Painting Attribution © Irem Yazicioglu, Nightmare, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Nightmare/1668259/7961898/view
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Art Photography Poetry
Evening Hawk by Robert Penn Warren
From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak’s black angularity of shadow, riding
The last tumultuous avalanche of
Light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear
The crashless fall of stalks of Time.
The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.
Look! Look! he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.
Long now,
The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom
Is ancient, too, and immense. The star
Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain.
If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.
Poem Attribution © Robert Penn Warren, Evening Hawk
Source Attribution https://poets.org/poem/evening-hawk
Painting Attribution © Jordan Blackstone, Maybe (Hawk), (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://pixels.com/featured/maybe-hawk-art-jordan-blackstone.html
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Art Photography Poetry
Painting Attribution © Stephen Poling, Rushing Stream, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Rushing-Stream/466737/4276631/view
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Art Photography Poetry
Storm-Music by Henry Van Dyke
O Music hast thou only heard
The laughing river, the singing bird,
The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,–
Nothing but Nature’s melodies?
Nay, thou hearest all her tones,
As a Queen must hear!
Sounds of wrath and fear,
Mutterings, shouts, and moans,
Madness, tumult, and despair,
All she has that shakes the air
With voices fierce and wild!
Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,–
Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign
Triumphant in a world of storm and strain!
Echo the long-drawn sighs
Of the mounting wind in the pines;
And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise
In the dark of the troubled deep
To break on the beach in fiery lines.
Echo the far-off roll of thunder,
Rumbling loud
And ever louder, under
The blue-black curtain of cloud,
Where the lightning serpents gleam.
Echo the moaning
Of the forest in its sleep
Like a giant groaning
In the torment of a dream.
Now an interval of quiet
For a moment holds the air
In the breathless hush
Of a silent prayer.
Then the sudden rush
Of the rain, and the riot
Of the shrieking, tearing gale
Breaks loose in the night,
With a fusillade of hail!
Hear the forest fight,
With its tossing arms that crack and clash
In the thunder’s cannonade,
While the lightning’s forked flash
Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash!
Hear the breakers’ deepening roar,
Driven like a herd of cattle
In the wild stampede of battle,
Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore!
Is it the end of all?
Will the land crumble and fall?
Nay, for a voice replies
Out of the hidden skies,
“Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go,
So long, O wind, shalt thou blow:
Return to your bounds and cease,
And let the earth have peace!”
O Music, lead the way–
The stormy night is past,
Lift up our hearts to greet the day,
And the joy of things that last.
The dissonance and pain
That mortals must endure,
Are changed in thine immortal strain
To something great and pure.
True love will conquer strife,
And strength from conflict flows,
For discord is the thorn of life
And harmony the rose.
Poem Attribution © Henry Van Dyke, Storm-Music
Source Attribution https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/storm-music/
Painting Attribution © Scott Maxwell, Ocean of Storms, (Canvas 2019)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Ocean-Of-Storms-1/22586/6966225/view
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Art Photography Poetry
Painting Attribution © Gitta Landgraf, Springtime Flowers, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Springtime-flowers/651372/4543194/view
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Art Photography Poetry
The Feet of People Walking Home by Emily Dickinson
The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go,
The Crocus, till she rises
The Vassal of the snow —
The lips at Hallelujah!
Long years of practise bore,
Till bye and bye these Bargemen
Walked singing on the shore.
Pearls are the Diver’s farthings
Extorted from the Sea,
Pinions the Seraph’s wagon
Pedestrian once, as we —
Night is the morning’s Canvas
Larceny, legacy,
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.
My figures fail to tell me
How far the Village lies,
Whose peasants are the Angels,
Whose Cantons dot the skies,
My Classics veil their faces,
My faith that Dark adores,
Which from its solemn abbeys
Such resurrection pours!
Poem Attribution © Emily Dickinson, The Feet of People Walking Home
Source Attribution https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-feet-of-people-walking-home/
Painting Attribution © Veronica Minozzi, Sign of Spring, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://fineartamerica.com/featured/sign-of-spring-veronica-minozzi.html
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Art Photography Poetry
Painting Attribution © Ivan Grozdanovski, Misty Green, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Misty-Green/425728/6903495/view
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Art Photography Poetry
I. The Burial of the Dead from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.
Poem Attribution © T. S. Eliot, I. The Burial of the Dead – ( Excerpt from The Waste Land)
Source Attribution https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land
Painting Attribution © Heidi Hodkinson, Apocalypso Sunset, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Apocalypso-Sunset/1124302/4487823/view
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Art Photography Poetry
Painting Attribution © Phoebe Boddy, Lavender Cream, (Date Unstated)
Source Attribution https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Lavender-Cream/1109493/7645529/view
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Art Photography Poetry
Painting Attribution, Goff James, Birdsong 2, 2021
Copyright (c) 2021 Goff James – All Rights Reserved
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Art Photography Poetry
