David Hockney (British, 1937–2026)
Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures), 1972

David Hockney is a British artist, born in Bradford in 1937. He is still working. He is best known for his paintings of Los Angeles in the 1960s and 70s: flat blue pools, clean white buildings, hard sun. A Bigger Splash is the famous one. The water freezes mid-splash and nobody is there. He also paints people, often friends and family, sat in pairs and looking slightly apart from each other. His colour is strong and his line is simple. The work looks easy, but it is not.

He never stayed with one method. He made photo collages in the 1980s, built from many small prints of the same scene. He drew on an iPad for years and printed the results big. He went back to Yorkshire and painted the same country lanes through each season. He also wrote about old masters and optics, and argued that painters used lenses long before photography. Some people found that claim odd. He carried on anyway. That is the pattern with him: keep looking, change the tool, do not stop.

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

This is unusual poetry :)

Song of the week

Dire Straits - Money for Nothing

Poem of the week (Submission from our community)

The woman behind the locked gate
by Tamara Sparby

——

traveling the world

wings are clipped

fury is unfurled

adventure is nipped

broken down, collapsed

stuck behind the gate

the hermit relapsed

a date to create

a friend to make

a novel to sell

piece of cake

going to hell

book is published

5-stars are given

is she punished

life isn’t liven

broken down again

towed behind the gate 

leaving when

whether God or fate

locked in tight

movement takes flight

stuck in blight

released no sight

key to freedom

close in hand

escaping schiedam

making my stand

liberation returns

finally at last

wheels turns

traveling fast

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this is a curated essay. the author of these thoughts is dr. brian hoeflinger

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the philosophers build systems, the believers build churches, the politicians build programmes. and underneath all of it, the same unresolvable darkness, the same questions that cannot be answered because they cannot be answered, not because we lack intelligence but because the world is not organised to provide answers. it simply is, irrational, indeferent and oddly beautiful for exactly that reason.

when everything has been exhausted, when all the reasons for living that normal people rely on have lost their force, what is left?

i call it the passion for the absurd, not a philosophy, a visceral attachment to existence that has no reason behind it.

i live, i wrote, because the mountains do not laugh and the worms do not sing. it is not a good reason. it is the only kind of reason that works because it does not pretend to be rational. i am absolutely persuaded that i am nothing in this universe, and yet i feel that mine is the only real existence. both things are true simultaneously.

that is not a paradox to be resolved. that is the condition. you are nothing and you are everything. you suffer for reasons that are yours alone, and yet in suffering you reach something universal.

the deepest loneliness is also the most shared.

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this is a curated essay. the author of these thoughts is emil cioran

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Morning in Gold
Suzuki Kiitsu (Japanese, 1796–1858)

Konstantin Korovin was a Russian painter, theatrical designer and teacher and one of the early figures of Russian Impressionism. He studied at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture and later worked extensively in theatre. He moved to France in the 1920s and died in Paris in 1939.

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

leelchine - 17th floor

Poem of the week (Submission from our community)

Late Stage August
by Tori Garchiapet

——

yes, it’s late-stage august,
and it’s sun
down. it’s all
right. i grow
more gracious in
the dark, and all the people
who had ideas on who
i was going to be are

the shadow of a popped balloon, blowing
infinite, now silent
in regret. yes,
it’s late stage august, and there are no
more burns on the backs of horses,
so will you wait with me
here in the hair-length dark? will you

hold a lump
of the infinite, and call
it love? i am
human. i only
ripen once, but
i am no more set on the straying,
straw-colored grievances

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Konstantin Korovin (Russian, 1861–1939)
Nightlife on the Rue Venis, Paris, 1932

Konstantin Korovin was a Russian painter, theatrical designer and teacher and one of the early figures of Russian Impressionism. He studied at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture and later worked extensively in theatre. He moved to France in the 1920s and died in Paris in 1939.

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

Bonobo - Always on your side (ft. Joy Crookes)

Bonobo is Simon Green. He is a British producer and DJ. He started in Brighton in the late 1990s and now makes music for Ninja Tune. His sound is calm but it moves. He builds tracks from small pieces: old record samples, live drums, strings, flutes, a bit of bass. The result feels warm and organic.

He also works with singers. Erykah Badu, Andreya Triana, Rhye and Jordan Rakei have all sung on his tracks. Live, he does two very different things. He plays club sets as a DJ, where the beats are faster and harder. He also tours with a full band, with horns and strings on stage. Both work. His music suits a late night drive, a long walk, or a dark room with a good sound system.

