Jackson Pollock and Other Poems by Abigail George

Still Shining

Artists on artists! Read and flow with the words that Abigail George has created on historical artists. Sure to entrance and entertain!

Jackson Pollock

I stand in front of the door, with a kind of awe in my heart
and knock. But there is no answer. I borrow other mother’s
children like other people borrow the sun. I stare too
much at this swirl of tuna fish on a cracker. I don’t know
what to do with my hands. I live in an autumn house during
the summer, and during the winter I live in a summer
house filled with scattered leaves, and waking, and thoughts.
And I say, I know you, I know who you are to my reflection
as I pass it by in the street, in the window as it greets me.
The art talks back to me in a woman’s high-pitched voice.
It moans at me to get back to work, or, that her back is
killing her. Come with me to the day when I was a boy, when
I was a fish, when I was a ghost, when I was a kimono. I dance
with wolves. I kill like a ruffian. I swim like a glimmer. My
eyes are as black and void as a black hole. I dream of the
universe, and it dreams of me. There is always going to be
departure and memory, desire and the painstaking fall of gravity
for every mute grain of sand lost in the fractured wind,
The woman flows in the wind, and her hair tumbles down
her back. I have dreamed of this sad woman for a long time.
I have this image of her as a poet. I see her inhale the stars,
with a kind of awe, gathering them to her soul with a kind of
awe, and she twists and turns in the wind like she’s a magic
dart on fire. Her face is pale and interesting-looking, and her
limbs are long and there’s something delicate about her entire
being. In another life, perhaps she was a painter like me. I
bleed for her. I bleed for her in my country. I bleed all across
my canvas for her. I spell the divine in symbols, trying to
read her mind. All female poets are sad in their own way. It is
a hot day. I eat chicken in a stew with carrots and green peas
swimming in a kind of meat tea. And when I go to work, this
women is always at the back of my mind. I think of how her
inner beauty frames her face as she sits at the kitchen table and
writes her verses much in the same way Dickinson did. She has
a star in her mouth. A star is born in her mouth, and it kisses
everything that her blue wrist touches. I know that all she’s known
is grief and loss, and I want to tell her to come to me. To come
to me. For I have known grief and loss in this world too.
One day they’ll invent onions that don’t make you cry, in
the same way that they invented the television. Nobody can
tell me anything about pain and suffering. I know them well.
Those strange bedfellows. The dart is in the air. Even the arrows
in her hand are on fire. The flame that she carries in her heart, I
carry in mine. The flame that kisses her hand, kisses my own.
And sometimes I call her Emily, and sometimes I call her Virginia.
And sometimes I dream of hell, and the four horsemen of the
apocalypse. And I reach out in the dark for her, but no one is
there to return this thin needle of desire. Only the sky, only this
key to nightfall. And I wonder if she realises it is summer outside
my door, and springtime in my step as the light hits the curtain
in my bedroom. I get up. There’s a day’s work to be done. I think
of taking a lover, but there’s a day’s work to be done. The sun is
out and high in the sky. Clouds manifest like chapters and parts.
Her sun is a carpenter. Mine is king. King of the wakeful Atlantic.

