Wandering in Woodacre – 17 June 2021

This Date in Art History: Died 17 June 1898 – Edward Burne-Jones, an English painter.

Below – “The last sleep of Arthur”; “The Golden Stairs”; “Temperantia”; “Girl and Goldfish”; “The Beguiling of Merlin”; “Nymphs of the Stars.”

A Poem for Today

by Sarah Freligh

On the fire escape, one
stupid petunia still blooms,
purple trumpet blowing
high notes at the sky long
after the rest of the band
has packed up
and gone home.

Contemporary British Art – Marcel Garbi

Below- “Something amiss”; “Suspended in the breath of your dream”; “Songs and fragrances”; “Mystery Theatre”; “Oud”; “Time to leave the stage.”

A Poem for Today

“Starlings in Winter”
by Mary Oliver

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

Below – Antoinette Haselhorst: “Dance of the Starlings” (photograph)

Contemporary American Art – Morris T Howard

Below- “I Dream A World”; “Holiday Delivery”; “Spring”; “Man In A Field Of African Daisies”; “I Continue To Dream”; “New Girls In Town.”

A Poem for Today

by Ellen Bass
“The Thing Is”

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you down like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, ‘How can a body withstand this?’
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

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