Poetry can be an incredibly powerful medium to express our thoughts and feelings.
It allows us to capture moments of beauty and meaning in our lives and explore the depths of our creative minds.
Art is no exception, and there are many beautiful art poems out there that explore the complexities of creative expression.
Here, we’ve gathered a selection of several poems about art that will surely inspire and delight literature lovers.
Keep reading to find poems and quench your artistic thirst!
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From classic poets like William Wordsworth to modern-day geniuses like Maya Angelou, this collection of famous art poetry is sure to spark reflection and admiration.
1. Art And Heart
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover,
It is not art, but heart , which wins the wide world over.
Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it,
And the finest phrase falls dead, if there is no feeling behind it.
Though perfect the player’s touch, little, if any he sways us,
Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us.
Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure,
Unless he writes from a full warm heart, he gives us little pleasure.
So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes with the saying,
And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of the praying.
It is not the artist’s skill, which into our soul comes stealing
With a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player’s feeling.
And it is not the poet’s song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming,
Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under the rhyming.
And therefore I say again, though I am art’s own true lover,
That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.
2. In My Craft or Sullen Art
by Dylan Thomas
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
3. The Art of Misery
Paintings are displayed
On the hollow walls of my heart
That slowly decay,
Floors falling apart.
The tears of an artist
Drawn to perfection.
My tears are grimy,
My body, a reflection.
Too skinny or fat,
Too dark, too bright.
Museums floors haunted by rats
That fear no form of light.
Our first display,
Made grand with expression;
A screaming horde
Of horrible impression.
And to our next,
A bloody sight –
Like stars at midnight.
So we move on to one of my own
Repulsive like the museum it lays.
It falls, it shatters on the floors of my heart;
The fragile tiles pierced by the glass portrait’s remains.
So many artists and the beautiful works.
So much hope in what others call life.
But I stay in the dark, craving the box blade.
But I lay in my bed, unable to cry.
It’s true, I’m lonely, friendless, unwanted
For not many are as filthy as me.
Still, I put my works up for show
In a museum displaying the art of misery.
4. The Thought-Fox
by Ted Hughes
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
by John Charles Mcneill
God willed, who never needed speech,
“Let all things be:”
And, lo, the starry firmament
And land and sea And his first thought of life that lives
In you and me.
His circle of eternity
We see in part;
Our spirits are his breath, our hearts
Beat from his heart;
Hence we have played as little gods
And called it art.
Lacking his power, we shared his dream
Of perfect things;
Between the tents of hope and sweet
Have sat in ashes, but our souls
Went forth on wings.
Where life fell short of some desire
In you and me,
Feeling for beauty which our eyes
Could never see,
Behold, from out the void we willed
That it should be,
And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs
Might voice his silent harmony
Of waste and wood,
And he, beholding his and ours,
Might find it good.
6. A Walking Installation
by Leafvan Amsterdam
You’re so novel, you are the latest sensation
You breathe art, you are a walking installation
Dodging the ordinary for a different situation
Shooting from the hip, a controversial revelation
I like the look of you and the rules you’re bending
A throwback to the 60’s leaves – a pick-up pending
It’s difficult to fathom all the messages you’re sending
Words flow out of you like a massage happy ending
Life, now, in this new “age of rage” leaves some out
They try to cancel you and what your opinion’s about
Anyone who can write gets their chance to shout
But life experience manifests in instinct and clout
You hold firm to deep beliefs but keep an open mind
Doing your best to live life by your own chosen signs
Agendas at play by the establishment are too unkind
But their clock keeps on ticking and there is no rewind.
Beautiful Poems about Art
Art is one of the most beautiful forms of expression, and poems about art can serve as a great way to appreciate its beauty. This collection of poems for art is sure to delight and inspire.
1. The Beauty of Baroque
The Baroque era, a time of grand design,
With ornate details, that forever will shine,
An era of opulence, with a touch so divine.
From the sculptures to the paintings, to the architecture grand,
With curves that flow, and forms that expand,
It’s a feast for the senses, a touch of the hand.
From the chandeliers, to the gold leaf frames,
Baroque art is truly a thing of beauty, a lavish claim,
With its intricate details, that remain untamed.
With music that’s rich, and drama that’s grand,
Baroque is a style, that’s truly one of a kind,
And its influence, still evident today, across the land.
Admire the beauty of Baroque,
For it’s a testament, to the power of art,
And the enduring legacy, of its creator’s heart.
