Art

. The cats are creatures of a liberal kind, For on the laps of commie artists, you’ll find Them. Coffee too you’ll find in their domain, Not to drink so much as to maintain Their fashion, always looking lovely, cool, And to that end they will use any tool. On...

. I This crucifixion hides the anguish. Racked With pain, belied by bloodless hands and feet; Intolerable torments, they compete As muscles in that arching back contract. His hanging head forestalls all eye contact; And here we see Him, harrowing complete, As Pilate meted out from judgment seat Beyond this...

. Hunter Biden, New Millennial American Painter “It’s Generic Post Zombie Formalism Illustration”  ---Jerry Saltz “a…vaguely psychedelic vibe…Tomaselli…for dermatologist waiting rooms” —Scott Indrisek by Red Was Iceblue He used the N-word in iMessage conversations with his lawyer—Hunter Biden is an artist full of pith. In fall, a New York exhibition...

. The Carnelian Ring: A Still-Life Footfalls echo in the memoryDown the passage which we did not takeTowards the door we never openedInto the rose-garden. —T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton I think of a walled garden, graced with trees:Magnolia, fig, and cherry, while grapevines(Just pruned enough to be under control)Intertwine with...

. Contemplating Aristotle Contemplating a Bust of Homer He stands enwrapped in luminous shadowed light, A woven cord of gold across his chest, Voluminous silk sleeves of purest white Contrast the deep-black velvet of his vest. Arrayed as though he were a wealthy man; A citizen of Rembrandt’s Amsterdam. An...

. The State of Art The art world has completely turned around. Now critics blind themselves, or close their eyes, Shout how their contacts and their creds abound, And laud sick rancid leavings to the skies. Admiring excrement (which has been canned, Shown, sold, and showered with the highest praise)...

.  Brush with Shame In reference to “Couple accidentally paints over $500,000 artwork,” Ben Cost, New York Post, 4/3/21 The whole world over they are in a stew: Our artists and creators share the view That “artwork” they create or else display Is “hands off”—there’s just nothing else to say....

. Behold the Queen of Heaven weeping, seeping __Tears that rend her heart and ours. As one __Who mourns she grasps and clasps the seeming-sleeping, __Pierced, and bloodless body of her son. A body void of God’s expired breath; __A pietà of human flesh and bone __Where heaving, grieving love...

. “The Gift of Life” is a formal epic poem of 600 original Shakespearean sonnets, a tale about a love that existed in life and art with equal force. The heroine of the tale goes to the great war of words with the avant-garde, on behalf of the classical artistic...

. On Rembrandt's "Return of the Prodigal Son" Three centuries have passed since it was wrought--- A work of art transcendent yet humane. The tender play of feelings Rembrandt caught: A wastrel son disgraced, prostrate with pain; Humiliated by the sin he sought But somehow freed from Pride’s eternal stain,...

. The Death of Adam Excerpted from Musings on Piero della Francesca’s “History of the True Cross,” in the Church of San Francesco, Arezzo, Italy There’s always both: the sacred and profane. The right tends to the former, left the latter. The weak side’s earthbound, ugly, heavy matter, where even...

. Benvenuto Cellini’s Salt-Cellar A woman sitting back, just mildly curious To hear a man’s contrived, seductive patter, Waiting to see what fabrications spurious He’s dreamt up now. It doesn’t really matter— She has no interest in him beyond this: The day is long, his chitchat passes time; In half...

. From Parthenope’s coast each to his post, Beseeching eyes upraised with steady gaze. That night would nature’s cruelty erase A city from the broiling earth and roast The dying with the lying dead. Utmost The pain, the choking pyroclastic haze Whose toxic clouds cloak rivers all ablaze, Each supplicating...

. . Ode on ​Bertel Thorvaldsen’s Ganymede and the Eagle Bending down in offering, a Boy extends a shallow bowl; Craning neck of eagle dips, the Child foresees his coming role. Swept from earth to heaven’s cheers, What held your heart with world below? Now countless days will turn to...

  Yearning for Castles and Gargoyles Among the towers never made of ivory, protruding lewdly over walls of mottled stone, misshapen forms, insatiably unsavory look down on us. Who takes such agony to hone these brash, extended, fixed grotesques of form and function meant to stop the rotting from within?...

  You’ve grown up in the public school system, and it shows. You are sensitive to the world around you, and in touch with your “feelings”—a perfect little guilt-ridden example of a twenty-first-century castrato or an overbearing feminist airhead. You hardly know the alphabet or how to count, or even...

  On the PBS TV Series 'Bob Ross, the Joy of Painting' I float, as happy as the clouds, Upon a sea of liquid white. Whilst cherishing this time allowed, This interval of pure delight. He speaks to me, as if I’m there. I answer back, I don’t know why,...

  The painter and poet Sally Cook has a new exhibition at UB Art Galleries. Because of the current coronavirus pandemic, UB Art Galleries has put the entire exhibition online so that you can actually travel through it and experience it virtually. Click below to visit the exhibit: http://ubartgalleries.buffalo.edu/exhibitions/sally-cook-1960-present/  ...

  It seems the art world all but missed the dart Hurled ‘cross the continent when Hassel Smith Called Jackson Pollock’s paintings “restaurant art”; Or else it put it out of mind forthwith. We learn, “It’s not that Pollock dripped, but how.” How patrons prize his mast’ry of technique— The...

