pablo picasso

pablo picasso Poems

1.

The dawn that day rose
Just as the mist of the night
Subsided like a foam descending
To reveal clear water ahead
...

I walk a lonely road, the one and only one I' ve ever known.
I don't know where it goes, but I keep walking on and on.
I walked the lonely and un trodden road for I was walking on the bridge
of the broken dreams.
...

I came into this world upon his command.
when I had stepped down, Winter had set in.
It was shining like the angel of the chill
giving off a dazzling hue that was penetrating
...

I was thrown away to fend for myself in the stars unknown. Yet, there is no light there. You promised that eternity would not tear us apart. Yet, here I am, uncared for. I wanted to share my being with you. Yet, time after time, you refused me. Maybe I need you too much. Maybe you are my survival. I don't know why I still want you.

The light of the full moon is dull, for your face is not there to emphasise it. The glory of the sun is gone in waste, for you are not there to reflect it. You say it is only a matter of time. I ask, what is time? What is meaning in this world now.
...

For once, looking out with pure eyes, sticking out my tongue to lick my lips, I feel happiness.The shimmers run down my spine for this alien feeling tickles.
...

I wanna sit there, talking to you for all eternity, looking at you.
Why do you think it is still so when you've got greater priorities?

I know you feel not the same way. Yet, I know not why I crave your company so much. You made me feel like never ever before.
...

I have always walked forth, not wanting anything more than what I had already had. I did not need anything at all. I had scoffed at everyone when they said that my life was incomplete

That was till I had met you. You were the only one who had ever raised the felling of loneliness in me. you were the only one who ever made me realize that my life was always incomplete; and had always been.
...

You are beauty personified. You are charm solidified.
Without you, darling, it is a moonless night. I shall go to the ends of the world with or without a fight to seek you forever. Does it matter if the infinities crumble?
Does it matter if the worlds tear apart? You are the only one important to me, darling.
...

When you don't have something that is what is everyone craves,
Then the trouble begins in waves. '
The clock loudly and soundly does tick
While you get tired sick.
...

It was when everything was happy, plunged into the the waves of joy'
When this life seemed to bear nothing more to me in this life, that it began when i thought that it was all i could demand.

You were there for me till the end, or so I thought.
...

Across the bridges it moves, way beyond the grasp it slithers.
too nice and smooth. Only ever does it slithers.

To the writhers it cools, and yet, to the happy it fools.
...

12.

One day I wake up thinking, how I would like to be free!
I lay down in the time when the bees hum lazily, thinking,
how I'd like to fly like the birds above?
As the sun shone over me showing me all it's grandeur,
...

I was thrown away to fend for myself in the stars unknown. Yet, there is no light there. You promised that eternity would not tear us apart. Yet, here I am, uncared for. I wanted to share my being with you. Yet, time after time, you refused me. Maybe I need you too much. Maybe you are my survival. I don't know why I still want you.

The light of the full moon is dull, for your face is not there to emphasise it. The glory of the sun is gone in waste, for you are not there to reflect it. You say it is only a matter of time. I ask, what is time? What is meaning in this world now.
...

I have walked through starless nights not caring what the world cared for
Amidst sighs of desperation and exasperation, i 'ave walked; only for you
you were always like the fresh mist of dawn
Yet, like the honey of the bee.
...

The Best Poem Of pablo picasso

Dawn

The dawn that day rose
Just as the mist of the night
Subsided like a foam descending
To reveal clear water ahead
The Bees in the hive stirred about
To retrieve more honey
It was on that day that I stared into the
Mirror of luck.
Hours passed by just
As flies whizzed under a scorchy sun
The foam above the crystal water rose again
The mist of the dusk rose high above me
shattering the mirror to grits
I plunged down from a mountain
Into the depths of dreariness
It was then that I acknowledged
What I've been through
It was then that I screamed
'HEY, day! It was now that I crystallized
your power in the miror of my mind'
And thence I sat in the chair of dreariness
Waiting for the gleams of gold and silver
To shine on once more upon the mirror.

pablo picasso Comments

pablo picasso Quotes

You know, it's just like being a peddler. You want two breasts? Well, here you are—two breasts.... We must see to it that the man looking at the picture has at hand everything he needs to paint a nude. If you really give him everything he needs—and the best—he'll put everything where it belongs, with his own eyes. Each person will make for himself the kind of nude he wants, with the nude that I will have made for him.

