Contemporary British Art – Irina An
Below – “Leaving mood”; “Palm trees and Alina”; “Malena and her trees”; “Abstract Breath”; “Khloe”; “Fantasy Trust.”
This Date in Literary History: Born 22 January 1788 – Lord Byron, an English poet and playwright.
“She Walks in Beauty”
by Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Below- “Veranda Afternoon”; “Homeward”; “I Think Therefore”; “Intrepid”; “Thinking of You”; “All the Days.”
“Park Going to Sleep”
by Helen Hoyt
The shadows under the trees
And in the vines by the boat-house
And the lamps gleam softly.
On the street, far off,
The sound of the cars, rumbling,
The rocks grow dim on the edges of the shore.
The boats with tired prows against the landing
Have fallen asleep heavily:
The monuments sleep
And the trees
And the smooth slow-winding empty paths sleep.
Below – Richard Kizner: “Park at night”
Contemporary American Art – Sandra Speidel: Part II of II.
Below – “Crossroads”; “When One Door Closes”; “In the Whispers”; “Summertime”; “First Sunny Day” “Summer.”
This Date in Literary History: Born 22 January 1922 – Howard Moss, an American poet, playwright, critic, and recipient of the National Book Award.
by Howard Moss
Wake to the sun,” the rooster croaked,
First bird of the day. The world, light-flecked,
Chiselled its lineaments into form.
Where was all that fine light coming from?
“Trance at the wonder,” the second sang.
Whose five dry notes urged the ongoing
Afternoon on. “Why wake and stir?”
It asked. And asked. There was no answer.
“Live through the muddle.” That from the next one.
Not very helpful. It looked like rain,
Or fog in the offing. Twilight. Then
It sang again from an oak or pine.
Silence. How I waited for the fourth!
Time was a negative dipped into its bath,
The dark a fixative that slowly made
For every windowpane its window shade.
No messages arrived. No music bared
The soul for its penitence. Up the stairs
No hint of a footfall. The night passed.
“Croak by your hand,” said the crow at last.
Below – Nayfe Slusjan: “Crow”