There have been reports of sporadic outbreaks of poetry on the Plein Eire Site. ..Paintings in "script"?? In an attempt to capture these fleeting bubbles of verbal creativity...here we have a home for them on our Plein Air Poetry Corner:
All art forms are interlinked, painting and poetry are no exception . A painting may inspire a poet and visa-versa.
http://homepage.mac.com/mseffie/assignments/paintings&poems/tit...
If you are a Poet", and use words as well as paint to encapsulate and enhance your plein air experience....give your poems a home here on the Discuss Page in the Plein Air Painters Poets Corner...........
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This poem was written 'en plein air' - I hope to paint it! Was visiting Altamont Gardens - got inspiration there!
Spring Morning
Hundreds of snowdrops
Flowering under old trees
Cold Horses awaiting
Their food to be brought
Paint-flaking windows
Reflecting thin sunlight
Large piles of wood chopped
To warm up the freeze.
Cows at the farm gate
With milk swollen udders
Birdsong awakening
An old hive of bees
Arthritic limbs crackle
The cross cat's awake now
One eye open
A paw stretched
Assessing the scene.
A laudable and innovative idea. (Although I've heard poets have a corner - in Westminster Abbey - because that is where they end up buried - I hope such a fate doesn't befall the poetry of Plein Eire!
Good luck to all our wordsmiths, Liz, Karen, Kevin Freeney and anyone else who contributes to this noble cause.
"capture these fleeting bubbles of verbal creativity"???!!
Oh, Karen. What have you started?
I have a bad feeling we are going to be swamped in doggerel. I hope my paintbox floats!
Ever feel sightly confused after a "Spring clean"? ..
Spring is sprung
and the grass is riz,
I don't know,
where my brush is-
An hour ago
I gave it a clean-
and tidied away, since
hasn't been seen......
I stand now at my easel
ready to faint,
with no brush in my hand,
and only a tissue- to paint!
There once was a gal called Liz,
At Plein Air she was a whizz.
But wouldn't ye know it;
She was good as a poet,
Now painting and poetry's her biz.
Alas, a sad but familiar tale....
I was painting al fresco, just opposite Tesco's,
when yer wan stole up on the blind,
I felt myself fainting when she yelled "What yer paintin?"
and I nearly fell on my behind.
"What's it meant to be, mister?"
"I'm depicting the vista", I replied as I puffed out my chest.
Then she says, matter of fact, "I suppose its abstract,
sure, you're only doing your best...."
" You should meet my young cousin, he sells by the dozen,
but he just does it now for a lark.
Then, of course, there's my aunt, she's as good as Rembrandt,
or your man on the telly, Frank Clarke."
"If its beer-money you're after..." she stifled her laughter,
and she tossed 20c in my turps,
"You might as well know" (as she turned round to go),
"You're goin' to die of the thirst."
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