The more technique you have, the less you have to worry about it. The more technique there is, the less there is.

Is there anything more dangerous than sympathetic understanding?

If there were only one truth, you couldn't paint a hundred canvases on the same theme.

They ought to put out the eyes of painters as they do goldfinches in order that they can sing better.

It is personality with a penny's worth of talent. Error which chances to rise above the commonplace.

An idea is a point of departure and no more. As soon as you elaborate it, it becomes transformed by thought.

To finish a work? To finish a picture? What nonsense! To finish it means to be through with it, to kill it, to rid it of its soul, to give it its final blow ... the coup de grâce for the painter as well as for the picture.

Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar.

Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen.

The genius of Einstein leads to Hiroshima.

Now at least we know everything that painting isn't.

Disciples be damned. It's not interesting. It's only the masters that matter. Those who create.

It means nothing to me. I have no opinion about it, and I don't care.

You mustn't always believe what I say. Questions tempt you to tell lies, particularly when there is no answer.

I have a horror of people who speak about the beautiful. What is the beautiful? One must speak of problems in painting!

Accidents, try to change them—it's impossible. The accidental reveals man.

If only we could pull out our brain and use only our eyes.

One does a whole painting for one peach and people think just the opposite—that that particular peach is but a detail.

To make oneself hated is more difficult than to make oneself loved.

Success is dangerous. One begins to copy oneself, and to copy oneself is more dangerous than to copy others. It leads to sterility.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.

Youth has no age.

What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist.

Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? No. Just as one can never learn how to paint.

We must not discriminate between things. Where things are concerned there are no class distinctions. We must pick out what is good for us where we can find it.

Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions.

The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web.

Art is not the application of a canon of beauty but what the instinct and the brain can conceive beyond any canon. When we love a woman we don't start measuring her limbs.

Museums are just a lot of lies, and the people who make art their business are mostly imposters.... We have infected the pictures in museums with all our stupidities, all our mistakes, all our poverty of spirit. We have turned them into petty and ridiculous things.

We artists are indestructible; even in a prison, or in a concentration camp, I would be almighty in my own world of art, even if I had to paint my pictures with my wet tongue on the dusty floor of my cell.

When you start with a portrait and search for a pure form, a clear volume, through successive eliminations, you arrive inevitably at the egg. Likewise, starting with the egg and following the same process in reverse, one finishes with the portrait.

Basically the French are all peasants.

Today, as you know, I am famous and very rich. But when I am alone with myself, I haven't the courage to consider myself an artist, in the great and ancient sense of that word ... I am only a public entertainer, who understands his age.

Sculpture is the art of the intelligence.

I who have been involved with all styles of painting can assure you that the only things that fluctuate are the waves of fashion which carry the snobs and speculators; the number of true connoisseurs remains more or less the same.

Through art we express our conception of what nature is not.

We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.

We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.

Ah, good taste! What a dreadful thing! Taste is the enemy of creativeness.

Sculpture is the best comment that a painter can make on painting.

Painting is a jeu d'esprit.

Art is never chaste. It ought to be forbidden to ignorant innocents, never allowed into contact with those not sufficiently prepared. Yes, art is dangerous. Where it is chaste, it is not art.

If all the ways I have been along were marked on a map and joined up with a line, it might represent a minotaur.

I hate that aesthetic game of the eye and the mind, played by these connoisseurs, these mandarins who "appreciate" beauty. What is beauty, anyway? There's no such thing. I never "appreciate," any more than I "like." I love or I hate.

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