John Updike

He writes. He writes. He writes. He writes. And it feels
as if he is writing to me. There’s the letting go of sadness,
the letting go of emptiness, of the swamp ape in the land.
Lines written after communion, and as I write this, I am
aware of growing older, men growing colder. And this
afternoon, the dust of it, the milky warmth of it loose like
flowers upon me fastening their hold on me, removes the
oppression that I know from all of life. Youth is no longer
on my side. The bloom of youth. Wasteland has become a
part of my identity. I am a bird. A rejected starling. To age
sometimes feels as if you are moving epic mountains. Valleys
that sing with the force of winds, human beings, the sun.
And he is beautiful. And he is kind. And he is the man facing
loneliness, and the emptiness of the day. And I am the woman
facing loneliness, and the emptiness of the day. But how
can you be lonely if you are surrounded by so many people.
I want to be those people, if only to be in your presence a
little while longer. Death is gorgeous, but life is even more so.
I have become weary of fighting wars. Of the threshold of
waiting. And so, I let go of solitude at the beach. I see my mother’s
face in every horizon. She is my sun. And the man makes
a path where there is no path before. The minority of the day
longs for power. The light reckons it has more sway over
the clouds. And there’s ecstasy in the shark, in his heart with
a head full of winter. Freedom is his mother tongue lost in
translation of the being of the trinity. Tender is the night.
The clock strains itself. Its forward motion. Its song. Its lull
during the figuring of the daylight. He’s my knight but he
doesn’t know it. He makes me forget about my grief, loss, my loss,
the measure of my grief. Driftwood comes to the beach and
lays there like a beached whale. Not stirring, but like some
autumn life, something about life is resurrected again, and the
powerful hands of the sea become my own. Between the grass
and the men, there is an innocent logic. I don’t talk to anyone,
and no one talks to me. It is Tuesday. Late. I think you can
see the despair in my eyes. The kiss of hardship in my hands.
It always comes back to that, doesn’t it somehow. The hands
The hands. The hands. Symbolic of something, or other it seems.
Wednesday morning. It is early. After twelve in the morning,
and I can’t sleep. For the life of me I can’t sleep. Between the
two of us, he’s the teacher. There is a singing sound in his voice.
I don’t know why I can’t read his mind anymore. There’s
confusion in forgetting that becomes a secret. Almost a contract
between two people. And when I think of him, I think of love
and Brazil, love and couples. And there’s a silent call from a
remote kind of land, and ignorance is a cold shroud. Some
things are born helpless in a world of assembled images, and
how quickly some people go mad with grief (like me), dream
of grief (like me), sleep with grief on their heart (like me). Speak
to me before all speech is gone. This image, or perhaps another.
His face is made up of invisible threads. Each more handsome
than the last. And my face becomes, turns into the face of love.

Georgia O’Keeffe

There’s going to be an invasion in June. Some kind of
prehistoric flash bathing in tension’s balancing hours.
Depth is not a bad place. Rain and air. The brides of society.
See the swarm’s exposure. The fabulous ochre. The wife’s
permanent body. The smile’s agony in the playing fields.
The poet is a shell. Tasting like clean straw that blooms
and blooms and blooms. This is the work of grownups. To
nurse the dancing shrouds, and to live in suburbia is both
interesting and vague, and words are like a river to a
visual artist. There is a bonfire in my fingers, in my journal,
in missionary work, in the firm roar of the waves. And
the face of fear is like silk. There’s lethargy growing near
the water found in wild places. A scream has fallen into a
cage and cannot get out for some reason. The bones are
lovely there for they have found paradise. My mother, she
licks the chicken bone expertly biting into the white flesh,
the dark meat. In the little hospital they have cancelled
the intimacy of thanksgiving. And in my throat, there is a
fire-breathing dragon that uses its lungs as a weapon. And
days turn into afterthoughts, when all I am thinking of is
the man, or, the work, or, the writing of this poem that
pushes away the pulse of broken heavy water’s darkened
progress. And the bonfire is now the curator of dreams. Visions
turn into the cold, and the cold is a veil over my head. It is
night air, the burning bush, Moses in the lonely wilderness.
I am frozen in the decay of the wild, and the dragon is numb
now. It says nothing. I say nothing. I seem to fear nothing
after all. I am not that young anymore. Not that fashionable
young thing. The older I get, the more responsible I become.
The less of love I have in my life. The more people I lose to
death, to death. You are too cold and accomplished, you have
the body and tongue of a vampire, and there’s a hidden sadness
in your existence. The grocer is barren, barren. The butcher a
brute. It is this love, your love of flowers that saves me.
Trees are free, but I don’t feel free. I feel overwhelmed and
captured by the bonfire. It protects me. Veil, and hats are raised.
The magician is touched and old, but I love him still. There
is a quiet respect there. Any daughter would love her father if
there was a code involved. Every thing looks different in the
light. I took my notebook outside and watched the child at
play. His observations became my own. I could feel the despair
of the day in the white sacrifice of the sun. trees stained ancient
and green and part of the rain’s domain. And I turned my body
over to God. Found the solitude in childhood again. The wonder
of growing, the power in gaining knowledge, the vigour of birth
and ghostly stain, how vital the marriage of creative minds is.
And the weedy grass obscures my vision of the addict in me.
The dead have forgotten my flesh and blood, my hair and roots
and the lines on my face have become like empty fields. There
are the hours like the sea, the sigh in the loneliness of the complex.
Dogged hands, dejected and narrow sky seen from my bedroom
even the courage here seems to be a church that has a kind of
primitive stiffness in the joints. There’s a miserable failure for you.


