Sentient in San Francisco – 8 June 2019

This Date in Art History: Born 8 June 1829 – John Everett Millais, an English painter and illustrator: Part I of II.

Below – “Ophelia”; “Mariana”; “The Eve of Saint Agnes”; “Chill October”; “The Grey Lady”; “The Vale of Rest.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 8 June 1889 – Gerard Manley Hopkins, an English poet.

“Spring and Fall”
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

to a young child

Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

This Date in Art History: Born 8 June 1829 – John Everett Millais, an English painter and illustrator: Part II of II.

Below – “The Bridesmaid”; “Dew Drenched Furze”; “Apple Blossoms”; “Autumn Leaves”; “Red Riding Hood”; “Glen Birnam.”

Musings in Spring: J. R. R. Tolkien

“Elvish singing is not a thing to miss, in June under the stars, not if you care for such things.”

Below – Tony Storino: “Night Sky In The Forest”

Contemporary American Art – John Smither

Below – “Wilderness Peak Trail – Winter Solstice”; “Ms. Raven”; “Ms. Raven’s Movie Night.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 8 June 1920 – Gwen Harwood, an Australian poet and playwright.

“The Wound”
by Gwen Harwood

The tenth day, and they give
my mirror back. Who knows
how to drink pain, and live?
I look, and the glass shows
the truth, fine as a hair,
of the scalpel’s wounding care.

A round reproach to all
that’s warped, uncertain, clouded,
the sun climbs. On the wall,
by the racked body shrouded
in pain, is a shadow thrown;
simple, unchanged, my own.

Body, on whom the claims
of spirit fall to inspire
and terrify, there flames
at your least breath a fire
of anguish, not for this pain,
but that scars will remain.

You will be loved no less.
Spirit can build, make shift
with what there is, and press
pain to its mould; will lift
from your crucible of night
a form dripping with light.

Felix culpa. The sun
lights in my flesh the great
wound of the world. What’s done
is done. In man’s estate
let my flawed wholeness prove
the art and scope of love.

Below – Zoe Taylor: “Gwen Harwood”

Contemporary Serbian Art – Nela Radomirovic

Below – “Village Road”; “Cherries”; “Coffee Grinder and Apple”; “Sunny Winter Day”; “Grapes”; “Clay Vase.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 8 June 1937 – Gillian Clarke, a Welsh poet and playwright.

by Gillian Clarke

Snowlight and sunlight, the lake glacial.
Too bright to open my eyes
in the dazzle and doze
of a distant January afternoon.

It’s long ago and the house naps in the plush silence
of a house asleep, like absence,
I’m dreaming on the white bear’s shoulder,
paddling the slow hours, my fingers in his fur.

His eyes are glass, each hair a needle of light.
He’s pegged by his claws to the floor like a shirt on the line.
He is a soul. He is what death is. He is transparency,
a loosening floe on the sea.

But I want him alive.
I want him fierce
with belly and breath and growl and beating heart,
I want him dangerous,

I want to follow him over the snows
between the immaculate earth and now,
between the silence and the shot that rang
over the ice at the top of the globe,

when the map of the earth was something we knew by heart,
and they had not shot the bear,
had not loosed the ice,
had not, had not . . .

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