2. Sonnet 83
by William Shakespeare
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet’s debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
3. Have You Ever Heard Tree Stump Come to Life
I heard a wind harp while very young,
I knew then “one day ” I would make me one.
Saw a river sump with roots molded by the earth
so I decided now is the time to give my wind harp birth.
I found a way to get it home,
and sanded it and it turned a most beautiful gold.
I drilled holes in the roots for guitar strings to be strung,
and atop the stump an angels arms stretched to the heavens above.
I varnished and sealed the wood with care,
I felt and embrace couldn’t wait for the wind shared.
Behind her were some lighting to give her life at night,
and once the strings were strung I stepped ack and whispered oh my.
The day I placed her out she made not a sound,
so I waited for stringer winds to come about.
I never gave up as I went on my way,
then I heard it in such a grand display.
Seems more at night the sound whispered on the wind,
every tune different soft and mellow souls it did mend.
People would come to find where the tune was displayed,
as their eyes lay upon her in her grand enlightenment so gave.
Only one I made as I grew old,
yet she never wavered strumming as the wind blows.
So the melody I hear even to this day,
of the old tree became more mellow with age.
4. Beginning Sculpture The Subtractive Method
by Claudia Emerson
The girls sit before the assignment—identical
blocks of salt—and from tall, precarious stools,
look down into blank planes of possibility. In the end, though, the only choice is to carve something
smaller. So they begin. Rough chunks like hail fall before the rasps and chisels’ beveled
edges. Salt permeates this air as it has for years, the floor gritty, their hands, eyes,
even the skylights made opaque with it—
disappearing not unlike the way it is
subtracted from similar blocks, in the fields,
before the tongues of the horses.
Poems about Art And Creativity
This category is dedicated to exploring the beauty of art and creativity through the medium of poetry. It seeks to capture the essence of the creative process and celebrate the power of art.
1. Orange Energy
All I want to do is delight—
Throw the mask off,
Not care and not worry,
Not explain what I mean nor
Define what I do.
Just be whatever I feel like being.
Just relish in the energy of this moment.
I want to be so alive that
I feel like the moon,
Throwing tides just for fun,
Creating because it’s what I’m
Here to do.
I want to love the color orange,
Just because it craves delight too.
I want to cry because
I’m so in love with the miracle of
I don’t want to feel like I’m
I want to try and feel like I’m
I want to write the poetry,
Read the poetry, and
Breathe the poetry.
I want my life to be a
Messy mosaic that even I
Can’t help but fall in love with.
I feel the winds of fury
Blowing through me.
Even my bones are smiling.
I hear my veins pulsing with
Desire, like branches
Dancing in the breezes.
Wildflowers are waving and
The ocean blossoms with a new idea.
Crazy and beautiful is
How I want my life to feel.
Let it be. Let it be.
I write to be free.
I read to tap in.
I absorb the poetry.
And so it shall be.
And now I am this energy.
by Sylvia Plath
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Off from the center like horses.
Wells like tears, like the
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock
That drops and turns,
A white skull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road-
Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars
Govern a life.
3. One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon The Strand
by Oliver Tearle
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
‘Vain man,’ said she, ‘that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.’
‘Not so,’ (quod I); ‘let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.’
4. The Love Poem
by Carol Ann Duffy
Till love exhausts itself, longs
for the sleep of words –
my mistress’ eyes –
to lie on a white sheet, at rest
in the language –
let me count the ways –
or shrink to a phrase like an epitaph –
with me –
or fall from its own high cloud as syllables
in a pool of verse –
one hour with thee.
Till love gives in and speaks
in the whisper of art –
how like you this? –
love’s lips pursed to quotation marks
kissing a line –
look in thy heart
and write –
love’s light fading, darkening,
black as ink on a page –
there is a garden
in her face.
Till love is all in the mind –
O my America!
my new-found land –
or all in the pen
in the writer’s hand –
behold, thou art fair –
not there, except in a poem,
known by heart like a prayer,
both near and far,
near and far –
the desire of the moth
for the star.
5. The Art of Creativity
We are alike but different
while we feel insignificant
We all have something to show
but only have creativity alone
A pen of power,
A pencil of promise,
A brush of brilliance,
A clay of comfort,
A dance of description,
An act of ability,
A melody of magic
We dream, We inspire
A gift we require
Our meaningful expression
Of a quality in question
We dazzle, We delight
In an image upright
In a world where we cannot
By our imaginations we are caught
A heart of sensitivity
The art of creativity
Short Poems about Art
Art and poetry has been intertwined for centuries, each providing a unique lens through which to view the world. Here is a list of art poetry to inspire and ignite your creativity.
by Stephen Vincent Benét
The little man with the vague beard and guise
Pulled at the wicket. “Come inside!” he said,
“I’ll show you all we’ve got now—it was size
You wanted?—oh, dry colors! Well”—he led
To a dim alley lined with musty bins,
And pulled one fiercely. Violent and bold
A sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sins
Scarlet screamed out above the battered gold
Of tins and picture-frames. I held my breath.