Abigail George

Visual Art by Rida Basit Khan

Still Shining

Rida Basit Khan from Pakistan created these fabulous pieces of visual art for us to take in. Explore the depth and grace of each one!


I, Rida Basit Khan, born on 13-01-1996, am an Artist based in Lahore Pakistan.
I am Visual Artist. I love exploring different mediums and surfaces and have found
myself to specifically show my skills in Calligraphy and Miniature Art. I have
completed my Graduation from University Of Education, Bank Road Campus and
Recently I have done my Post graduation from my dream University, College Of
art & Design, University Of The Punjab. I have picked GOUACHE as my signature medium. I have won competitions and awards in various art exhibitions & have also worked in various art exhibitions. Few of my paintings are also purchase by people in USA. I completed my graduation & post graduation with distinction. I am also the member of Artist Asssociation Punjab. I am also participated in International Exhibitions.

Follow This Artist:


Call For Submissions – One-Liners Abound!

Call For Submissions!

Free submission. Deadline May 31st, 2020.

This June I thought it would be fun to explore the artistry of one-liners. Just one sentence that can draw an emotion of some kind out of someone. No context, no preface or explanation, just one group of words all on their own. Whether it be funny, scary, sad, or inspiration, what can we create and what emotion can we draw with using only one sentence?

Send me your submissions and I would love to read them and display them for the June series, One-Liners Abound!

Submit To:

Email Mia Savant at pondersavant@gmail.com using the subject line “One-Liners Abound”.

Submissions Guidelines:

1. Send your one-liner on any topic. Just one sentence that evokes an emotion of any kind sad, happy, funny, romantic, inspirational, etc.

(Disclaimer: Submissions that include hate, discrimination, or inappropriate content will not be accepted).

2. Include a picture of yourself or any photo that you feel represents yourself as an artist.

3. Include any bios, links to your work, or social media sites that you would like to be shared.

4. Follow the blog site www.pondersavant.com. If you have Facebook or Instagram follow there as well @pondersavant.

5. Spread the word! Let other artists know about One-Liners Abound by your social media sites or word of mouth!

Deadline for submission is May 31st, 2020

Above It All and Other Poems by Lynn White

Still Shining

A Ponder Savant regular, Lynn White, has impeccable poems to shower over us on this lovely Friday! If you haven’t seen her work before, now is a great time to rectify that and see what you’ve been missing!

Above It All


I need to be out of the fray,

above the drama

and the darkness,

look down on it all,

be part of the scarlet sky

and the jagged skyline.


I will climb so high

that I’ll have no way back,

no wish to go back

only to stay

above it all.

First published in Visual Verse, April 2018

Joining The Dots

She saw the night sky as a join the dots puzzle.

She was an expert

far better than the adults

who could never work them out.

They told her that these formed a plough

and those a bear, well two bears,

Great and Little.

She couldn’t see it.

They were quite wrong

she knew

the stars

were glittering cairns

pin point sharp

marking the pathway to the moon,

to Venus,

to the sun

and beyond.

You just had to join the dots

and follow the paths

to find your way

to paradise.

First published in Scrittura, Summer 2019

Only Dream Harder

If you dream hard enough

you’ll find castles in the air,

or build them.

If you dream hard enough

you’ll find secret cities

under the waves

ruled over by a fishy king

with his beady eye on you

as you walk on by.

If you dream hard enough

you’ll find unicorns

and ride them across the desert

to discover lost oases hidden there

amongst ancient cities

once in ruins

now recast

in shimmering perfection

by harsh sunlight.

If you dreamer harder

you’ll rise above the waves of sand

which threaten to engulf you,

float in the sunlight

instead of being buried

head first.

It’s all possible

if you only dream harder.

First published in Event Horizon, Issue 6, November 2018


Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes.

Follow This Artist:




Naked Portraits – Oil Painting by Daniela Guerreiro

Still Shining

Daniela Guerreiro brings a striking oil painting and I was so taken by her concepts behind her work. She really brings the humanity and emotions into play with her design. Take a look below and be sure to read her Artist Statement to delve into a deeper perspective!

Naked Portaits 

Oil in Canvas 



Daniela Guerreiro – ARTIST STATEMENT

Emerging artist from the Algarve, I now reside in Lisbon, and I am 27 years old.

