The Two New Art Blogs begin tomorrow
ONE HUNDRED PAINTINGS EVERYONE SHOULD KNOW
http://onehundredpaintingseveryoneshouldknow.blogspot.com
and
THE ART OF JOHN WILLIAM GODWARD
http://theartofjohnwilliamgodward.blogspot.com

THERE IS ANOTHER SKY

Emily Dickinson 1830-86

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there; 

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields - 

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green; 

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been; 

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come! 

-o=0=o-

DAFFODILS

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils. 

-o=0=o-

THE HAIKU PAGE

into the cavern
following the torchlight beam
a sudden chill

placing her coin

in the slot, the little girl

pats the stone dog

from the summit

the village is lost in mist

just the church spire

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

BEST TIMES

We went a day's excursion to the stream,

Basked by the bank, and bent to the ripple-gleam,

And I did not know

That life would show,

However it might flower, no finer glow.

I walked in the Sunday sunshine by the road

That wound towards the wicket of your abode,

And I did not think

That life would shrink

To nothing ere it shed a rosier pink.

Unlooked for I arrived on a rainy night,

And you hailed me at the door by the swaying light,

And I full forgot

That life might not

Again be touching that ecstatic height.

And that calm eve when you walked up the stair,

After a gaiety prolonged and rare,

No thought soever

That you might never

Walk down again, struck me as I stood there.

Poems by Thomas Hardy are now being posted here every Saturday.

-o=0=o-

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-94

 A fool I was to sleep at noon,

         And wake when night is chilly

     Beneath the comfortless cold moon;

     A fool to pluck my rose too soon,

         A fool to snap my lily.

     My garden-plot I have not kept;

         Faded and all-forsaken,

     I weep as I have never wept:

     Oh it was summer when I slept,

         It's winter now I waken.

     Talk what you please of future spring

         And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow -

     Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,

     No more to laugh, no more to sing,

         I sit alone with sorrow.

The new Art Blogs begin on Wednesday 1st June

ONE HUNDRED PAINTINGS EVERYONE SHOULD KNOW

http://onehundredpaintingseveryoneshouldknow.blogspot.com

and

THE ART OF JOHN WILLIAM GODWARD

http://theartofjohnwilliamgodward.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

SO DEEP IS THE NIGHT

Sonny Miller

So deep is the night

No Moon tonight

No friendly star

To guide me with its light

Be still my heart

Silent lest my love should be returning

From the world, far apart

So deep is the night

O, lonely night

On broken wings

My heart has taken flight

And left a dream

In my dream our lips are blending

Will my dream be never ending

Will your memory haunt me 'til I die

Alone am I, deep into the night

Waiting for the light

Alone am I, I wonder why

I wonder why.

-o=0=o-

THE BLIND MAN AT THE FAIR

Joseph Campbell 1881-1944

O to be blind! 

To know the darkness that I know. 

The stir I hear is empty wind, 

The people idly come and go. 

The sun is black, tho’ warm and kind, 

The horsemen ride, the streamers blow 

Vainly in the fluky wind, 

For all is darkness where I go. 

The cattle bellow to their kind, 

The mummers dance, the jugglers throw, 

The thimble-rigger speaks his mind -

But all is darkness where I go. 

I feel the touch of womankind, 

Their dresses flow as white as snow; 

But beauty is a withered rind 

For all is darkness where I go. 

Last night the moon of Lammas shined, 

Rising high and setting low; 

But light is nothing to the blind -

All, all is darkness where they go. 

White roads I walk with vacant mind, 

White cloud-shapes round me drifting slow, 

White lilies waving in the wind - 

And darkness everywhere I go. 

-o=0=o-

I HEARD A LINNET COURTING

Robert Bridges 1844-1930

I heard a linnet courting

His lady in the spring:

His mates were idly sporting,

Nor stayed to hear him sing

His song of love. -

I fear my speech distorting

His tender love.

The phrases of his pleading

Were full of young delight;

And she that gave him heeding

Interpreted aright

His gay, sweet notes, -

So sadly marred in the reading, -

His tender notes.

And when he ceased, the hearer

Awaited the refrain,

Till swiftly perching nearer

He sang his song again,

His pretty song: -

Would that my verse spake clearer

His tender song!

Ye happy, airy creatures!

That in the merry spring

Think not of what misfeatures

Or cares the year may bring;

But unto love

Resign your simple natures,

To tender love.

TWO NEW ART BLOGS
are coming soon
ONE HUNDRED PAINTINGS EVERYONE SHOULD KNOW
will replace
NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL ART
and
THE ART OF JOHN WILLIAM GODWARD
will replace
THE PAINTINGS OF EDVARD MUNCH

-o=0=o-

I AM IN NEED OF MUSIC

Elizabeth Bishop 1911-79

I am in need of music that would flow

Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,

Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,

With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.

Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,

Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,

A song to fall like water on my head,

And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:

A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool

Heart, that sinks through fading colours deep

To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,

And floats forever in a moon-green pool,

Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

-o=0=o-

ANYONE FOR HAIKU?

From now on two or three haiku will be posted here on Sundays

still in the silence
the shadow of the wind chimes
on the garden wall

smell of burning wood

wisps of smoke above the trees

the sound of an axe

the farmer's gun fills the sky

with a flock of birds

and my dog with fear

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

From now on the poem posted here each Saturday will be one of Thomas Hardy's.

A WEEK

On Monday night I closed my door,

And thought you were not as heretofore,

And little cared if we met no more.

I seemed on Tuesday night to trace

Something beyond mere commonplace

In your ideas, and heart, and face.

On Wednesday I did not opine

Your life would ever be one with mine,

Though if it were we should well combine.

On Thursday noon I liked you well,

And fondly felt that we must dwell

Not far apart, whatever befell.

On Friday it was with a thrill

In gazing towards your distant vill*

I owned you were my dear one still.

I saw you wholly to my mind

On Saturday even one who shrined

All that was best of womankind.

As wing-clipt sea-gull for the sea

On Sunday night I longed for thee,

Without whom life were waste to me!

* a territorial division under the feudal system in England

-o=0=o-

THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS

Robert Hayden 1913-80

Sundays too my father got up early

And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labour in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

-o=0=o-

IS MY TEAM PLOUGHING?

A.E. Housman 1859-1936

Is my team ploughing, 

That I was used to drive 

And hear the harness jingle 

When I was man alive?

Ay, the horses trample, 

The harness jingles now; 

No change though you lie under 

The land you used to plough. 

Is football playing 

Along the river shore, 

With lads to chase the leather, 

Now I stand up no more? 

Ay, the ball is flying, 

The lads play heart and soul; 

The goal stands up, the keeper 

Stands up to keep the goal. 

Is my girl happy, 

That I thought hard to leave, 

And has she tired of weeping 

As she lies down at eve? 

Ay, she lies down lightly, 

She lies not down to weep, 

Your girl is well contented. 

Be still, my lad, and sleep. 

Is my friend hearty, 

Now I am thin and pine, 

And has he found to sleep in 

A better bed than mine? 

Yes, lad, I lie easy, 

I lie as lads would choose; 

I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, 

Never ask me whose. 

-o=0=o-

THE FOUR MARYS 

Last night there were four Marys,

Tonight there'll be but three,

There was Mary Seaton and Mary Beaton

And Mary Carmichael and me.

Oh, often have I dressed my Queen

And put on her braw silk gown,

But all the thanks I've got tonight

Is to be hanged in Edinburgh Town.

Full often have I dressed my Queen,

Put gold upon her hair,

But I have got for my reward

The gallows to be my share.

Oh, little did my mother know

The day she cradled me

The land I was to travel in,

The death I was to dee.

Oh, happy, happy is the maid

That's born of beauty free,

Oh, it was my rosy, dimpled cheeks

That's been the devil to me.

They'll tie a kerchief around my eyes

That I may not see to dee

And they'll never tell my father or mother

But that I'm across the sea.

The four Marys were all the Queen of Scots' ladies-in-waiting and their names were Mary Seton, Mary Beaton, Mary Fleming and Mary Livingston. There was no Mary Carmichael but the poem above has been traced back to the court of the Tsar. The ballad dates between 1719 and 1764 and tells the story of Mary Hamilton, a Scottish maid of Peter the Great's wife Catherine, who was executed for the murder of her illegitimate child, the product of an affair with the Tsar Peter. It appears that the two stories of Mary Hamilton and Mary, Queen of Scots were grafted on to each other.

-o=0=o-

A BAREFOOT BOY

James Whitcomb Riley 1849-1916

A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play — 

      For May is here once more, and so is he, — 

      His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee, 

    And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they: 

    Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array 

      Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me 

      Of woody pathways winding endlessly 

    Along the creek, where even yesterday 

    He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook — 

     Yet called the water "warm," with never lack 

   Of joy. And so, half enviously I look 

     Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, — 

     His toe stubbed — ay, his big toe-nail knocked back 

   Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.

-o=0=o-

A FAREWELL

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809-92

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,

    Thy tribute wave deliver:

No more by thee my steps shall be,

    For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,

    A rivulet then a river:

Nowhere by thee my steps shall be

    For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree

    And here thine aspen shiver;

And here by thee will hum the bee,

    For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,

    A thousand moons will quiver;

But not by thee my steps shall be,

    For ever and for ever.

-o=0=o-

THE SWING

Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94

How do you like to go up in a swing, 

Up in the air so blue? 

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing 

Ever a child can do! 

Up in the air and over the wall, 

Till I can see so wide, 

River and trees and cattle and all 

Over the countryside -

Till I look down on the garden green, 

Down on the roof so brown -

Up in the air I go flying again, 

Up in the air and down!

-o=0=o-

THOUGHTS BY A SECLUDED POND

Brenda Quin

Would that I were young

again, and able to seize 

and capture the passing years, 

slow them in their 

race with time.

If I were young again and

had the gift of words that

once came easily. Words and 

time to share my stories,

perhaps, my hopes and my 

desires.

Time to rest upon the mossy 

bank, above the small secluded

pond. A place of peace

and beauty, the sunlight

filtering through the trees above,

the pond so still, no ripples 

disturb its surface.

But time passes in a flash, and

all we have is now, and

all tomorrows soon become 

today.

If I were young again, could

I make the past years ones 

of laughter, love and continuity,

without the present knowing?

If I were young again.

These verses are in a collection of poems available at - http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006HIR3YU

-o=0=o-

TO DAFFODILS

Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or anything.

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew,

Ne'er to be found again. 

-o=0=o-

GRANNY

Spike Milligan 1918-2002

Through every nook and every cranny

The wind blew in on poor old Granny

Around her knees, into each ear

(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse

It nearly made the vicar curse

The top had fallen off the steeple

Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast

It blew on nun, it blew on priest

It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny -

But most of all, it blew on Granny! 

-o=0=o-

 A BROKEN APPOINTMENT

Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

You did not come,

And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb. -

Yet less for loss of your dear presence there

Than that I thus found lacking in your make

That high compassion which can overbear

Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake

Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,

You did not come.

You love not me,

And love alone can lend you loyalty;

- I know and knew it. But, unto the store

Of human deeds divine in all but name,

Was it not worth a little hour or more

To add yet this: Once, you, a woman, came

To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be

You love not me?

-o=0=o-

SUMMER

John Clare 1793-1864

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, 

For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,

And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,

And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;

She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,

And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;

I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,

And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.

The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,

The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,

And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest

In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;

I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear

That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;

I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away

Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day. 

-o=0=o-

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

Robert Browning 1812-89

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England - now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

-o=0=o-

I REMEMBER IT WELL 

Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe

We met at nine.

We met at eight.

I was on time.

No, you were late.

Ah, yes, I remember it well,

We dined with friends.

