Wandering in Woodacre – 26 March 2021

Contemporary Finnish Art – Dasha Pears: Part I of II.

Below (photographs) – “Caught in the Shadows”; “Arrival of the Birds & Transformation – The Cinematic Orchestra”; “Pattern Recognition”; “Awakening”; “Two Souls”; “Red Drop.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 26 March 2015 – Tomas Transtromer, a Swedish poet, translator, and recipient of the 2011 Nobel Prize in Literature.

“The Stones”
by Tomas Transtromer
translated by Patty Crane

The stones we have thrown I hear
fall, glass-clear through the year. In the valley
confused actions of the moment
fly howling from tree-top
to tree-top, quieting
in air thinner than now’s, gliding
like swallows from mountain-top
to mountain-top till they
reach the furthest plateaus
along the edge of existence. Where
all our deeds fall
to no ending
except ourselves.

Below – Dominique Philion: “The Ephemeral Reservoir”

Contemporary Finnish Art – Dasha Pears: Part II of II.

Below – “Don’t Look Back”; “Stairs”; “Away We Go”; “Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, Prelude – Bach”; “Waltz of the Flowers – The Nutcracker – Tchaikovsky”; “In and Out”; “Whisper: Me and Myself 7.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 26 March 1979 – Jean Stafford, an American short story writer, novelist, author of “The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford,” and recipient of the Pulitzer Prize.

Some quotes from the work of Jean Stafford:

“To her own heart, which was shaped exactly like a valentine, there came a winglike palpitation, a delicate exigency, and all the fragrance of all the flowery springtime love affairs that ever were seemed waiting for them in the whisky bottle. To mingle their pain their handshake had promised them, was to produce a separate entity, like a child that could shift for itself, and they scrambled hastily toward this profound and pastoral experience.”
“She wanted them to go together to some hopelessly disreputable bar and to console one another in the most maudlin fashion over a lengthy succession of powerful drinks of whiskey, to compare their illnesses, to marry their invalid souls for these few hours of painful communion, and to babble with rapture that they were at last, for a little while, they were no longer alone.”
“She had expected rich chandeliers, not these morose and fungoid lamps, and the carpet was not dense and darkly red, but was thin, and it bore upon its lugubrious puce background a vapid pattern of flaxen parallelograms.”
“He whirled round and round in his rapid love; it pricked him on the breastbone like a needle. He wanted to be shut up in a small space to think about it. He wanted to grab it and eat it like an apple so that nobody else could have it.”
“I fell in love with Caligula and now I’m married to Calvin.”

Contemporary Russian Art – Galina Lyutaeva

Below – “two women”; “Abstract female portrait in ink”; “Spring in the mountains”; “Girl with red hair”; “light in the autumn forest”;“Nude female figure 2.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 26 March 1954 – Dorothy Porter, an award-winning Australian poet.

by Dorothy Porter

I challenge the mirror
‘how much guts have you got?’

I like my courage
I like my courage
with a dash of danger

In between insurance jobs
I’ve been watching
rock climbers
like game little spiders
on my local cliff

I’ve got no head for heights
but plenty of stomach
for trouble

deep other-folks trouble
to spark my engine
and pay my mortgage

and private trouble
oh, pretty trouble

to tidal-wave my bed

I’m waiting

I want you, trouble,
on the rocks.

Below – Glen Frear: “on the rocks”

Contemporary French Art – Laurent Anastay Ponsolle

Below – “Octobre, the hairless arty cat II”; “More Divas, more Champagne, and more Bla bla bla”; “Close Combat”; “Vampire Lust”; “Cruelty bought thee orchids”; “Red Lisa #6.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 26 March 1859 – A. E. Housman, an English poet and classical scholar.

“A Shropshire Lad 2: Loveliest of trees, the cherry now”
by A. E. Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Below – Elena Ivanova: “Cherry spring”

Contemporary Italian Art – Massimiliano Ligabue: Part I of II.

Below – ““The arrival”; “Night guest”; “Quiet Autumn eventing”; “After midnight”; “Just before night”; “Summer evening.”

This Date in Literary/Intellectual History: Born 26 March 1904 – Joseph Campbell, an influential American mythologist and author of “The Hero with a Thousand Faces.”

