So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem, Love’s Philosophy.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

WHY SHOULD I NOT SING?

And why should I not sing
my god’s praises?
For I have made him
with these two hands,
with chisel and mallet,
from the marble of imagination
to give me reason to suffer and live.

And why should I not listen
to his oracle,
to his words on the wind,
to his insoluble riddles?
For he has given me a voice,
sometimes sick and hoarse,
sometimes rich and roaring,
and quill and ink with which to write,
and I have penned a woman,
most perfect from my dreams,
and she has come alive.

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OUR INSPIRATION

LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river
   And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
   With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
   All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
   Why not I with thine?—

See the mountains kiss high heaven
   And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
   If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
   And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
   If thou kiss not me?

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Notes:

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792–1822. Born near Horsham, Sussex, England. English Romanticism.
Link to Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/percy-bysshe-shelley
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50262/loves-philosophy

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Great things are not done by impulse, but a series of small things brought together.

Vincent Van Gogh

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by poetry from Ovid’s, The Metamorphoses (Book XV)

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

LIFE IS A SHADOW

If life is a shadow of the infinite,
and to sleep is to dream,
then a dream is a shadow’s shadow.

Much is revealed of a thing in shadows.

The past is an empty banquet hall.
Our memories echoes that recede.
Are you happy with the notes you struck?
Did you pluck the present
like an apple of purest gold,
inscribed with the words,
“For your truest self,”
and heed its message?

You must have once had eyes
to see without them,
and ears like a frightened fox
to mute the world’s hue and cry.

You must be what you are before
what you’re not you may become.

OUR INSPIRATION

from THE METAMORPHOSES (BOOK XV)
by Ovid (trans. Henry T. Riley)

All things are flowing onward,
and every shape is assumed in a fleeting course.
Even time itself glides on with a constant progress,
no otherwise than a river.

For neither can the river,
nor the fleeting hour stop in its course;
but, as wave is impelled by wave,
and the one before is pressed on by that which follows,
and itself presses on that before it;
so do the moments similarly fly on,
and similarly do they follow,
and they are ever renewed.

For the moment which was before, is past;
and that which was not, now exists;
and every minute is replaced.

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Notes:
Ovid, 43 BCE-17 or 18. Born in Sulmo, Italy, Roman Republic.
Link Biography: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ovid
Link to Poem: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/26073/26073-h/Met_XII-XV.html#bookXV_fableII

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To avoid criticism say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.

Aristotle

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Robert Frost’s poem, Mending Wall.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

THE HEALER

The bird was shot through
by a huntress—
her mouth a cavern,
her teeth stalactites,
and from its yawning depths
was heard the long echo
of a thunderclap.

The bird’s neck was twisted,
and the nares of its yellow, brittle beak
were plugged with dried blood.

It glassy eyes stared upward
from its ossuary of wild grass
into the summer sky that was once its home.

A healer knelt before the corpse.
He was twice-born.
He no longer worshiped death,
having died a child
to be born a man.

“I will cry for you,” he whispered,
and the bird’s neck craned,
the beak opened to drink
his life-giving tears.

How can one not love
that which must die
when one shares with all life
the common bond of mortality?

The bird gazed into the healer’s eyes and said:

“Now I am forever always,
as must be the wind through which I soar.”

But in its seeing eyes
was a mote of disbelief,
as if it didn’t quite believe it was now alive,
and that perhaps it was all a dream.

Any yet it flew,
and flew—
into the sky,
blue without a cloud,
it flew.

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OUR INSPIRATION

MENDING WALL
by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

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Notes:
Robert Frost, 1874-1963. Born in San Francisco, California.
Link Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/robert-frost
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44266/mending-wall

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The soul should always stand ajar. Ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.

Emily Dickinson

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Christina Rossetti’s poem, De Profundis.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

GIBBOUS MOON

The gibbous moon confers gifts—
firelit gossamer to mark your forest path.
But when she wanes, and you fall from grace,
be vigilant, capricious heart.

It is not a time for mourning,
but for sowing.

She’ll not deny you
your harvest home.
Lift up your sighing eyes, and
again her heart will open.

Her outstretched arms,
pale and devoted in the ardent hours,
patiently wait for your fond embrace.

Between two tempestuous seas—
dark and unmeasured—
seas of birth and death—
is a sinuous strait.

You are a drop of soul water
on the foam of a wayfaring wave.

Rise, you soul!
And rise again!
There is the serpent Scylla—
there is swirling Charybdis.

Rise to the wave’s crest.
Rise to the mirrored moon—
shadow of the Sun. Rise like spray,
away from death,
away from darkness,
into the Eternal One.