We dined alone.

A tenor sang.

 A baritone.

Ah, yes, I remember it well,

That dazzling April moon!

There was none that night

And the month was June.

That's right. That's right.

It warms my heart to know that you

remember still the way you do.

Ah, yes, I remember it well

How often I've thought of that Friday.

Monday.

The night when we had our last rendezvous

And somehow I foolishly wondered if you might

By some chance be thinking of it too?

That carriage ride. 

You walked me home.

You lost a glove.

I lost a comb.

Ah, yes, I remember it well,

That brilliant sky.

We had some rain.

Those Russian songs.

From sunny Spain.

You wore a gown of gold.

I was all in blue.

Am I getting old?

Oh, no, not you.

How strong you were,

How young and gay,

A prince of love

In every way.

Ah, yes, I remember it well.

-o=0=o-

WOMAN WORK

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

I've got the children to tend

The clothes to mend

The floor to mop

The food to shop

Then the chicken to fry

The baby to dry

I got company to feed

The garden to weed

I've got shirts to press

The tots to dress

The cane to be cut

I gotta clean up this hut

Then see about the sick

And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine

Rain on me, rain

Fall softly, dewdrops

And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here

With your fiercest wind

Let me float across the sky

Till I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes

Cover me with white

Cold icy kisses and

Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky

Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone

Star shine, moon glow

You're all that I can call my own. 

-o=0=o-

WE WEAR THE MASK
Paul Laurence Dunbar 1872-1906

(This poet was the first African-American to gain widespread critical acclaim in the States)

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, -

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

    We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;

But let the world dream otherwise,

    We wear the mask!

-o=0=o-

OZYMANDIAS

Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that collossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-o=0=o-

CARPE DIEM
William Shakespeare 1564-1616

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 

O stay and hear! your true-love's coming 

That can sing both high and low; 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 

Journey's end in lovers' meeting - 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty, -

Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

-o=0=o-

I CRY

Tupac Shakur 1971-96

Sometimes when I'm alone

I cry,

Cause I am on my own.

The tears I cry are bitter and warm.

They flow with life but take no form

I cry because my heart is torn.

I find it difficult to carry on.

If I had an ear to confiding,

I would cry among my treasured friends,

but who do you know that stops that long,

to help another carry on.

The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.

Then to stop and see what makes one cry,

so painful and sad.

And sometimes . . .

I cry

and no one cares about why.

THE PAINTINGS OF EDVARD MUNCH blog is now being updated every day

-o=0=o-

UNKNOWN

Edward Thomas 1878-1917

She is most fair,

And when they see her pass

The poets' ladies

Look no more in the glass

But after her.

On a bleak moor

Running under the moon

She lures a poet,

Once proud or happy, soon

Far from his door.

Beside a train,

Because they saw her go,

Or failed to see her,

Travellers and watchers know

Another pain.

The simple lack

Of her is more to me

Than others' presence,

Whether life splendid be

Or utter black.

I have not seen,

I have no news of her;

I can tell only

She is not here, but there

She might have been.

She is to be kissed

Only perhaps by me;

She may be seeking

Me and no other; she

May not exist. 

From now on THE PAINTINGS OF EDVARD MUNCH will be updated every day

-o=0=o-

TO A FAT LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN

Frances Cornford  1886-1960

and

THE FAT WOMAN SPEAKS

G.K. Chesterton 1874-1936

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

Missing so much and so much?

O fat white woman whom nobody loves,

Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

When the grass is soft as the breast of doves

And shivering sweet to the touch?

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

Missing so much and so much?

-o-

Why do you rush through the field in trains,

Guessing so much and so much?

Why do you flash through the flowery meads,

Fat-head poet that nobody reads;

And why do you know such a frightful lot

About people in gloves as such?

And how the devil can you be sure,

Guessing so much and so much,

How do you know but what someone who loves

Always to see me in nice white gloves

At the end of the field you are rushing by,

Is waiting for his Old Dutch?

-o=0=o-