Spotlight Poetry – Pencil and Paint – Poem of the day by Eleanor Farjeon

The image depicts a painting titled  Amherst Campus no.1 by the artist Fairfield Porter. The work is a vibrant panoramic landscape painting that captures the magnificent vivid changing colours of autumns trees and hills set against the white clouds and blue sky. The painting supports the poem Pencil and Paint written by the poet Eleanor Farjeon.
© Fairfield Porter, Amherst Campus no.1, 1969

Pencil and Paint by Eleanor Farjeon

Winter has a pencil
For pictures clear and neat,

She traces the black tree-tops
Upon a snowy sheet.

But autumn has a palette
And a painting-brush instead,

And daubs the leaves for pleasure
With yellow, brown, and red.

Poem Attribution © Eleanor Farjeon, Pencil and Paint

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Painting Attribution © Fairfield Porter, Amherst Campus no.1, 1969

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Spotlight Poetry – Transcription Of Organ Music – A poem by Allen Ginsberg

The image depicts a painting titled Transcription 607 by the artist Paul Di Zefalo. The work is an abstract painting restricted a minimalist colour pallete of just two colours.T he image is composed of austere polygonal shapes – no curves, and no open edges. The image supports the poem Transcription Of Organ Music written by the poet Allen Ginsberg.
© Paul Di Zefalo, Transcription 607, 2020

Transcription Of Organ Music by Allen Ginsberg

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,

the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
to music, my misery, that’s why I want to sing.

The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
to think at the sun

Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-
sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them

The privilege to witness my existence-you too
must seek the sun…

My books piled up before me for my use
waiting in space where I placed them,
haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qual-
ities for me to use–my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.

Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give

Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.

I am so lonely in my glory–except they too out
there–I looked up–those red bush blossoms beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive–all creation open to receive–the
flat earth itself.

The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
The world knows the love that’s in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
The Father is merciful.

The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-
ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now…

The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.

The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful,
elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me
if I wished to enter.

There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.

The kitchen window is open, to admit air…
The telephone–sad to relate–sits on the
floor–I haven’t had the money to get it connected–

I want people to bow when they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator

And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.

Poem Attribution © Allen Ginsberg, Transcription Of Organ Music

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Painting Attribution © Paul Di Zefalo, Transcription 607, 2020

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