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OUR INSPIRATION

THE MOON-SOUL AND THE SEA
from Dīvāni Shamsi Tabrīz
by Rumi (trans. R. A. Nicholson)

At morning-tide a moon appeared in the sky,
And descended from the sky and gazed on me.
Like a falcon which snatches a bird at the time of hunting,
That moon snatched me up and coursed over the sky.
When I looked at myself, I saw myself no more,
Because in that moon my body became by grace even as soul.
When I travelled in soul, I saw naught save the moon,
Till the secret of the Eternal Theophany was revealed.
The nine spheres of heaven were all merged in that moon,
The vessel of my being was completely hidden in the sea.
The sea broke into waves, and again Wisdom rose
And cast abroad a voice; so it happened and thus it befell.
Foamed the sea, and at every foam-fleck
Something took figure and something was bodied forth.
Every foam-fleck of body, which received a sign from that sea,
Melted straightway and turned to spirit in this Ocean.

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Notes:
Rumi, 1207-1273. Born in Balk (present-day Afghanistan) or Wakhsh (present-day Tajikistan)
Link Biography: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi
Link to Poem: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45159/45159-h/45159-h.htm#II_SHAMSI_TABRIZ

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The soul should always stand ajar. Ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.

Emily Dickinson

---

Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Christina Rossetti’s poem, De Profundis.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

ONCE THE WATER WAS ONE

once the water was one

before land and ocean parted
before firestorm, flood, and tempest
before desert, valley, and mountain
before the crash of thunder
and the deadly vein of lightning

before the arcing moon
before the crystal hung
vault of midnight blue
before the blazing four-walled city
of slave-hewn stone
and her seven iron gates
and her savage armies
and her shields and ashen spears
and her swords unsheathed
for the slaughter

the water was one

and all that tumbled hence
is a mere illusion more fragile
than a porcelain egg

cup your hands like a chalice
and crack it open
taste the sun’s yoke

why shed tears and fill
a wishing well with yesterdays?

today is your birthright
would you squander such largesse?

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OUR INSPIRATION

DE PROFUNDIS
by Christina Rossetti

Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter’d fire
Of stars, or sun’s far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.

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Notes:
Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894. Born in London, England.
Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/christina-rossetti
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44994/de-profundis
Influence: Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pre-Raphaelite_Brotherhood)

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Painting is founded on the heart controlled by the head.

Paul Cézanne

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by a selection from Rainer Maria Rilke’s volume of poetry, The Book of Hours.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

SOLITUDE

I have stood
in the dark, lonely hour,
unafraid.

I have stood
among the dark, masked angels,
towering over the evergreens,
centuries old,
in the spectered forest at the foot
of a dim moon-illumined mountain—
the mountain a word unutterable.

I have stood
on the edge of a dark ravine
and tossed a question
into the river Styx.
It tumbled down the crag
like a stone,
over and over it turned,
into an answer to itself
that was itself a question—
a hundred times over
only to fall into the black water,
with scarcely a ripple,
where it sank to the bottom—
into a question irreducible.

I have stood
in the dark, lonely hour
unafraid to ask.

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OUR INSPIRATION

from THE BOOK OF HOURS
by Rainer Maria Rilke (trans. Babette Deutsch)

What will you do, God, when I die?
When I, your pitcher, broken, lie?
When l, your drink, go stale or dry?
I am your garb, the trade you ply,
you lose your meaning, losing me.

Homeless without me, you will be
robbed of your welcome, warm and sweet.
I am your sandals: your tired feet
will wander bare for want of me.

Your mighty cloak will fall away.
Your glance that on my cheek was laid
and pillowed warm, will seek, dismayed,
the comfort that I offered once—
to lie, as sunset colors fade
in the cold lap of alien stones.

What will you do, God? I am afraid.

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Notes:
Rainer Maria Rilke, 1875-1926. Born in Prague, Bohemia, Austria-Hungary.
Link to Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/rainer-maria-rilke
Link to Poem: https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.136247/page/n31
Link to Translator: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babette_Deutsch

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Art is the path of the creator to his work.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Ella Wheeler Wilcox’ poem, Solitude.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

SOLITUDE

It was a hot, bright, and lazy,
summer Sunday afternoon,
and all my work was done,
or forgotten.

Upon a wrought-iron table,
just beyond the shade and shelter
of a short black awning,
was a glass demitasse of espresso,
and a thumbed volume of Symbolist poetry.

And I upon a wrought-iron chair,
propped my tired feet on another,
lounged lizardly in the heat,
closed my eyes to fireworks,
emptied my tired brain
of every anxious drop
of thought for tomorrow.

Tomorrow.
I would find her again
early next morning
now today
from my own down pillow
chirping.

But in this quiet moment
I caught the breath
of joyful solitude
like a swallow
upon a pendulous breeze—
unfettered by shame—
by a murdered albatross of regret.

