Wandering in Woodacre – 16 July 2021

This Date in Art History: Born 16 July 1883 – Charles Sheeler, an American painter and photographer.

Below – “On a Shaker Theme #2”; “Skyscrapers”; “Golden Gate”; “Still Life”; “Ballardvale”; “New England Irrelevancies.”

A Poem for Today

“First Fig”
By Edna St.Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends⎯
It gives a lovely light!

Contemporary Ukrainian Art – Anna Osadchuk

Below – “Red sun”; “Evening hay”; “In spring”; “Japanese motives”; “Blue flowers”; “Nude back.”

A Poem for Today

“She dealt her pretty words like Blades-“
by Emily Dickinson

She dealt her pretty words like Blades—
How glittering they shone—
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone—
She never deemed—she hurt—
That—is not Steel’s Affair—
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh—
How ill the Creatures bear—
To Ache is human—not polite—
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom—
Just locking up—to Die.

Contemporary American Art – Relja Penezic

Below – “California Road Chronicles #85”; “Extreme Loafing & Idling #52”; “California Road Chronicles #84”; “Extreme Loafing & Idling #47”; “California Road Chronicles #78”; “Extreme Loafing & Idling #32.”

A Poem for Today

by John Foy

I took the dog and went to walk
in the auditorium of the woods,
but not to get away from things.
It was our habit, that was all,
a thing we did on summer days,
and much there was to listen to.
A slight wind came and went
in three birches by the pond.
A crow uphill was going on
about the black life it led,
and a brown creeper went creeping up
a brown trunk methodically
with no record of ever having
been understood by anyone.
A woodpecker was working out
a deep hole from the sound of it
in a stand of dead trees up there.
And then a jay, much put upon,
complained about some treachery
it may or may not have endured,
though most are liars anyway.
The farther in, the quieter,
till only the snapping of a stick
broke the silence we were in.
The dog stood still and looked at me,
the woods by then already dark.
Much later, on the porch at night,
I heard the owl, an eldritch thing.
The dog, still with me, heard it too,
a call that came from where we’d been,
and where we would not be again.

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