Poem of the week (Submission from our community)

GOLDFINCH IN THE CHICORY
BIT IN THE MEADOW

by Anthony C Murphy
——

Then there a cold November wind
Shivering the naked trees
This cause of fall and blasted lips
Cheeks laid bare are rosy
As are the heads of silly men
Hogs skitter under hedges here
You know the scene
The colours of gone green
Gone gold gone red
It makes our minds flutter
This time of year
Makes us think of flying
Or hunkering down
Well we know who we are
Do we not know well
We know where we come from
And from where we sip
But sometimes
When death drips this slow
We do wonder if
We will have a bit of each other again
In the sprung tall meadow

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the internet was supposed to make things easier, but both the distribution and the competition scaled together, so we are more or less in the same place.

the truth is it’s hard to be noticed, even if you are good.

so today i’d like to present you an emerging artist who i think deserves a wider audience.

leelchine, is a poet who sings, as she describes herself. her music is a collection of deeply personal stories on love, loss, and childhood.

her brand new song - 17th floor - is a marvelous piece, and it might remind you of the young lana del rey, with a hip hop twist

if you like it, you can support leelchine by adding the song to your playlists or by sharing it with someone you think will enjoy it :)

Lyrics:

I'd call you baby
But you leave me on maybe 
Playing hide and seek, got me spinning, got me freaking out 

Left me in pieces and took the peace with you 
Didn't take you too long to f*ck somebody new
I guess it's just something men like you do 
Answered your mental game like a true gemini 
God knows I didn't lie when I cried looking straight in your eyes 
Oh, look, what a surprise 
I'm writing another song that won't come through 
I don't care what you do 
I can't let myself down 
You gave me the crown, are you proud? 
I'm not keeping score of the words you put in your songs anymore 
Though my memories roar 
Life looks pretty from the 17th floor 

"Hey, baby girl. I hear you've been making some music. Good job. I'm proud of you really. I know it's past midnight but I've been thinking of you. Maybe you could meet and... you know..."

I gave you my softness, my body, my music
Did I finally make it to your list of muses?
i find it amusing how your best writing comes from the love you've been using
Recycling excuses
You only want me when booze be boozing 
But you don't seem so sure when you are lucid
Hoping you'd say a word for so long
Are you that busy or is that mind short?
Spiritually awakened
Man so well read, man meditated, man manifested me naked 
Got what you wanted? 
Congratulations, standing ovations 
Whatever, I'm ok now, I'm good 
You don't have what it takes and I'm not in the mood 
Cut all the useless views and go 
Hasta la vista babe, we're closing the show 

Boys say: honey bee, you are devine 
But you're a man 
Are you a man?
Boys say: honey bee, sweet sweet girl 
But I'm a woman
Am I a woman?

Yeah this shit is mean
Yeah this shit is rough
Should have known better what this all was about 
Yeah this shit is mean
Yeah this shit is rough
Sorry, not sorry bet you could never tell I can play it tough 

Outro: In the end, I got what I dreamed about. It's funny, last time I saw you, it was my birthday. We were smoking out of a hotel window at night, joking we'd be all over the news if the fire alarms went off. You told me thing you barely remember now. And man, I belived you. We could have been lighting fireworks on the top of the universe every single minute if you just made a little fucking effort. Too bad you were too scared. I'm sorry, but it's too late now. I'm a grown ass human and I keep the little girl safe. I'm trying to protect her at all costs. As long as I'm bleeding, love is a sacrifice. And I'm so fucking tired of making it a sacrifice.

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the truth is that artists, plumbers, electricians, woodworkers, computer scientists, people that build, people that make from all walks of life, all income levels, all wealth brackets, are the makers.

the takers are this intelligentsia: the analysts, the espousers, the armchair mechanics, the critics, the commentators, the politicians. they are the people that watch the rest of society make stuff, build stuff, specifically doing things that create value for other people in society. that’s what a maker is.

i tell my kids this lesson all the time. i say, what did you guys make today? they tell me something they made. and I’m like, did someone else value it? or did you make it just for yourself? at the end of the day, if you made something and someone else valued it, you were a maker. that was an amazing achievement. that is a great day. whether you make a piece of art, whether you build a house, whether you write a piece of software, whether you build a business, whatever you make, if you’re a maker and someone else values it, they become your customer in some way, they become your partner in some way, you’ve done something valuable.

those are the true engines of progress for humanity. and the takers are the ones that tell the lie that it’s rich versus poor. because what they want to do is rip apart the makers.