Polyps of sweat
burst my bronzing skin.
My face unfolded
like a lotus
for the sun—
bent to the tips
of her fiery fingers—
hot, gilt, curious
and resurrecting.

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OUR INSPIRATION

SOLITUDE
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

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Notes:

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 1850-1919. Born in Johnstown, Wisconsin.
Link to Biography: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Wheeler_Wilcox
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45937/solitude-56d225aad9924

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Creation begins with vision.

Henri Matisse

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by William Wordsworth’s poem, I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

A MURDER OF CROWS

It had showered all day,
and the sky was beaten tin.
It was warm for January.
The city’s spires were lost in the overcast.
Streams of slurry
coursed along the street curbs,
and the air smelled like rain and rust.

We had just stepped outside
and saw crows by the thousands,
each a regent of the high winds.
We listened rapt to their cawing chorus
echoing as within the tall stone walls
of a gothic cathedral.

It baffled me to see
so much nobility,
wings wide and far-ranging,
perched and swaying on the brittle veins
of bloodless trees—
a murder of black-robed priests—
an elect few gliding high in lazy circles
like fathers seeking God in the desert.

How do they see us?
Wingless, crippled,
trammeled to the mud,
skittering like bugs
on the wet concrete?

And as we stood and breathed them in,
I wondered about your winged spirit,
and wondered about mine,
and the way we circle each other,
as two shamans around the fire dance
then to each our perch,
and to each our branch.

With whom have I flown?
Loves like zephyrs fleeting,
fade to meadows on the farthest hillside,
but with you I hope to fly forever.

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OUR INSPIRATION

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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Notes:

William Wordsworth 1770-1850. Born in Brookeline, Massechusetts.
Link to Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-wordsworth
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud

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The truth is more important than the facts.

Frank Lloyd Wright

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem from Leaves of Grass, Song of Myself.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

THIS HOUSE WAS ALWAYS BROKEN

This house was always broken
and now it’s full of stifling shadows—
a clumsy, windblown panoply
of somnambulant chuntering—
lingering memories that sometimes smile,
shed tears, or spill bitter draughts of laughter.

You leave each moment
as you enter it—
will you stumble in the night
from room to dusty room
or light a lantern
and walk into the sea?

Take courage.
This house was always broken.

When you’re on the water’s edge,
ask yourself—
With what is your heart filled?
Watch your thoughts
ripple across the canvas of the sea.
You and the sea are inextricably bound.

Your steady gaze will quell the tempest,
scatter the clouds like ashes
and lift up the newborn sun.

The seagulls will dance in the coddling breezes
and cry for your joy.

You were born chasing the sun.
Now die with it in your hands.
There’s no more room for shadows in your heart,
where ghosts may roam and murmur in tongues.

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OUR INSPIRATION

from SONG OF MYSELF (46)
by Walt Whitman

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,
Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,
For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look’d at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill’d and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

You are also asking me questions and I hear you,
I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while dear son,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.

Long enough have you dream’d contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

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Notes:

Walt Whitman 1819-1892. Born in West Hills, Long Island, NY.
Link to Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/walt-whitman
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45477/song-of-myself-1892-version

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It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

Henry David Thoreau

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Every month or so, I’ll send a newsletter via e-mail to my subscribers. More often than not, it will contain a list of my new blog posts.  You may find something in it that interests you! Or more likely, you’ll be bored to tears and curse my very existence. In either case, you should sign up. You may unsubscribe at any time!

So, without further ado, let’s get to today’s painting and poem, inspired by Amy Lowell’s poem, The Painter on Silk.

To read this poem, click here (or scroll down near the bottom of the page)

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ADDIE’S PAINTING

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MY POEM

PITY

Such a pity
for a man not to stop,
not for a damned minute,
not for a solid hour,
to fill his starving soul
with a child’s wonder.

I tell you frankly
that what he thinks is real
is of no real consequence.

Will he not instead
listen to the sky’s lyre,
and the lazy arpeggios of clouds,
in soft, sweet repose?

So must I call him
to himself
and tell him of his freedom,
so that he may paint the world
with his spirit’s true brush.

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OUR INSPIRATION

THE PAINTER ON SILK
by Amy Lowell

There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.

He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.

When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.

He thought only of roses,
And silk.

When he could get no more silk,
He stopped painting
And only thought
Of roses.

The day the conquerors
Entered the city
The old man
Lay dying.
He heard the bugles and drums
And wished he could paint the roses
Bursting into sound.

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Notes:

Amy Lowell 1874-1925. Born in Brookeline, Massechusetts.
Link to Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/amy-lowell
Link to Poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=13729

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Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about.

Oscar Wilde

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