The further you follow the urge
to do more to get to the final flourish
the more you feel the need
to delve into greater subtleties,
the greater depths to be plumbed.
A lot remains to be touched,
a lot remains to be done,
and you stand away from the work
to watch the lines speak, the forms
grow fuller and yet stay incomplete.
The moon is rising high,
and it will rise higher still,
but somewhere the artist retreats
and lets the picture speak.
+Tighe O'Donoghue/Ross My best wishes are with you, always!

Sushama Karnik
Dec 14, 2018

Originally shared by Tighe O'Donoghue/Ross

RISING OF THE MOON...the hour is nigh...[ finally,final I will stop here...it only goes to show what Leonardo said “ a painting can never be done, there is always more... “

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  Joe Leigh-Corrigan+1

  Bravo ;-))

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  Tamriko Pasjuk+1

  Beautiful poem my dear Sushama!!!.I have you blessed day!:))

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  Sushama Karnik+1

  +Joe Leigh-Corrigan Thank you :-))

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  Sushama Karnik+1

  +Tamriko Pasjuk Thank you, dear friend! I wish you a blessed day too :-))

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  Tamriko Pasjuk+1

  +Sushama Karnik
  Thanks my dear!:))

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  Sem Xtz2017+1

  Wonderful poem!
  Have a good aftrenoon my dear friend!
  All the best!

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  Sushama Karnik+1

  +Sem Xtz2017 Thanks! A good afternoon to you too.

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Night sounds have ceased
one by one.
There is still time
for the sunrise.
The blessings of sleep
have covered the world.
And this was the sound
awaited in the lull.
It comes wafted on the breeze,
lilting, lifting, a slow cadence, a prayer
of an unknown origin,
It always stirs
the deep roots in the heart.
The token of early dawn.
May you awaken to its deep song.
It sings for you and me and every being.

The sound of the song has ceased.
The echoes have been absorbed
like an osmosis,
by a bird hiding somewhere in the leaves,
then they spread and mitigate the grief.
A visage of the early dawn is seen
slowly coming up behind the hills.
A slow sunrise and the sounds begin;
once again, the roots stir in the deep,
the leaves speak the language of the earth.
One day has gone, another begins

THE HOMES AND THE MAGICAL DAWNS

The home and the magical dawns
are now gone into oblivion,
we have left those vistas of old
into the folds of the outworn tapestry.
No woods lovely, dark and deep
glimmer on the opposite shore.
We are now caught in the rapacity
of the aspirations,and ambitions of urbanity.
The sun is at a sharp right angle on the lake,
and shading our eyes from the daze
we now focus our eye on the upscaling heights of the city.

The image credit
anu x originally shared to Art:

Gustav Klimt
Malcesine on Lake Garda (1913)

In 1913 Klimt broke with his annual three-month visit to Attersee spa in the Austrian Alps, and went to the Italian Lake Garda instead, possibly under the increasing influence of Egon Schiele, who preferred to travel abroad. Whether as a result of the change of light or scenery, this work amply demonstrates its superb effect on him. As in Austria, Klimt paints the scene from a boat out on the water, yet the dramatic distinction of this landscape is the transformed handling of subject-matter, panorama, lighting, and form. It is a wonderful light, expansive work unlike the usual claustrophobic style of his typically intense Austrian scenes. The atmosphere is of life and frivolity rather than the somber, emotionally charged visions of home.
. . . . .
Gustav Klimt was born in Vienna, in 1862, into a lower middle-class family of Moravian origin. His father, Ernst Klimt, worked as an engraver and goldsmith, earning very little, and the artist's childhood was spent in relative poverty. The painter would have to support his family financially throughout his life.
. . . . .
image and comment from www.gustav-klimt.com
. . . . .
#Art #GustavKlimt
. . . . .

A Damsel Of The Night

Rare is the night,
and the painted sea
in blue and white
and ripples of grey
when the moon alone is restless,
adrift in his aura, translucent;
a crimson delight
is spread on the waves
and a damsel from the ocean's depth
comes floating gently on the moon's rays

The milk of paradise rains.
The damsel draped in silken robes
of the moonlight spinning around,
filtering through her fingers, her hands raised to receive the grace.
From the horizon far
where the sun's fire is burning still,
leap the flames and mingle with her tresses;
The humming of the ocean stops
in the crescendo
as the moonbeams fall on the cosmic thigh
of the maiden with her hands raised

Image source unknown

Silence Is not Peace

Walking, I had to bend,
to remove a thorn that gently pricked.
A nostalgia, an empty bench.
A winding road...A distilled memory at every bend.
Though a path is trodden every day,
though the silence breathes,
though the wood in a silence wraps me around,
silence is not peace.

21 Dec. 2016

Image credit: francisco javier Lozano Martinez

Paseando ,nostalgia, y recuerdos 

A Love Story

A Love-story

I have been waiting all awhile
for you to tell me the story of your love.
Let us be shamelessly true,
No, I don't mean the confessional mode; I mean let us be just true,
not to each other, just true, like the sky or the earth are.
And then come to think of it; we will be telling the story of the whole mankind and the womankind,and the animalkind and the birdkind too, and oh yes why not the trees and the plants as well?
But no, I am not ready. I cannot be true when I have no story.

A crumpled page
in a book read long ago,
that was the time when I
was led to swim
in a world called the ocean
of poetry.
There were dreamboats twice as large
as the vessels that set out on the sea.
They had the power to launch the ships
and steer them safely to the ports.
Yet somewhere I do not know
why I tore off a page to make a boat on my own.
I stopped a long while reading the abstruse maps.
Sometimes on a whim, I pick up the book
and still, get stuck where I was.

Thanks +pasajul de noapte for the image

Originally shared by pasajul de noapte (noapte)