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The only thing wrong with summer nights is that I can’t stay up late any more. The quintessential Van Gogh: “Starry Night”. Then Robert Frost’s nod to my favorite insect, if one is allowed to have such a thing, the firefly.
Fireflies in the Garden
by Robert Frost
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.
Monet’s Vétheuil in summer from 1880 and Lewis Carrol’s summer classic A Boat beneath a Sunny Sky:
A Boat beneath a Sunny Sky
by Lewis Carroll
A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear —
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream —
Lingering in the golden gleam —
Life, what is it but a dream?
Fathers Day. His name was John except when we went to his home town one week every July and everyone called him “Jack”. I never asked him which he preferred. I asked him once about another man from his town of 2300 people. He told me he didn’t know him because he lived on the north side of town and my Dad lived on the south side. 2300 people. I think I learned to never leave my zip code from him.
Today we have art by Thomas Eakins, one of America’s finest artists. This painting was of his father, who was a “Writing Master” which is a lost art here in our 21st Century world. A writing master taught handwriting. You’ve no doubt noticed how documents like the Declaration of Independence are written in wonderful script. A writing master taught Jefferson or whomever did the transcribing how to write that way.
Eakins was a multi-talented artist. He was a Realist in style. He took great care that his art reflected what actually existed. He didn’t like Impressionist art and would have no use for an idealized painting of gods or men.
So we can assume that his portrait of two boxers from 1898 and his painting of two 1875 baseball players practicing is an accurate depiction of what it would have actually looked like.
“I don’t need a glove. It’s “batting practice” so you’re supposed to hit the ball.”
For our poetry, an anonymous poem entitled “Getting Information Out of Pa”:
My pa he didn’t go to town
Last evening after tea,
But got a book and settled down
As comfy as could be.
I’ll tell you I was offul glad
To have my pa about
To answer all the things I had
Been tryin’ to find out.
And so I asked him why the world
Is round instead of square,
And why the piggies’ tails are curled,
And why don’t fish breathe air?
And why the moon don’t hit a star,
And why the dark is black,
And just how many birds there are,
And will the wind come back?
And why does water stay in wells,
And why do June bugs hum,
And what’s the roar I hear in shells,
And when will Christmas come?
And why the grass is always green,
Instead of sometimes blue,
And why a bean will grow a bean
And not an apple, too?
And why a horse can’t learn to moo,
And why a cow can’t neigh?
And do the fairies live on dew,
And what makes hair grow gray—
And then my pa got up an’ gee!
The offul words he said,
I hadn’t done a things, but he
Jest sent me off to bed.
Today, we have a painting from 1912 by Russian painter Natalya Goncharova called “Rabbi With Cat” and there’s a lot more going on there than it looks. The poetry is from Christopher Smart, an 18th century English poet with a life every bit as tragic as the life of the rabbi in the painting.
from Jubilate Agno
by Christopher Smart
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord’s poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually—Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
RICHARD VAUGHAN TO HIS CAT
( A Welsh Cavalier Ballad)
MOST gentle of the long-tailed gentry,
Since here, a kitten, you made entry,
So far your walks have chiefly been
Between the kitchen and the pantry.
Your claws are keenly pointed, pussy,
Your eyes are green, your whiskers glossy ;
Soft-footed on your prey you pounce,
You little, light-limbed, bouncing hussy.
No fowler with his hedgerow nettings
Can, beat you at your feathered gettings ;
And well with clever paw you fish,
Though little wish have you for wettings.
There’s no immediate need for knowing
To whose good beard a lick is owing,
But at that beard don’t take a turn
Down by Ydernion thickly flowing.
Stop playing, pussy, with that tassel !
And promise, like a royal vassal,
To be my messenger afar
Unto the lord of Harlech Castle.
Off then at once, or I must chide you,
And for your first night go and bide you,
With her, the widow fair and sweet,
Who at Rhiwgoch will greet and hide you.
When milk enow for satisfying
Your needs the dame hath done supplying,
Upon the morrow from Rhiwgoch
For Cwm y Moch afar go flying.
Once there, of every sound well mind you,
Look sharp around, before, behind you,
And from each mortal that you meet
Seek safe retreat, till darkness find you.
When sunshine on your path is sweeping,
Across the pools go bravely leaping ;
Then sate your hunger round the rocks
Upon the flocks of field-mice creeping.
When near at hand, with care exceeding,
Through briars and furze that set men bleeding,
Past Carnialwin’s stone-marked end
On to the mill, my friend, go speeding.
There you shall see before you frowning
Gwalia’s high Keep the great crag crowning ;
Then take one last impetuous leap
O’er the moat’s deep, nor fear for drowning.
The first two lines of this poem were transmitted by the allies on June 5th, 1944 as a message to the French resistance to let them know that the D Day invasion was less than 24 hours away.
(En Français)
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon coeur
D’une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
(In English)
The long sobs
of autumn’s
violins
wound my heart
with a monotonous
languor.
Wholly breathless
and pale, When
the clock strikes,
I remember
the old days,
And I weep.
And I set off
in the ill wind
that carries me
here and there,
Like
a dead leaf.
