Okay, life has sorta decided to calm down for a bit. I'll probably not be able to post here much over the weekend because of work, but I'll give this another shot.
Modern art Vs. Traditional
It's said it has a style all of its own,
A grandness to its sweep you need to
See, a colour painted bold that leaves you
Thinking of the tales untold. In short, it's more
More beautiful than the explicit, the sculpted
The profane (for they were pagans, they who
Formed the older art. God fearing men are
More abstract, subtler-thinkers). I dare to disagree.
Bold colour hints ten stories to be seen, but ah!
Have you not passed some gothic building
All amazed, and basked in it, as it were life?
Picasso never once did paint a thing
That made a man just stop, and breathe
Rather than think of what the thing could mean.
Flower:
Admiring every day its form, I pass.
It stands in that clean square of stone
Surrounded by the beauty of the Builder -
Amongst red clay, black brick and learning hall
It has its corner, of its kind alone.
Each day it stood, bare and neglected
Rude in its own sophisticated way
And dwarfed by man's accomplishment.
Now I pass it with awe, to see
The brilliant pink among the canopy,
The blooming life of that fair tree
Amongst man's carven panoply!
--
Yea, not particularly happy with either myself. Oh well - out of practise
For tomorrow:
drawing