Some quotes from the work of Joseph Campbell:

“Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.”
“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”
“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”
“People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances with our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.”
“If you can see your path laid out in front of you step by step, you know it’s not your path. Your own path you make with every step you take. That’s why it’s your path.”
“The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.”
“Myths are public dreams, dreams are private myths.”
“All the gods, all the heavens, all the hells, are within you.”
“Life is like arriving late for a movie, having to figure out what was going on without bothering everybody with a lot of questions, and then being unexpectedly called away before you find out how it ends.”
“If you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Follow your bliss and don’t be afraid, and doors will open where you didn’t know they were going to be.”
“Half the people in the world think that the metaphors of their religious traditions, for example, are facts. And the other half contends that they are not facts at all. As a result we have people who consider themselves believers because they accept metaphors as facts, and we have others who classify themselves as atheists because they think religious metaphors are lies.”
“The Hero Path

We have not even to risk the adventure alone
for the heroes of all time have gone before us.
The labyrinth is thoroughly known …
we have only to follow the thread of the hero path.
And where we had thought to find an abomination
we shall find a God.

And where we had thought to slay another
we shall slay ourselves.
Where we had thought to travel outwards
we shall come to the center of our own existence.
And where we had thought to be alone
we shall be with all the world.”
“A bit of advice
Given to a young Native American
At the time of his initiation:
As you go the way of life,
You will see a great chasm. Jump.
It is not as wide as you think.”
“You enter the forest
at the darkest point,
where there is no path.

Where there is a way or path,
it is someone else’s path.

You are not on your own path.

If you follow someone else’s way,
you are not going to realize
your potential.”

Contemporary Italian Art – Massimiliano Ligabue: Part II of II.

Below – “Morning coffee”; “Starless night”; “Losing the way”; “Leaving at dawn”; “Somewhere in the countryside”; “Listening to the wind.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 26 March 1930 – Gregory Corso, an American poet and member of the Beat movement.

by Gregory Corso

Should I get married? Should I be Good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood?
Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-
When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where’s the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we’re losing a daughter
but we’re gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just waiting to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! He looking at me if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She’s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
The winking bellboy knowing
Everybody knowing! I’d be almost inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climatic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I’d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I’d sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it’d be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting by baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I’d make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones’ house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yet if I should get married and it’s Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear not Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I’d give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I’d be that kind of father
not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
Impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married and I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were to marry a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and highball in the other
and we lived high up a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No I can’t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
it’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there maybe a girl now but she’s already married
And I don’t like men and-
but there’s got to be somebody!
Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married,
all alone in furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All in the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so I wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Below – Maliheh Zafarnezhad: “Never Let Me Go”; Zuzana Bolech: “Ancient egyptian love”

Contemporary Croatian Art -Lena Kramaric: Part I of II.

Below – “my Space”; “wooden dance”; “Endlessly”; “OKO” (collage); “Southern Snow 4/4”; “Tied without rope.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 26 March 1892 – Walt Whitman, an American poet, essayist, and journalist.

Verse 52 from “Song of Myself”
by Walt Whitman

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Contemporary Croatian Art -Lena Kramaric: Part II of II.

Below – “Like Erin (Sky, Land, Sea, Stone)”; “V3”; “Dry land”; “Flower pickers”;“Transformation pending (on the ice)/Potentially me”; “Season changes.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 26 March 1874 – Robert Frost, an American poet, playwright, and four-time recipient of the Pulitzer Prize.

“The Road Not Taken”
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Below – Kelly Hendrickson: “Two Roads Diverged”

Contemporary Ukrainian Art – Lena Marandina

Below – “Annabel Lee”; “Cold Mountains”; “Once upon a time…”; “Grimm”; “Anchorite”; “The woman in white.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 26 March 2011 – Jim Harrison, an award-winning American poet, novelist, essayist, memoirist, and literary critic.

“Another Country”
by Jim Harrison

I love these raw moist dawns with
a thousand birds you hear but can’t
quite see in the mist.
My old alien body is a foreigner
struggling to get into another country.
The loon call makes me shiver.
Back at the cabin I see a book
and am not quite sure what that is.

Below – David Snider: “Misty Morning”

This entry was posted in Art and Photography, Books, Movies, Music, and Television, Opinion. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply