Best Architecture Poems
Are we not blind-registered children,
tripping over our future tails?
Sight unseen enabled
for the will of night prevails.
Within the cone of silence
curve the angles formed obtuse,
at odds and plainly hidden
in the shade of the recluse.
Feeling numb along the crumbled brick,
cement and mortar Braille;
callused lesions blunt the tips
and rip out the fingernail.
If opened to accommodate
the scope of love's domain,
the arc-light blinds so fiercely
slamming eyes wide shut again.
And all the time in brilliance shine
their halos fired intense,
yet we, enslaved to self denial
reject the evidence.
For the sake of nothing ventured
breeds the compost of conjecture,
means we look but cannot see
the angels in our architecture.
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
Kids should be city architects.
What a lovely world it would be ~
Every street would be magical !
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
The London Gherkin gives no inspiration
As for the Auditorio de Tenerife by Calatrava
I can think of no other explanation
Except perhaps they shared too many bottles of Cava
The National Grand Theatre built by Paul Andreu
Built in Beijing China; and it looks just like a dome
I wonder what he was on, when he put the plans on show
It looks like a greenhouse- that we have here at home
Simmons Hall in Cambridge Massachusetts
Looks like a Lego prison gone wrong.
Did Steven Holl take some bets?
Or had he been on the bottle too long
Architecture of the contemporary kind
Does not inspire me
I am more an of old fashioned girl
And will accept a castle built just for me.
30 St Mary’s Axe is commonly known as the London Gherkin
Concrete plane foresight
Polyrhythmic totem stalk
Waterfalls upward
A solitary wren perches on a perfect arch
And warbles a pitiful tune
A domed silhouette is cast against the moon
The faded cerulean crown
Pillar upon pillar, arch upon arch
Magnolia marbled magnificence resides amongst concrete
But where history and metropolis meet
St Paul's stands tall
The Whispering Gallery conspires your name
In such a harmonious chorus
Oil upon canvas and Renaissance clay
St Paul's stands another day
Great Tom shines in solitude
Concealed in your embrace
Melancholic chimes reign proudly over London
Admiration and pride etched onto your face.
Masters of Architecture
The air heavy with scent of August blossom
A warm and still day indeed!
Sitting by the lakeside
Watching fishes dance in the water
A twittering in the trees
Then captivated my attention
Above was a party of beautiful birds
Singing in the orange tree
I remember a cool day in January
When I stumbled in the realm of birdlife
About their intricate domed nest
It was in a gorse bush about half a mile down the lake
Both the male and the female
Brought building materials into the nest
This was about four feet from the ground
They are amazing architects!
Imagine the busy birds
Piecing in lichen,
Animal hair and cobwebs
Leaves tightly clutched with beaks
The oval-shaped domed nest is ready
With door at the top
Their elaborate building,
The best thing your eyes could behold
Stripping away layers of confusion
Staring into the eyes of my lover
Stripping in the dark for my man
Needing him to hold me as we make love
As we embark on this journey
Searching for a life paved in gold
We run into the arms of the future
Trying to reconfigure the architecture of love
Kissing each-other out in the open in my dreams
With a passion of a matador
Keeping the candle lit
Leaving the door unlocked
Waiting for my lover to initiate & push play
Running my tongue all over his immaculate body
Sucking him till he begs for relief
Needing him inside me
Wanting him always.
I was an active, prominent architect, like fervent stars which race the sun,
Or exotic, summer flowers that bloom vibrantly, creating rapturous visions.
I'd wrought modernist skyscrapers, as huge trees lean into a bronze glaze,
On raspberry, latter days, quite lovely, when azure blue jays sing in praise.
I had designed homes and buildings, to the plumb delight of stylish people,
While satisfying the favorable environment, with novel, vivid colors, gleeful.
I had built homes for family members, the loved ones who made life sunlit,
Like magnificent avenues of autumn, wherein we bask before all colors flit.
Happily, my works were very popular, as current sweet songs of ruby birds,
At the purple, sunset time of fading skies, when lilac time flows backwards.
I dwelled in the house of the whimsical new, admired by casual passersby,
As clouds and gemmed landscapes are admired, by visitors to neon skies.
Neighbors wafted through visual colors, as rouge moon visits newborn sun,
Like hours spent visiting gaiety's garden, waiting for something to happen.
Torrid summer was in the cherry sunset, and green birds owned coral day,
And pink butterflies flew by the window, as gilt, molten time slipped away.
Juicy apricots were beginning to ripen, with their tangy, sweet savor of July,
When I saw several of my creations come to life, on the street, walking by.
I laughed to see the sudden swaying, to graceful, fluted music of the wind,
Like the smiling time of the evening, when seeing sun and moonlight blend.