He tugged another hard—and sapphire skies
Spread in vast quietude, serene as death,
O’er waves like crackled turquoise—and my eyes
Burnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea!
“We’re selling that lot there out cheap!” said he.
2. Paper Art
I am paper art –
torn carton to twirl curls,
a pout of gloss
to say I am not boss,
and a smart, conservative
dress of black and white,
with a tissue feather
to remind me I can fly.
With this passive pose,
I observe the world
from my wall –
with my eyes
by Ruby Archer
How the composer thrills, when softly glides
Across the waiting soul’s attuned lyre
An unthought melody, and there abides;
Or when some lovely form, a dream half hides,
Reveals itself, how glows the sculptor’s heart of fire!
When to the poet, seeking beauty, truth,
And all that Pleasure wins from dimpled Mirth,—
A new perception comes, of age or youth,
Of Nature’s coy caprice or random ruth—
How all his being flowers with ecstasy at Fancy’s birth!
Long Poems about Art
In this section, we present a collection of long poems that explore the many facets of art, from its creation and interpretation to its impact on the human experience.
1. A Water Color
by Bliss Carman
There’s a picture in my room
Lightens many an hour of gloom, —
Cheers me under fortune’s frown
And the drudgery of town.
Many and many a winter day
When my soul sees all things gray,
Here is veritable June,
Heart’s content and spirit’s boon.
It is scarce a hand-breadth wide,
Not a span from side to side,
Yet it is an open door
Looking back to joy once more,
Where the level marshes lie,
A quiet journey of the eye,
And the unsubstantial blue
Makes the fine illusion true.
So I forth and travel there
In the blessed light and air,
Miles of green tranquillity
Down the river to the sea.
Here the sea-birds roam at will,
And the sea-wind on the hill
Brings the hollow pebbly roar
From the dim and rosy shore,
With the very scent and draft
Of the old sea’s mighty craft.
I am standing on the dunes,
By some charm that must be June’s,
When the magic of her hand
Lays a sea-spell on the land.
And the old enchantment falls
On the blue-gray orchard walls
And the purple high-top boles,
While the orange orioles
Flame and whistle through the green
Of that paradisal scene.
Strolling idly for an hour
Where the elder is in flower,
I can hear the bob-white call
Down beyond the pasture wall.
Musing in the scented heat,
Where the bayberry is sweet,
I can see the shadows run
Up the cliff-side in the sun.
Or I cross the bridge and reach
The mossers’ houses on the beach,
Where the bathers on the sand
Lie sea-freshened and sun-tanned.
Thus I pass the gates of time
And the boundaries of clime,
Change the ugly man-made street
For God’s country green and sweet.
Fag of body, irk of mind,
In a moment left behind,
Once more I possess my soul
With the poise and self-control
Beauty gives the free of heart
Through the sorcery of art
2. The Painter
by John Ashbery
Sitting between the sea and the buildings
He enjoyed painting the sea’s portrait.
But just as children imagine a prayer
Is merely silence, he expected his subject
To rush up the sand, and, seizing a brush,
Plaster its own portrait on the canvas.
So there was never any paint on his canvas
Until the people who lived in the buildings
Put him to work: “Try using the brush
As a means to an end. Select, for a portrait,
Something less angry and large, and more subject
To a painter’s moods, or, perhaps, to a prayer.”
How could he explain to them his prayer
That nature, not art, might usurp the canvas?
He chose his wife for a new subject,
Making her vast, like ruined buildings,
As if, forgetting itself, the portrait
Had expressed itself without a brush.
Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush
In the sea, murmuring a heartfelt prayer:
“My soul, when I paint this next portrait
Let it be you who wrecks the canvas.”
The news spread like wildfire through the buildings:
He had gone back to the sea for his subject.
Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
Too exhausted even to lift his brush,
He provoked some artists leaning from the buildings
To malicious mirth: “We haven’t a prayer
Now, of putting ourselves on canvas,
Or getting the sea to sit for a portrait!”
Others declared it a self-portrait.