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this is a curated essay. the author of the idea is David Friedberg. the idea was presented during the all in podcast.

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Strong Dream - Paul Klee (1879-1940)

A lot of you appreciated this post on our substack feed so it seems only reasonable to include it in this week curation :)

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

This is unusual poetry :)

Song of the week

Armin van Buuren - Yet Another Day (Exended Downtempo)

Poem of the week (Submission from our community)

Solstice by Stephanie Voytek
——

darling, don’t let our measurements
misguide you

light is just a traveler
that passes once it places you

the sun blinds breath
from warming nights falling dew

a bearing kept in sight
eclipses its own view

the compass needs no map
my body was made sheltered from light

sometimes I run into the sun
just so I can hide.

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Untitled - Jenna Smith

A lot of you appreciated this post on our substack feed so it seems only reasonable to include it in this week curation :)

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

Latin Mafia, Fred Again - Te estoy correteando

Poem of the week (Submission from our community)

Justification by Christopher Phelps
For Pamela Ann Hathaway

for instance, the instant-like
to-gatherings of lives

coincidence coexodus

just arrivals and departures
through the green flash
of our machinery

just feelings
coming and going

just tenses

*

at timberline, one thunderstorm,
I catch my breath, ecstatic

to leave my body to
the accident of time—

and at the same time sad
to know my whole life

right then, would
have liked to go

*

I can’t say just
the same way now

and not remember how
you not only noticed but

pointed it out to me

you say just a lot

but how would it be
to let just be just
another word

After 21 years tilting at windmills — poetry — a neurospicy empulsive queerdo (double sic) in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is still here for radical honesty and investigative joy. His poems have appeared in Alocasia, Beloit Poetry Journal, Boston Review, The Nation, Poetry, and Zoeglossia, among many other places. Find more at christopher-phelps.com.

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the artists are the ones to flourish the most as this new technological trend develops.

the reason why i believe this to be true, is not that artists will leverage the technology to become better artists, though i believe there will be enough good examples of this, but that people will seach for more real, human connections.

this explosion of ai is the precursor to the explosion of analog.

as someone who’s been in the tech world for quite some time now, i cannot ignore the benefits that ai is bringing to the world of business.

i also happen to be someone who has spent the last five years writing and performing poetry in front of real people.

it became very clear to me that the companies that are going to be built over the next decades are going to be sci-fi-esc: the space will be colonised, the human age will be reversed, and the robots will blend with humans. it’s not a question of if anymore, but when.

while this new world unfolds, there is something else happenning in the world. something very curious, and predictable.

chart kid matt cerminaro flagged that google search interest in “analog radio” is sitting at record highs. people are searching out a technology that predates the internet by half a century. google search interest has also skyrocketed for the following terms: boombox, in-person work, disposable camera, 1990s, vinyl, and live events.

everyone is becoming nostalgic about what felt real.

sporting events. theater. comedy shows. spoken word performances. live concerts. running clubs. hiking. meditation resorts. golf.

the new social trend that very few talk about are experiences that connect us to each other.

this is our resistance to the fast development of technology.

and the fastest this technology progresses, the stronger grows our resistance.

as the world changes and becomes unrecognisible to the minds and eyes of the people, humans will go back to what’s familiar to each of them: other people.

i think in some way this is the end of individualism and the rebirth of collectivism.

it is also the beginning of an era where the true artists will be in high demand because who if not a poet knows better than anyone how to connect with other humans?

maybe for once, the technology actually brings us closer, this time as a side effect.

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all submissions get published.

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Self-portrait (The year my husband left)

Jude Rae (1956 - ), Australia

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

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Song of the week

Dave - Environment

Poem of the week

Author: Kocheli Poetry

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A Poem From Our Community

I lost it.

I lost the hurt.

The mind.

The feeling.

The safety.

I lost myself.

And somewhere after that—

I lost you.

Funny…

I thought

I was losing you.

Turns out

I was losing me.

I lost myself

inside a maze

my mind kept making.

Hallways

with no doors.

Questions

with no endings.

Every “what if”

became

“what is.”

Every pause

became proof.

Every silence

a siren.

And I ran.

Not away—

towards it.

Towards every worst-case

my mind could rehearse

until fear

started sounding

like fact.

Like truth.

Like me.

Anxiety…

is a thief

that never breaks a window.

