Wandering in Woodacre: 3 July 2020

Contemporary American Art – Amy Smith

Below – “Nevermind Yellow Neon”; “Sweet”; “Queen”; “Shine Bright Natural”; “Kate”; “A rose by any other name.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 3 July 1974 – John Crowe Ransom, an American poet, literary critic, essayist, and recipient of both the Bollingen Prize and the National Book Award: Part I of II.

“Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter”
by John Crowe Ransom

There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study Astonishes us all

Her wars were bruited in our high window.
We looked among orchard trees and beyond
Where she took arms against her shadow,
Or harried unto the pond

The lazy geese, like a snow cloud
Dripping their snow on the green grass,
Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud,
Who cried in goose, Alas,

For the tireless heart within the little
Lady with rod that made them rise
From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle
Goose-fashion under the skies!

But now go the bells, and we are ready,
In one house we are sternly stopped
To say we are vexed at her brown study,
Lying so primly propped.

Below – Camille Pissarro: “A Little Goose Girl”

Contemporary Belgian Art – Lize Vandenbreeden

Below – “Shibuya kit”; “The pleasures of friendship are exquisite”; “She is neither pink nor pale”; “The blond commuter”; “Hello darling”; “A Bird, came down the Walk.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 3 July 1974 – John Crowe Ransom, an American poet, literary critic, essayist, and recipient of both the Bollingen Prize and the National Book Award: Part II of II.

“Winter Remembered”
by John Crowe Ransom

Two evils, monstrous either one apart,
Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:
A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart,
And in the wood the furious winter blowing.

Think not, when fire was bright upon my bricks,
And past the tight boards hardly a wind could enter,
I glowed like them, the simple burning sticks,
Far from my cause, my proper heat and center.

Better to walk forth in the frozen air
And wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing;
Because my heart would throb less painful there,
Being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling.

And where I walked, the murderous winter blast
Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs streaming,
And though I think this heart’s blood froze not fast
It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming.

Dear love, these fingers that had known your touch,
And tied our separate forces first together,
Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much,
Ten frozen parsnips hanging in the weather.

Contemporary American Art – Bo Kravchenko

Below – “Road to the Light”; “At Night”; “Good Day”; “Grassy Waters Like”; “Noon”; “Orange Beach.”

A Poem for Today

“All the Questions”
by Robert Tremmel

When you step through
the back door
into the kitchen
father is still
sitting at the table
with a newspaper
folded open
in front of him
and pen raised, working
the crossword puzzle.

In the living room
mother is sleeping
her peaceful sleep
at last, in a purple
robe, with her head
back, slippered feet
up and twisted
knuckle hands crossed
right over left
in her lap.

Through the south window
in your old room
you see leaves
on the giant ash tree
turning yellow again
in setting sun
and falling slowly
to the ground and one
by one all the questions
you ever had become clear.

Number one across:
a four-letter word
for no longer.

Number one down:
an eleven letter word
for gone.

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