Finally all indications of a subject
Began to fade, leaving the canvas
Perfectly white. He put down the brush.
At once a howl, that was also a prayer,
Arose from the overcrowded buildings.
They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings;
And the sea devoured the canvas and the brush
As though his subject had decided to remain a prayer.
by Bliss Carman
Here hangs at last, you see, my row
Of sketches,—all I have to show
Of one enchanted summer spent
In sweet laborious content,
At little ‘Sconset by the moors,
With the sea thundering by its doors,
Its grassy streets, and gardens gay
With hollyhocks and salvia.
And here upon the easel yet,
With the last brush of paint still wet,
(Showing how inspiration toils),
Is one where the white surf-line boils
Along the sand, and the whole sea
Lifts to the skyline, just to be
The wondrous background from whose verge
Of blue on blue there should emerge
One day of days
I strolled the silent path that strays
Between the moorlands and the beach
From Siasconset, till you reach
Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land
That fronts the ocean, lone and grand
As when the Lord first bade it be
For a surprise and mystery.
A sailless sea, a cloudless sky,
The level lonely moors, and I
The only soul in all that vast
Of color made intense to last!
The small white sea-birds piping near;
The great soft moor-winds; and the dear
Bright sun that pales each crest to jade,
Where gulls glint fishing unafraid.
Here man, the godlike, might have gone
With his deep thought, on that wild dawn
When the first sun came from the sea,
Glowing and kindling the world to be,
While time began and joy had birth, —
No wilder sweeter spot on earth!
As I sat there and mused (the way
We painters waste our time, you say!)
On the sheer loneliness and strength
Whence life must spring, there came at length
Conviction of the helplessness
Of earth alone to ban or bless.
I saw the huge unhuman sea;
I heard the drear monotony
Of the waves beating on the shore
With heedless, futile strife and roar,
Without a meaning or an aim.
And then a revelation came,
In subtle, sudden, lovely guise,
Like one of those soft mysteries
Of Indian jugglers, who evoke
A flower for you out of smoke.
I knew sheer beauty without soul
Could never be perfections goal,
Nor satisfy the seeking mind
With all it longs for and must find
One day. The lovely things that haunt
Our senses with an aching want,
And move our souls, are like the fair
Lost garmernts of a soul somewhere.
Nature is naught, if not the veil
Of some great good that must prevail
And break in joy, as woods of spring
Break into song and blossoming.
But what makes that great goodness start
Within ourselves? When leaps the heart
With gladness, only then we know
Why lovely Nature travails so,—
Why art must persevere and pray
In her incomparable way.
In all the world the only worth
Is human happiness; its dearth
The darkest ill. Let joyance be,
And there is God’s sufficiency, —
Such joy as only can abound
Where the heart’s comrade has been found
That was my thought. And then the sea
Broke in upon my revery
With clamorous beauty, —the superb
Eternal noun that takes no verb
But love. The heaven of dove-like blue
Bent o’er the azure, round and true
As magic sphere of crystal glass,
Where faith sees plain the pageant pass
Of things unseen. So I beheld
The sheer sky-arches domed and belled,
As if the sea were the very floor
Of heaven where walked the gods of yore
In Plato’s imagery, and I
Uplifted saw their pomps go by.
The House of space and time grew tense
As if with rapture’s imminence,
When truth should be at last made clear,
And the great worth of life appear;
While I, a worshipper at the shrine,
For very longing grew divine,
Borne upward on earth’s ecstasy,
And welcomed by the boundless sky.
A mighty prescience seemed to brood
Over that tenuous solitude
Yearning for form, till it became
Vivid as dream and live as flame,
Through magic art could never match,
The vision I have tried to catch, —
All earth’s delight and meaning grown
A lyric presence loved and known.
How otherwise could time evolve
Young courage, or the high resolve,
Or gladness to assuage and bless
The soul’s austere great loneliness,
Than by providing her somehow
With sympathy of hand and brow,
And bidding her at last go free,
Companioned through eternity?
So there appeared before my eyes,
In a beloved, familiar guise,
A vivid, questing human face
In profile, scanning heaven for grace,
Up-gazing there against the blue
With eyes that heaven itself shone through;
The lips soft-parted, half in prayer,
Half confident of kindness there;
A brow like Plato’s made for dream
In some immortal Academe,
And tender as a happy girl’s;
A full dark head of clustered curls
Round as an emperor’s, where meet
Repose and ardor, strong and sweet,
Distilling from a mind unmarred
The glory of her rapt regard.
