This Date in Art History: Born 20 May 1898 – Eduard Ole, an Estonian painter.
Below – “Passengers”; “Linnavaade Alpidest”; “Rootsi rennamotiiv”; “Park”; “Pariisi vaade.”
Musings in Spring: Kate Chopin
“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.”
Below – Edvard Munch: “Young Woman on the Beach”
Below – “The Birth of Venus II”; “CVIII.”
A Poem for Today
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turn’d so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
Below – Dante Gabriel Rossetti: “Pia de’ Tolomei”
Below – “Migration | Celestial Light Aqua”; “Dark Velvet | Blue”; “Migration | Marshmallow”; “Migration | Storm of Sentiments.”
Musings in Spring: Haruki Murakami
“Unclose your mind. You are not a prisoner. You are a bird in flight, searching the skies for dreams.”
Contemporary American Art – Kristen Elizabeth
Below – “Rhodochrosite”; “Sapphire”; “Quartz”; “Audrey”; “Aurum.”
A Poem for Today
“The Cricket in the Sump”
by Catherine Tufariello
He falls abruptly silent when we fling
A basket down or bang the dryer shut,
But soon takes up again where he left off.
Swept by a rainstorm through a narrow trough
Clotted with cobwebs into Lord knows what
Impenetrable murk, he’s undeterred—
You’d think his dauntless solo was a chorus,
This rusty sump, a field or forest spring.
And there is something wondrous and absurd
About the way he does as he is bidden
By instinct, with his gift for staying hidden
While making sure unseen is plainly heard.
All afternoon his tremolo ascends
Clear to the second story, where a girl
Who also has learned blithely to ignore us
Sings to herself behind her bedroom door.
Maybe she moves to her invented score
With a conductor’s flourish, or pretends
She’s a Spanish dancer, lost in stamp and whirl
And waving fan—notes floating, as she plays,
Through the open window where the willow sways
And shimmers, humming to another string.
There is no story where the story ends.
What does a singer live for but to sing?