They moved proudly upon the skyline, playfully frolicking, hues shimmering,
Like the earliest break of antique day, when newest truths start glimmering.
Mellow sunshine fell straight through the clouds, as the dancing slowly died,
Like the last day that a rainbow was glimpsed, on the day that nature cried.
And I had sensations of blind wonder, like the starry-eyed, dreaming night,
When the mighty ocean bellows its roar, in huge, full moon's powdery light.
I realized my buildings were alive, because of the people who dwelt there,
For people lent them color and spirit, as a medallion sun makes floral flair.
But they never again danced in daylight, nor in the sudden, purple twilight,
Yet, the rosy memory has never faded, like vibrant memories of moonlight!
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
Outside you just see the marquis,
it’s ancient lights all glittery,
amidst a city past it’s prime,
hallmark of a more genteel time.
This was a movie palace once,
now mostly stage, theatric fun,
larger than Broadway’s hallowed grounds,
though it’s the only stage around.
Old New York has dozens of plays,
here just one means a special day,
the touring shows, when they come here
will always make the locals cheer.
The women like the musicals,
and a date night that’s eventful,
the men don’t get it, but they come
for ‘rewards’ from girlfriends when done.
That’s why I’m sitting in this seat,
enrapt woman right next to me,
the singing makes me roll my eyes,
but more often than not I find
that even if the play does bore
the theater itself is much more:
Gold chandelier perched up above,
casts light on painted gods of love
who frolic on ceiling plaster,
with eyes of cut alabaster,
above the stage, an ancient scene,
fawns and satyrs, a Grecian dream,
and gilt patterns around the sides,
just beyond where the curtain slides,
marble pillasters flank the stage,
frame the pit where orchestras play,
fancy seats with curving armrests,
splendid cushions in velvet dressed,
there’s opera boxes up above,
but I just do not make enough.
In pressed white shirts and vests ornate
the ushers stand ready and wait,
a pipe organ warmed up the crowd,
harmonic tones of richest sound.
It seems something from days long gone,
shines light on where the world’s gone wrong,
No post-modern black box so stark,
No building thrown up without heart,
But something built up to proclaim
that beauty should never be tamed,
even if Broadway makes me groan,
this building is art cut from stone.
Of course, I don’t say this to her,
she wants theater, not architecture,
but it’s what I appreciate
when dragged out on just such a date.
We Look Up At The Family Of Tracery Architecture
Tracery architecture began seeing the light
From the Gothic Age on it gained its birthright
Its beauty spread left and right, day and night
In the stoneware dividing the glass with all its might
It took shape in the rising windows to a viewer's delight
The molds and shapes symmetrical and out of sight
Where the decorative patterns do please the eye and incite
With grooves, twirls, and colors holding the window tight
Many a cathedral today share its passage and sprite
Like an acquired custom, blessing, and rite
That duly accentuates the interiors and exteriors flight
Where the parishioners do see more than the rays of daylight
1/28/23
TRACERY Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Julia Ward
Leonardo's influences realism.
Paintings within the grandest
architecture demands the most
perfect delicate realism.
Their essence swathed in luxurious
fabrics,rich in warm wood,woven in
the finest tapestries gleams
of the shiniest metals + jewels.
Sitters command respect with their
permanent presence.
All paintings are elaborately framed
exuding an air of reverence.
.
Off
Womb
Earthed
HumanS
In Worship
Of Nature
For Love of Nature
A shelter to be safe
From Fury of Nature
Place to
Explore
Called Own
Home Nature
In its glory
In its beauty
In acceptance
In accordance
In its response
In responsibility
A shelter to look out from
A shelter to look into form
A shelter carved out from
A shelter constructed from
Built Offerings to confirm
Innate Nature human will
That refuses to conform
A mark
The born
The evolved
There created
That left a form
That drawn from
Collective Nature
Cyclical Nature Impression
Creations Emerge Dissolve
To the larger will
Nature returns
It is her field
In her fold
A recall
"Do you wanna dance?" he said,
and she said, "No, I hate this song."
"What kind of music do you like?" she said,
and he said to himself, "Now it won't be long."
He moved a little closer,
in the chaos it was hard to hear,
but the nearer he came, the softer she spoke,
until he could feel her breath upon his ear.
The room became smaller and hotter
as he watched her lips as she would speak,
and when he couldn't hold it back,
she let him kiss her on the cheek.
Chemistry
Anatomy
the architecture of a kiss.
They never expected to feel quite like this,
coincidental bliss.
The midnight world was warm and wild
as they stepped outside to say good night,
and when he kissed her it felt as if
they were falling through depths of height.
Parting for home,
each one alone, or as such.
They never expected healing so much,
all with one touch.