So eager Mary might have stood,
In love’s adoring attitude,
And looked into the angel’s eyes
With faith and fearlessness, all wise
In soul’s unfaltering innocence,
Sure in her woman’s supersense
Of things only the humble know.
My vision looks forever so.
In other years when men shall say,
“What was the painter’s meaning, pray?
Why all this vast of sea and space,
Just to enframe a woman’s face?”
Here is the pertinent reply,
“What better use for earth and sky?”
The great archangel passed that way
Illuming life with mystic ray.
Not Lippo’s self nor Raphael
Had lovelier, realer things to tell
Than I, beholding far away
How all the melting rose and gray
Upon the purple sea-line leaned
About that head that intervened.
How real was she? Ah, my friend,
In art the fact and fancy blend
Past telling. All the painter’s task
Is with the glory. Need we ask
The tulips breaking through the mould
To their untarnished age of gold,
Whence their ideals were derived
That have so gloriously survived?
Flowers and painters both must give
The hint they have received, to live, —
Spend without stint the joy and power
That lurk in each propitious hour, —
Yet leave the why untold —God’s way.
My sketch is all I have to say.
4. A Painter’s Holiday
by Bliss Carman
We painters sometimes strangely keep
These holidays. When life runs deep
And broad and strong, it comes to make
Its own bright-colored almanack.
Impulse and incident divine
Must find their way through tone and line;
The throb of color and the dream
Of beauty, giving art its theme
From dear life’s daily miracle,
Illume the artist’s life as well.
A bird-note, or a turning leaf,
The first white fall of snow, a brief
Wild song from the Anthology,
A smile, or a girl’s kindling eye,—
And there is worth enough for him
To make the page of history dim.
Who knows upon what day may come
The touch of that delirium
Which lifts plain life to the divine,
And teaches hand the magic line
No cunning rule could ever reach,
Where Soul’s necessities find speech?
None knows how rapture may arrive
To be our helper, and survive
Through our essay to help in turn
All starving eager souls who yearn
Lightward discouraged and distraught.
Ah, once art’s gleam of glory caught
And treasured in the heart, how then
We walk enchanted among men,
And with the elder gods confer!
So art is hope’s interpreter,
And with devotion must conspire
To fan the eternal altar fire.
Wherefore you find me here to-day,
Not idling the good hours away,
But picturing a magic hour
With its replenishment of power.
Conceive a bleak December day,
The streets all mire, the sky all gray,
And a poor painter trudging home
Disconsolate, when what should come
Across his vision, but a line
On a bold-lettered play-house sign,
A Persian Sun Dance.
In he turns.
A step, and there the desert burns
Purple and splendid; molten gold
The streamers of the dawn unfold,
Amber and amethyst uphurled
Above the far rim of the world;
The long-held sound of temple bells
Over the hot sand steals and swells;
A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones
In barbarous maddening monotones;
While sandal incense blue and keen
Hangs in the air. And then the scene
Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released,
The sorcery of all the East,
In rose and saffron gossamer, —
A young light-hearted worshipper
Who dances up the sun. She moves
Like waking woodland flower that loves
To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve
Is like a sapling’s sway and swerve
Before the spring wind. Her dark hair
Framing a face vivid and rare,
Curled to her throat and then flew wild,
Like shadows round a radiant child.
The sunlight from her cymbals played
About her dancing knees, and made
A world of rose-lit ecstasy,
Prophetic of the day to be.
Such mystic beauty might have shone
In Sardis or in Babylon,
To bring a Satrap to his doom
Or touch some lad with glory’s bloom.
And now it wrought for me, with sheer
Enchantment of the dying year,
Its irresistible reprieve
From joylessness on New Year’s Eve.
Poems about Art And Life
Art and life are intertwined, each influencing the other. These poems explore the beauty and complexity of the human experience through the lens of artistic expression.
1. Life And Art
by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Said Life to Art—”I love thee best
Not when I find in thee
My very face and form, expressed
With dull fidelity,
“But when in thee my craving eyes
The mystery of my memories
And all I long to be.”
2. My Life
by Binie Harlig
Life is a work of art,
something you paint or write with your heart,
taking care to make every part
a symphony of colors or words
that fly together like a flock of birds.
You use the tools that you have,
a paintbrush or a pen in your hand.
Appreciate the hand you use,
because you don’t get to choose,
and be careful what you create
using your character trait.
Take a lesson from the other designs,
but still use your creative guidelines.
Don’t think your abilities come from your greatness;
they are a gift from God, and they’re not utterly painless;
they take endurance and care,
and you have to be able to bear
the wear and tear.
