He caught beauty in a stroke,
the chisel–life,
the look which mirrors broke
praised and scorned at edge of knife.
He caught beauty in a stroke,
the chisel–life,
the look which mirrors broke
praised and scorned at edge of knife.
She woke before me,
straining her brush through aurora strands,
smiling at the pale gown
reflected in the blue-green mirror.
When she stretches,
pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple
collect prism dew, drowning
in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.
The vapors of her perfume are scentless,
senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes
like butterfly winds—fluttering out
from east to west; an oriental song.
But the lantern burns—
by night she is radiantly departed:
she lays her head in my lap
and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.
*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.
Sunshine on the lake—
The rain, in pirouetting
Rainbows tumbling down.
It’s Sunday, which means the latest batch of weekly quotes. This time around, keeping to the tune of my Colorado trip, all are nature-themed. One is actually a poem as well, written by the renowned Lord Byron. Beneath these I have also included another pair of pictures from my travels through the mountains. I hope you enjoy – for there is truly no mortal beauty quite so great as the power and majesty we may behold each day in the world around us.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.
~George Gordon, Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. ~Henry David Thoreau
I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes. ~E.E. Cummings
I was nearly sick to read it yesterday. I don’t know how many of you have heard. France is reeling today, but not merely France. The World at large. The world of Art and Beauty and Creativity all have suffered a blow, because some sick men wanted to make themselves some extra bits of paper.
The Museum of Modern Art in Paris was robbed. Thieves broke in under cover of night and stole five paintings by Picasso, Matisse, Braque, Leger, and Modigliani. It is certainly not the first theft of art in history—a devastating occurrence already felt in the loss of Rembrandts and Van Goghs, among others. Nor will it be the last, I am certain, but that does not make it easier to swallow. This is a terrible act that does not merely steal from a building or a man, but from civilization itself.
I believe Christophe Girard, deputy culture secretary at the Paris Town Hall, said it best when he told reporters: “This is a serious crime to the heritage of humanity.”
Some might argue that in the digital world, where all these images can simply be put online, the loss of a few dusty old portraits is hardly a thing to worry about. That is a terrible thing to think, I believe. Whatever you may put online, it is but a copy. The work, the real work—that image that men spent hours, days, even months of work to craft—is gone. The original, the true creation of their hand, is gone. Such a copy is but a hollow substitute. It is not the same.
The terrible thing about this is the realization that these works may never be seen again. In the coming days, police will undoubtedly be scouring Paris for any trace of the works, but if one took such care to break inside, one does not often stumble in their path of flight.
In 1990, works by Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Manet were also stolen. Taken from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, they still have not been found. Try as we might to find them, they are gone.
Worse, even if we find them, who’s to say what shape they will be in? Not all criminals take such care of their stolen prize. One can hope that if they intend to sell them, great care will be taken, but one can never know. The more days pass, however, the less chance we have of knowing—and the greater the likelihood we may never see these masterpieces again.
The things people do for money…it’s enough to make a person sick.
Horizon hidden,
Sunlit shadows—
Reflections in the dawn.
Billowing mist,
Rising from the earth—
Such a beauty,
The morning fog.