Short Ars Poems
Short Ars Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Ars by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Ars by length and keyword.
Living musicians compose
Dead musicians decompose
The title is Latin for:
'Art is long; life is short'
If a poem you find you cannot write
Don't struggle with it all through the night
Concentrate in the day on what you can do
That way your talents will surely shine through.
I swam in ecstasy for that fire.
Seized me nigh, lo, sweet body's ire
Drowning me 'neath hell's desire.
Let lips dim innocence
In foreplay's cadence
Tis flesh is yours
Forge our warmth;
Devour
Me!
The wheelbarrow of Prince Prospero
pushed straightaway, like an arrow
it's passengers a motley farrow
not worth much more than a sparrow
it's aim and goal so very narrow
'tis horrifying to the marrow
Yeah Right
If poetry is so easy to write,
drop a Choka, tercet, or a quatrain slight.
So remember the rules and keep things tight,
let’s see how easy it is to get right.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
Archibald MacLeish 'ARS POETICA'
E E
M P
A
H G
S I
They nagged him till he'd had enough.
His one remaining joy was snuff.
Beyond the post that ends his race
he has found a better place.
This is no time to joke or laugh
but to write his epitaph.
Art is long but life is short.
I lack the time to more report.
Short and snappy were his days,
short therefore to him my praise.
Ars est longa,
vita brevis.
Art is immortal.
Art is infinite.
Pictograms tell a story,
of Man that have past.
Terra cotta pots and cuneiforms,
Depicts their details of Lives.
Paintbrushes and canvases,
bring history alive.
Statues of stone or metal,
Remind us of the legacies,
That people left behind.
Art is history,
And forever it will be,
The story of Life
as we see it.
THE CURE D’ ARS
There once was a Cure d’ Ars
Who wanted to visit the stars
He swallowed some sherbet
Shot off into orbit
And now he’s the Cure de Mars
……………………………………………………………..
NOTE
Jean-Marie Vianney (1786 – 1859), commonly known in English
as St John Vianney, was a French parish priest who is venerated as a saint.
He is often referred to as the "Curé d'Ars".
After Raymond Carver’s “Bankruptcy”
Thirty-seven, trick shoulder &
a sultry appetite still (exempt)
I wait for you
impatiently (exempt still)
listening to the towels tumble
as my hairy belly moans:
we are rebounds
to true pleasure.
Forgive us, (I pray in enormity)
our reckless improvidence.
Today, my heart, like the front door,
awaits unlocked
for the first time in years.
A poem should be smooth and flat
As a jagged rock
A poem should wander
As well as be expected
Wandering through a mind
Still minding it's own business
A poem should laugh and cry
As we wade through tiered rivers
A poem should drown us
As we take in breath
Liquid life forming gills
Filtering our bottled fear
A poem should be intoxicating
As cutting as a broken glass
I'm not sure if I understand the form but I gave it a go.
Form:
you say I am a poet
I tell you I am nothing
you say I craft words
I tell you I build nothing
you look confused
imagine how I feel
that with a mere smile
the raise of an eyebrow
you push the words
right onto me
that's right
don't you see now
I am your paper
you are 1000 words
waiting to be written
100 feelings
waiting to be had
I lay myself bare to you
an empty page
just awaiting the
spill of your ink.
©SamHarty
It is gone from us
Between our fingers like sand
Ars Moriendi
We shall never more
Find purpose or grace for it
Midas immortal
Bartholome stays
In hovels and parliament
The blade shines the sun
O Yeats, it's worse, worse
For gyres multiply like wasps
On the children's eye
The city travails
And in every place you hear
The glass shattering
Something in labour
I can't define its presence
Too cautious my eye
But we shall not find
Not till the hourglass dries, that
Ars Moriendi
A poem is like the ripples in a pond,
As the muted sound.
Like the reflection of the sun on an aluminum foil,
As the muddy soil.
Like a rain drop,
Dry as the desert crop.
Like the myriad colors in a shaft of light,
As the imagination takes flight.
Motionless like the shifting sand,
As a marauding band.
Like the glimpse of a familiar face in a milling crowd,
As the flash of lightning in a foreboding cloud.
It should grab you like a snare
As a shooting flare!
Sitting,
Alone and uninspired
Ruminating on my throne
Of the tired
Freezing,
My heater, broken and retired
In a building whose condemnation
Remains desired
Searching,
For some deeper, elaborated meaning
To a poem procrastinated
A cause for my demeaning
Sulking,
I lack muse and direction
I can only imagine the forthcoming drear
Of this poem’s lection
Drinking,
My hot chocolate keeps me company
As I mull over this poetry
And choose a word that rhymes only subtley