The piece can be one of a kind,
no matter if you have a great mind.
Write and paint of actions undefined,
by the knowledge of others
who are undermined.
Use the love God has given
and the guidance of his hand
to recreate his promised land.
The sands of time
will bring about inspiration
and the gifts of God you use without hesitation.
Life is a work of art,
a reflection of you,
and a journey that you must pursue.
Poems about Art That Rhyme
Art and poetry are two creative forms that can complement each other beautifully. Here are some rhyming poems about art.
1. Loving in Truth
by Sir Philip Sidney
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn’d brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows;
And others’ feet still seem’d but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”
2. Glowing in Grace
Shining are the stars,
Shooting in the sky
Staring is the Moon,
Standing like one who mourns
Spinning is the Sun,
Speeding as a lost son
Sparkling is a red rose,
Smelling in one’s nose
Swimming is a fish,
Shaking in a cage
Swelling is my boss,
Shivering in an old bus
Shooting is an arrow,
Showing in a road that is narrow
Singing are the nosy birds,
Selling their songs just to have bread
Snoring is one fat pig,
Sleeping as if he’s not big.
3. A Home Too Far
by Obediah Waykay
Here again, we are hopefully looking for a route
Leading to a place believed to be our root
A place where we were free before taken to be slaves
All we hope was to be free from their oppressive sleeves
Searching the earth to find our home, was the only hope
We knew, though we were at the verge of discovering our home
But the clues were very hard and dark to see us through
Lighting candles in the forest to see a real path to the home
That we cherish, was the only skill we have to get us through
The woods, yet still it was way too hard and dark to get us home
Letting go, was not an answer, but reaching our goal was better
And it was the only the only thing that matters.
4. One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
That which art carved from deaths mold;
What more can be said
to those who have already bled
and passed, wondering, pondering, seemingly lost, if not instead
without destination, all seeking to sate an unfathomable sensation.
A hunger most tormenting,
which no mortal lamenting could comprehend
The ethereal pains of zombies who survived their end.
6. Blue Light Special in Aisle Three
by Caren Krutsinger
valentines shopper, there is a blue light special in Aisle Three
Gloria had no idea what this announcement could be.
but she raced to three to see toilet paper on sale for $1.95.
she tossed in two packages on top of her kitty cat Clive.
valentines shopper, there is a blue light special in Aisle Four
Gloria spun her cart and hurried to the aisle next door.
the special was dog food, which you could buy for a dollar off.
we don’t need it! We don’t have a dog! Clive said with a scoff.
the next blue light special was in aisle twenty-three that day.
Clive was forbidding his mistress from heading that way.
they came home dissatisfied, with unusable stuff in their cart.
Clive said “Buying a bunch of junk we don’t need is your art.”
Haiku Poems about Art
Haiku poems about art capture the essence of artistic expression in a concise and evocative manner. Check out the Haiku poems below!
1. Free Form Art
by Barbara Gorelick
Ivy climbs the wall
Spreading fingers here and there
Forming leafy art
by Farah Chamma
Sealing eyes of sky,
Descend upon straps of light,
Dusk…now dreams the night…
3. Beach Beauty
by Kp Nunez
beach that’s long and white
seen through the coconut palm
picture perfect view
by James Inman
ink through calamus
the poet feathers his art
with plumes of bird songs
5. Cherry Bomb
gross and red
deflowering natures way
cherry blossom pop
6. Whispers of Love
by Rita Odeh
covers the shore…
7. Amended-Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’
by Deborah Burch
A Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
gamboge moon and stars
dance haloed whirlwind marriage
in violet sky
while black cypress looms
past swirling clouds as fleeting
requiem for love
through bright starry eyes
secluded heart still searches
8. The Artist Awakes
by William Kershaw
Haiku as an art:
To paint a canvas broadly,
With tiny brush strokes.
9. Master’s Art
by Joyce Johnson
birds rising on the breeze
hue of blue in mountain lake
borrowed from the sky
time tables ignored
mountains rise at their own pace
only God observes
tranquil and serene
undisturbed by man’s progress
In summary, art has the power to touch our souls, evoke emotions, and inspire us in ways we never thought possible.
So, take a moment to indulge in the magic of art, let the words flow over you, and inspire you to create something beautiful.
We hope you enjoyed reading these beautiful poems about art and would love to hear your thoughts in the comments section below.
Please share your thoughts on your favorite poems about art and keep the conversation going in the comments section below.
Have a fantastic day!