The Fate of Fine Art Too late to turn the clock back on fine art, Egregious oxymoron that it may Be called today, but where to find the start Of this, the slow beginnings of decay? For once we found our world inside the space That we saw bounded by...

  Poetry Today If elevated thought had ever beenThe least criterion of excellenceIn poetry, why should it then be seenToday as simply of no consequence?If rhyme was good enough for Shakespeare’s timeAnd rhythm beats in Keats and Chaucer, BlakeAnd Dryden why then, why is rhyme a crimeAnd rhythm a mistake...

(All poetry by Bruce Dale Wise) Ancient Melodies by Ercules Edibwa No longer are they heard, the ancient melodies of Greece, so beautiful and lovely to the ear. One now can only imagine their mellow ease played o’er the centuries, so far are they from here. Like waters from th’...

An earlier version of this piece was published in The Epoch Times By Evan Mantyk When Jon McNaughton released his new painting, “Crossing the Swamp,” on July 31, he probably wasn’t expecting to get as much attention as he did, including over 14,000 Twitter comments, 20,000 likes, and news coverage...

(All poetry by Bruce Dale Wise) Hylas and the Nymphs by Beau Ecs Wilder John William Waterhouse's "Hylas and the Nymphs" must go; enchanting, pretty, water nymphs are far too much to show. Manchester Art has claimed it is unsuitable right now. It is offensive, and it must be censored,...

  Let us raise statues to the Prince of Peace: __Cain’s monuments are powerless to bind __Our hearts in summer’s sheaf, or to remind The world of our first fall through sin’s caprice. Our monuments recall the gods of Greece __Whose lifeless looks their marble temples lined: __Blank, frigid idols...

Meadows of Corn It seems but bland to every passing eye, These regal meadows dressed in ripened corn; They dance and few can such effects deny, The brows of greener grass their touch adorn. As dismal scenes of urban life have choked Our ageing glimpses hour by hour sans shame;...

  And What Of Art? It used to be that there was a division Between the arts, and each had segments, too. A poem was just a poem, required revision, A painter mixed his colors – blue was blue, And didn’t need some trash, or added gravel To make it...

  Déja Do you remember when a piece of art Held truth or meaning in its oil or stone— And beauty even?  Paintings would impart Aesthetic truth and not just some sweet tone Of glowing like a Rothko, luminous But void like Close Encounters of the Third Kind’s shimmer.  Artefacts were numinous Like...

(The BBC story here for reference) If I were burdened with a lover who Looked crooked like this woman (woman?), I Would go as twisted as Picasso.  Blue Lips, though, are what I’d paint to help me shy Away from her (or him?—can’t really tell), And if the her/him face looked...

. Sally Cook is both a poet and a painter residing in upstate New York. In addition to the Society of Classical Poets, her poems have also appeared in Blue Unicorn, First Things, Chronicles, The Formalist Portal, Light Quarterly, National Review, Pennsylvania Review, TRINACRIA, and other electronic and print journals....

All photos by Mark Wyatt / All poetry by Alec Ream Chant of the Wooded Hall Chlorophyll concordant eaves Soaring ceiling, verdant leaves Torah spell my secret sees Worded oracle of trees Beneath a thing be found intent Unsheathing singing, sound and scent Growing shoots a task of me Sowing...

. . Said the Painter Upon the mossy stones I dwelt,I did, and was, and painting feltAn arch and angel bend to speak,Their sainted tones my brush to seek. And why such was, I could not say,But much they wrought, and taught that day:O hush of strife, unsought by me,O...

. Unexpiring Ekphrastic on the above photo Unexpiring constant Sun, Earth untired responding spun, Surging fire, maternal birth, Urgent sire of vernal mirth. Père Sol, of ruth and blaze, Mère Earth of falling gaze. Ruth: Hebrew for mercy Père: French for father Mère: French for mother . . Longhorn Swath...

See full Epoch Times article on Robert Florczak.

. A trail it stumbled on a door, A doubled one, upon a floor, Some fellow just as you and me, Approached the portal now we see, And unobtrusive might have been, Except he’d shed, down to the skin, Some aspect of mundanity, He’d cast away, like vanity. O was...

Observations both Literal and Inferred on The Course of Empire, 1833-36, by Thomas Cole   The Savage State THE foreground is dark, sublime, and savage. Storm-clouds roll up towards the right. The ledge reflects the setting or the rising sun. The turquoise waters crash; the storm's not done. One bounding...

Untitled Savants like to arrange their stars and push their poets into piles: marble-misers who assign the jars according to the artists’ styles. They line them in their fusty den when they deem an era’s past, and deign to burp them now and then, but work to invent a ‘new’...

In Rembrandt's scene of 1653, Aristotle Contemplating a Bust of Homer, there is much that we can see amidst that musty sett(l)ing of gold dust that balances upon the old and new, upon the dark and light, upon the dead and living, giving forth beams of the true and glimmerings...

On the painting "Le berges d'Arcadie" by Nicolas Poussin The rugged mountains in the distance stand beyond, above the three, young shepherds and the shepherdess, who gather round a tomb that they have come upon, inscribed: ET IN ARCADIA EGO. They rest. The man in blue is tracing letters carefully,...

A godly painting held over their heads As they process through a street in Florence, Each face is free from manic glee or dread And transcends with a tranquil tolerance; They are transformed by the art’s deep meaning, The ideals that they uphold in their lives Of what is proper...