Throughout my work, I intend to explicitly convey insecurities that we all have. Oil painting allowed me to capture individual experiences that can be seen in several people who do not have the courage to expose them. Each of the paintings incorporates the concept of social exclusion, shame, depression, insecurity, pressure, violence, etc. We need diversity in the examples that surround us. And we all need a healthier relationship with our bodies and with our image. The use of unconventional models allows me to convey a hidden beauty between each one. A personal and global journey in search of health and body connection is my biggest goal with this collection of paintings.

“Naked Portaits”, my recent project, are the “naked and raw” portraits of each of us. I individualized social and personal problems, believing that each of us can overcome them. Movement, colors, dynamics are one of the characteristics present in most paintings, but life also shows us a darker part. Games of light and dark, transparencies also enrich my work. I am a contemporary artist passionate about life and people, so they are my biggest theme of representation.

Follow This Artist:





Terraforming – Oil Paintings by Anne Wölk

Still Shining

I was so entranced by Anne Wölk’s pieces, and I know you will be too! She is a German visual artist and she brings the feeling of energy and beauty to life in these paintings below. Go take a look!



140 x 70 cm, 

Oil on canvas
Artproject for the UN in Geneva. “How do we want to live in the future?”
Earth and beyondThe future we want to see is all about preserving our planet. Earth is the only inhabitable planet we know. The only place where life can flourish. Life anywhere else would look very different. And yet human nature possesses an inherent curiosity about what lies beyond our horizon.


Anne Wölk is a German visual artist best known for light-flooded romantic starscapes accompanied by birch trees. Her fantastic multilayered narrations are like cinematic sceneries and refer to science fiction movies and novels. The artist redefines the genre of landscape painting through the innovative use of geometric patterns to disrupt the composition’s moments of depth perception.

Wölk’s subject matter speaks of the imagery of futuristic science and technology, which we have only become familiar with from the advances of satellites and cameras, and moreover, in cinematography and computer-generated images. The artist paints a fantastical interpretation of nature, in which Romanticism and utopia are perceptible at the same time. 

Especially noteworthy are her late small-scale paintings in which Wölk deals with the subject matter of light pollution. She contrasts natural light phenomena, such as the glow of the Milky Way, with the bizarre visual effect of colorful LED tubes. Artificial light, placed by the tourist industry, can be found, e.g., in the nocturnal landscape, to impress tourists in ski resorts on mountains. 

Anne Wölk received an MFA from The School of Art and Design Berlin and was a BFA student at Chelsea College of Art and Design in London.

In 2009, the young artist became known for her colorful birch tree paintings and was selected and shortlisted for several international competitions and scholarships.

Her awards include the national Studienstiftung des Deutschen Volkes scholarship; the Alpine Fellowship grant at Aldourie Castle, Scotland, UK; a Grand Prize from Papirmasse Montréal, Canada; a residency at Bodensee Art Fund; and an artist-in-residence grant in Goriska Brda, Slovenia, awarded by the German Embassy, Ljubljana. She has exhibited at international institutions, e.g., the Elgiz Museum of Contemporary Art, Istanbul, Turkey; the CICA Art Museum South Korea; the Accra Goethe-Institut Ghana; and the Kyrgyz National Museum of Fine Arts, Bishkek, Kyrgyz Republik.

Wölk has exhibited her work alongside artists like Robert Rauschenberg, Cindy Sherman, Johannes Wohnseifer, Azade Köker, and Stephan Balkenhol. In 2011, she was selected for the Edition S 36 of DSV Kunst Kontor, Stuttgart. The Edition S 36 was a compilation of contemporary artworks, including paintings of Jonathan Meese and Tim Eitel.

She has exhibited and sold on the international art market, including the Swab Art Fair Barcelona in Spain; Viennafair in Vienna, Austria; KIAF Seoul in South Korea; and Contemporary Istanbul in Turkey.

Wölk has since shown her work in private gallery shows, including Galería Luis Adelantado, Valencia, Spain; Arebyte Gallery, London, UK; Galerie Wolfsen, Aalborg, Denmark; Pantocrator Gallery, Shanghai, China; and The Residence Gallery, London, UK.

In October 2013, she won the Category Award for ‘Art Takes Paris’, judged by directors from The Andy Warhol Museum in New York, Lisson Gallery, and the Marianne Boesky Gallery. In 2014 and 2019, the painter was selected to participate in the Finalists exhibition of the art competition Art Revolution in Taipei, Taiwan.

Follow This Artist:

Homepage: http://annewoelk.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/studio_anne_woelk/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AnneWoelkofficial/Artfacts.net: