet | Academy of American Poets

Charles Baudelaire – Wikipedia

Buy Charles Baudelaire
at Amazon

Buy Charles Baudelaire
at Barnes and Noble

————————————————————————–