- by Paul Verlaine
On May 31st in the year 70, the Romans breached the first wall of Jerusalem. For our art today, we have a painting from 1849 by English artist David Roberts called The Siege and Destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans Under the Command of Titus, A.D. 70. The painting itself went missing in the 1960’s, so its whereabouts are a bit of an art world mystery. The poetry is from 1814 by Lord George Gordon Byron. It is called: On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus.
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render’d to Rome:
‘Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flash’d back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
I look’d for thy temple, I look’d for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fetter’d hands that made vengeance in vain.
Oh many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark’d not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror’s head!
But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain’d not to reign;
And scatter’d and scorn’d as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.
I couldn’t rightly call it “Sunday Art”, since it’s a photo of American airborne troops in Carentan in early June 1944. But it goes well with a poem by Louis Simpson called “Carnetan O Carentan”.
“Carentan O Carentan”
Trees in the old days used to stand
And shape a shady lane
Where lovers wandered hand in hand
Who came from Carentan.
This was the shining green canal
Where we came two by two
Walking at combat-interval.
Such trees we never knew.
The day was early June, the ground
Was soft and bright with dew.
Far away the guns did sound,
But here the sky was blue.
The sky was blue, but there a smoke
Hung still above the sea
Where the ships together spoke
To towns we could not see.
Could you have seen us through a glass
You would have said a walk
Of farmers out to turn the grass,
Each with his own hay-fork.
The watchers in their leopard suits
Waited till it was time,
And aimed between the belt and boot
And let the barrel climb.
I must lie down at once, there is
A hammer at my knee.
And call it death or cowardice,
Don’t count again on me.
Everything’s all right, Mother,
Everyone gets the same
At one time or another.
It’s all in the game.
I never strolled, nor ever shall,
Down such a leafy lane.
I never drank in a canal,
Nor ever shall again.
There is a whistling in the leaves
And it is not the wind,
The twigs are falling from the knives
That cut men to the ground.
Tell me, Master-Sergeant,
The way to turn and shoot.
But the Sergeant’s silent
That taught me how to do it.
O Captain, show us quickly
Our place upon the map.
But the Captain’s sickly
And taking a long nap.
Lieutenant, what’s my duty,
My place in the platoon?
He too’s a sleeping beauty,
Charmed by that strange tune.
Carentan O Carentan
Before we met with you
We never yet had lost a man
Or known what death could do.
- Louis Simpson
Happy Norwegian Constitution Day. The lyrics to Norway’s national anthem, Ja, vi elsker dette landet (Yes, we love this country) come from a poem by Bjørnstjerne Martinus Bjørnson in the early 1860’s. I’ve got the original Norwegian, followed by a literal translation. The painting is from the 1840’s by … oh just read the caption like I did.
Ja, vi elsker dette landet,
som det stiger frem,
furet, værbitt over vannet,
med de tusen hjem.
Elsker, elsker det og tenker
på vår far og mor
og den saganatt som senker
drømmer på vår jord.
og den saganatt som senker
senker drømmer på vår jord.
Yes, we love this country
as it rises forth,
rugged, weathered, above the sea,
with the thousands of homes.
Loving, loving it and thinking
about our father and mother
and the saga night that sends
dreams to our earth
and the saga night that sends.
dreams to our earth.
The participants at the Children’s Institute of Eastern Michigan University came up with a painting they called “Green Room Garden”. Any mother would like to get this as a gift today. The poetry is from Robert Louis Stevenson and served as the preface to his book: “A Child’s Garden of Verses”
To Any Reader
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
- R.L. Stevenson
Miss you Ma
May 2, 1890 – I’m breaking my rule which used to say that no great art has been created since World War I ended. So I’m amending that. Now make it: Little great art has been created since the end of Work War II. Alexander Calder’s mobiles may be the only exceptions.
But this painting by Wilson Hurley from 2002 is OK (get it? OK?) because it illustrates Oklahoma, which this post celebrates and it is called A Storm Passing Northwest of Anadarko and “Anadarko” is also Grace’s last name in “Saving Grace”. See how it all fits together? The poem is by Mississippi-born Muna Lee, who moved to Oklahoma when she was seven.
| BEHIND the house is the millet plot, | |
| And past the millet, the stile; | |
| And then a hill where melilot | |
| Grows with wild camomile. | |
| There was a youth who bade me goodby | 5 |
| Where the hill rises to meet the sky. | |
| I think my heart broke; but I have forgot | |
| All but the smell of the white melilot. |
April showers and May flowers is our rainy mantra here in the upper midwest post-industrial Rust Belt. The daffodils are in bloom and I noticed my wildflower seeds have sprouted. In the midst of the gray gloom of this late April weekend, there is color and the hope of more color. The “Father of Impressionism”, Edouard Manet paints a vase filled with white lilacs and Carl Sandburg wanders through my back yard:
“Follies” – Carl Sandburg (1916)
SHAKEN,
The blossoms of lilac,
And shattered,
The atoms of purple.
Green dip the leaves, 5
Darker the bark,
Longer the shadows.
Sheer lines of poplar
Shimmer with masses of silver
And down in a garden old with years 10
And broken walls of ruin and story,
Roses rise with red rain-memories.
May!
In the open world
The sun comes and finds your face, 15
Remembering all.
