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HOPE AND MEMORY

in Poetry of Art by
monique

“Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.”

― W.B. Yeats

Hope and memory
Kenyon Cox – 1900

TOLKIEN ~ REMEMBERING PAST SEASONS

in Poetry of Art by
monique

I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door”
― J.R.R. Tolkien

Vasilevskoë – Autumn

Wassily Kandinsky – 1903

E.E. CUMMINGS ~ YOU ARE…

in Poetry of Art by
monique

“Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: – you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”
― E.E. Cummings

Christian Rohlfs,
Dancing around the Ball of the Sun, 1916

RAINER MARIA RILKE ~ EVENING

in Poetry of Art by
evening

Evening

Slowly the evening puts on the garments
held for it by a rim of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands divide from you,
one going heavenward, one that falls;

and leave you, to neither quite belonging,
not quite so dark as the house sunk in silence,
not quite so surely pledging the eternal
as that which grows star each night and climbs-

and leave you (inexpressibly to untangle)
your life afraid and huge and ripening,
so that it, now bound in and now embracing,
grows alternately stone in you and star.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

Claude Monet – 1840-1926 – The sunken road in the cliff at Varangeville – 1882

ANNA AKHMATOVA ~ WAKING DREAMS

in Russian Art & Literature ~ Thoughts and Feelings/The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
writers

Forgive me, that I manage badly,
Manage badly but live gloriously,
That I leave traces of myself in my songs,
That I appeared to you in waking dreams.”
― Anna Akhmatova, The Complete Poems

Anna Akhmatova. Slepnevo.1914

ANNA AKHMATOVA ~ IN THE EVENING

in Poetry of Art by
Anna

IN THE EVENING  BY ANNA AKHMATOVA

The garden rang with music
Of inexpressible despair.
A dish of oysters spread on ice
Smelled like the ocean, fresh and sharp.

He told me: “I’m a faithful friend!”-
And lightly touched my dress.
How different from embraces
The touch of those two hands.

That’s how one strokes a cat or bird
Or looks at slender lady riders…
Just laughter in his quiet eyes,
Beneath his light gold lashes.

And the despondent voices of the violins
Sing out beyond the hanging smoke:
“Give blessings to heaven above
At last you’re alone with your beloved.”

March 1913

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE ~ ON LIFE AND POETS

in Poetical Visions by
baudelaire

“The beautiful is always bizarre.”
― Charles Baudelaire

“An artist is a kaleidoscope endowed with consciousness…an ego athirst for the non-ego, and reflecting it at every moment in energies more vivid than life itself, always inconstant and fleeting. The poet is like those wandering souls who go looking for a body, he enters as he likes into each man’s personality. For him alone everything is vacant…The man who loves to lose himself in a crowd enjoys feverish delights that the egoist locked up in himself as in a box, and the slothful man like a mollusk in his shell, will be eternally deprived of. He adopts to his own all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that chance offers.”

Charles Baudelaire

WITH THE RAIN (A REQUIEM) ~ POEM BY WILLIAM (CHILI) GONZALEZ

in Poetry of Art/My Artist Friends ~ and their creations... by
blog

Let me sleep
Leave me be

Let my eyes close
Leave my soul to fade away, forever more

Let me rest in peace
Leave my blood to freeze

Let me travel to the unknown
Leave the body; it’s just flesh and bone

Let my spirit wander in darkness
Leave memories of past in fondness

Burn this coffin, for I am not there
This burden is not for you to bear

Do not lament or shed tears
When serenity comes, I will be near

When you are lonely in silence of night
I will embrace you with all of my might

I will finally be at peace, no pain
How I will miss you, my tears will come with the rain

I am the air and the fog
Take a deep breath, I will feel your heart call

You are not alone, this you must remember
I will always remain, like a dying fire’s ember

In a place of tranquility. Taken away too soon (?)
Do not fear what is in store, what the future holds, do not feel gloom

Night falls again, I walk in the obscure
Never ending love / forever pure

In Memoria M.T.A
MCMXXXIII-MCMXCVII

William (Chili) Gonzalez

SILENT WOOD ~ POEM BY ELIZABETH SIDDAL

in Dante Gabriel Rossetti and the Victorian Avantgarde by
Siddal-photo

O silent wood, I enter thee
With a heart so full of misery
For all the voices from the trees
And the ferns that cling about my knees.

In thy darkest shadow let me sit
When the grey owls about thee flit;
There will I ask of thee a boon,
That I may not faint or die or swoon.

Gazing through the gloom like one
Whose life and hopes are also done,
Frozen like a thing of stone
I sit in thy shadow – but not alone.

Can God bring back the day when we two stood
Beneath the clinging trees in that dark wood?

Photo of Elizabeth Siddal  ca. 1860

Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal (25 July 1829 – 11 February 1862) was an English artists’ model, poet and artist who was painted and drawn extensively by artists of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, including Walter Deverell, William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais (including Millais’ 1852 painting Ophelia) and most of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s early paintings of women.   (Wikipedia)

MIRAGE ~ POEM BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

in Poetry of Art by
mirage

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,

Was but a dream; and now I wake

Exceeding  comfortless, and worn, and old,

For a dream’s sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,

A weeping willow in a lake;

I hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snapt

For a dream’s sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;

My silent heart, lie still and break:

Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed

For a dream’s sake.

Mirage

Charles Conder (1889)

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