It just keeps borrowing

your voice

until you forget

what your own

sounds like.

It never shouted.

It whispered.

What if?

What if?

What if?

So often,

I stopped hearing

the difference

between its voice

and mine.

I lost my words.

My inspiration.

My peace.

I lost whole conversations

before they ever happened.

Built arguments

from echoes.

Asked for certainty

from someone

who was only ever human.

I kept asking

for clarity—

like one more answer

could quiet

a question

that was never looking

to be solved.

Because anxiety

doesn’t collect answers.

It collects evidence.

Twists it.

Shapes it.

Hands it back

wearing the face

of truth.

My voice catches

before it reaches

my tongue.

My throat is numb.

And on the days

it isn’t—

there’s a lump.

Where every apology

I never said,

every “I’m scared”

I disguised

as “Are you sure?”

decides to live.

I thought

I was fighting

for us.

But all along

I was fighting

a story

that had already ended

inside my head.

Long

before

it ever did

in yours.

- Alexandra Harabagiu

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You can submit the following:

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• a visual artwork (photo, illustration, painting, etc.)

You can submit either your own works or works created by someone else that you find beautiful or unusual.

Submission window is open for the next 7 days. Submitted works will be featured in August.

We do not reject any submission unless these have harmful content or sexual connotation.

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Dusan Milosic, Photo taken in Romania

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

Oddisee - That’s Love

Poem of the week

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Andrew Wyeth, USA (1917-2009)
Distant thunder (1980)

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

earthsignchels - Daddy Died

Poem of the week (from our community)

I Brake for Humpbacks

In every gift store

at Juno, Alaska

you can see the tail

of a whale.

They make a big splash

encrusted in blue jewels

and every imaginable

creation of metal. 

What inspires such artistry?

It is the tale of the humpbacks.

The whale boat guide told us

to talk to them.

I started quietly singing,

First just rolling ocean,

then there they were,

the pod of them,

singing back,

the season’s best sighting,

or so he and the boat driver tell us.

We were lucky to see five of them

slam through the sea’s

surface at sports speed,

aiming our cameras on shutter

as they rose to the surface to slap

their tails, dive, roll over, nudge each

other, bop their babies, sing again.

Every flash of black barnacled

body was another thrill.

We breathed, shouted, gasped

to capture another shot,

never knowing what

or where they would do next.

Then they breathed

and no one said a word.

What a stench,

putrid, unfamiliar, foul

but completely

utterly worth it.

Jonah couldn’t

have lived

in the belly

of a whale

for a deep blue moment.

He would have

died immediately

from halitosis.

Am I in danger?

Only of falling in love.

Author: Diane Klammer (Check her substack)

Bonus Painting from Diane

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Louis Accard, Canada (b. 1996) - Untitled (2026)

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

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Song of the week

Snazzy - Head First

Poems of the week (from our community)

Author: Isabelle Correa (Check her website / substack)

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Raoul Dufy (1877 - 1953) - The Kessler Family on Horseback

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

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Song of the week

Asaf Avidan - I don’t know ehn, I don’t know how, I don’t know why

Poem of the week

what a game

they feed us we misread it for care,

dogs running for meat balls,

poisoned, dead, in our freedom

we pick the weapon of our own death.

reminds me of the story when

on an open field half a million people,

came to celebrate the Tsar’s coronation

and receive the gifts of bread

they all run towards him, unchained,

people run over each other’s heads,

thousands of bodies stepped,

flesh and bones crushed by heavy men.

few hours later on the same field,

covered with corpses, blood and tears

same men cheer the Tsar then go back home

hungry, angry, and poor.

Poem: Tsar Coronation - Catalin Iovu

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Painted by Vincent Desiderio, USA (b. 1955)

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

Vince Staples - White Flag

Poem of the week

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Brighton Pierrots painted by Walter Sickert

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

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Song of the week

Joel Culpepper - Woman

Poem of the week

On a bright night, I sat silently so. While I thought and developed reverse vertigo. A blanket of lights was all I could see. And something suddenly starstruck me.

What’s my perspective actually worth? If my notion comes down to: all is explained through learned, unlearned; rarely found out. Assuming the truth, never a doubt. I watched and I seemed to just be. By myself insignificant, futile, tiny. Like a dot in space, from some point in time. I was nothing for a moment, I was lost for a while.

I related to no one, everyone became I: what before was around I was living inside. Not solely in everything, the part and the whole, for a while I seemed to be all in one. The circle was closed; there was no line in all this. When I discovered… I did not exist. Throughout the cosmos, I was universal. I was all around as I was nowhere at all.
I remembered, I forgot, I held and released. The trees, the forest, the waves, the sea. I returned, I stayed gone; both felt like being. And pain did not hurt. And beauty increased. Free of burden of proof and my own convictions: there I was, so small and so big all at once. I was free of sadness, free of commitment. And there was and there was and there was, there was nothing.

So much more than some self, I was enough. For a while I was one with the heavens above. Not perception but perfection, joy without fight. Beyond perspective; no space and no time. Ahead like below; this existence – a wonder. In, around, with us, until we cross over. Cross through into everything, the stars still stood so. The deep up there, reverse vertigo.

A meaning of life started to take shape. Until I saw that dot… become a comma again,

On a bright night, I sat silently so. by Derek Otte

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Lee Price - Self Portrait in Tub with Chinese Food

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

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Song submission by our community

Courtney Hartman - Like A Woman

Poem Submission from the Community

‘The Big Black Door’ A compilation of 5 poems by David Muir

——————

The big black door: (5) wooden flowers

A

A row

A row of

A row of glasses

A row of glasses each

A row of glasses each with

A row of glasses each with a

A row of glasses each with a wooden

A row of glasses each with a wooden flower

Well, not all of them.

The big black door: (4) lights, an ending

Maybe it was a mistake

To live there

Back then

Not now though

Now is different.

Through the frosted glass

I can just about make out some blurred lights

Small, round, glowing

It’s probably a small Christmas tree

I should probably stop looking

Now is different.

The big black door: (3) Ghost town

This is a ghost town, now.

The empty chambers are haunted

There are no routes home without passing

This is a ghost town

The blinds are pulled and the windows are foggy

I can still see in and the cat needs fed

This is a ghost town

I can still hear their footsteps faintly at night

Onward Christian soldiers to save me

This is a ghost town

But The cactus still grows happily

They grow in the desert you know

This is a ghost town

I can’t lift you up this time

I held on as long as I could but the spikes pierced my hands

This is a ghost town, now.

The big black door: (2) Cacti

There are 2 cacti there now

On the top of the bottom sash window

It’s a nice touch

I suppose they could have chosen a more vibrant plant

But those little guys will do

It’s a far cry from the swollen torn socks and the permanently lit room

It’s a quiet distance from

the rage

The horror

The brutal scene of the demise

Maybe a cactus is perfect

I never plan to return

The big black door: (1) Flat

Who lives in the ground floor flat on Glasgow road?

I’ve not seen the door open in years

Must be seized

The Lights are on though

I am sure someone is in

I feel sick when I pass

all my shame lives there

Everything I ever did wrong is built into the window frame

It’s fogged glass so you can’t see in

Thank god!

I wonder what they are like

Maybe they are happy chatting while they are making food

Do they feel the extra gravity?

Where has the air gone?

It’s definitely not in my lungs anymore

It might be in there

There are still ghosts in that house

Lying on the floor

Silently wailing help me

I am not sure they can hear it

I should help them escape

From

The ground floor flat

On Glasgow

Road

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Painting by Hennie Niemann

Every week, we handpick one song, one visual artwork (including photos), and one poem and share them with you. Additionally we share artworks submitted by our community.

Simple.

This is unusual poetry :)

Song of the week

Millow - Ayo Technology

Poem of the week

It’s not as though

we stop and start our way through life,

jerking this way and that,

half yanking our feet from one course

and onto another.

It’s not as though

we go so far and then,

consulting our maps, make a sudden turn

and head off in a new direction.

It’s not as though

we choose each new beginning

from a menu of life’s options.

And yet,

each moment opens soft and pure

awaiting our response;

each day lifts its head from the dew-strung grasses

and offers new hope, new possibility, extra chances;

each idea stirs a constellation of thoughts into being

and we are captivated by their courses.

May we know and celebrate new beginnings

in our lives and the lives of others

and as we do,

may we honour what has passed

and hallow its traces

through our lives, our hearts, our loves.

To this we commit ourselves

as those who begin anew this day.

» A focused moment by Gretta Vosper « Submitted by Jay Moore

Your work seen by 9000+ people

If you want us to share your works or discover something you think deserves a wider audience, you can send submissions for our weekly curation to unusualpoetryoffice@gmail.com

Available to the members of the unusual poetry community at only $1 per week.

Become member for 1$ per week