Category Archives: Painting

Memory Box, Painting, Poetry

The Philosopher’s Garden

A Pensive Moment. Daniel Ridgeway Knight.

 

The Philosopher’s Garden

John Oxenham, 1913

 

‘See this is my garden,

Large and fair!’

—Thus, to the friend,

The Philosopher.

 

‘ ‘Tis not too long,’

His friend replied

With truth exact,—

‘Nor yet too wide.

But well compact,

If somewhat cramped

On every side.’

 

Quick the reply—

‘But see how high!—

It reaches up to God’s blue sky!’

 

Not by their size

Measure we men

Or things.

Wisdom, with eyes

Washed in the fire,

Seeketh the things

That are higher—

Things that have wings,

Thoughts that aspire.

 

A Little Poetry—William Arthur Dunkerley was a prolific writer who published poems, hymns, and novels under the name John Oxenham. “The Philosopher’s Garden” was a poem early placed in my memory box. I first encountered Oxenham’s poem in the garden anthology Up from the Earth. It was originally published in the volume Bees in Amber (1913), in which Oxenham poetically fossilized the proverbial bees in his bonnet.

This poem reminds me of my mother. As a homemaker and the teacher of our home-school, she has been wrongly contemned by others. Her sphere of influence, though powerful and beautiful, would seem a very small plot of earth—a Little garden. But the wise philosopher of the poem reminds his friend, and readers, to look vertically for the true magnitude of a work. Mark out Mama’s work in linear inches, if you like, but there aren’t enough of them in the world to tell how high her work reaches. “Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.”

Memory Box, Painting, Poetry

The Little Land

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The Titan's Goblet. Thomas Cole. 1833.

 

The Little Land

Robert Lewis Stevenson, 1913

 

When at home alone I sit

And am very tired of it,

I have just to shut my eyes

To go sailing through the skies—

To go sailing far away

To the Pleasant Land of Play;

To the fairy-land afar

Where the Little People are;

Where the clover tops are trees,

And the rain-pools are the seas,

And the leaves like little ships

Sail about on tiny trips;

And above the daisy tree

Through the grasses,

High o’erhead the Bumble Bee

Hums and passes.

 

In that forest to and fro

I can wander, I can go;

See the spider and the fly,

And the ants go marching by

Carrying parcels with their feet

Down the green and grassy street.

I can in the sorrel sit

Where the ladybird alit.

I can climb the jointed grass

And on high

See the greater swallows pass

In the sky,

And the round sun rolling by

Heeding no such things as I.

 

Through that forest I can pass

Till, as in a looking-glass,

Humming fly and daisy tree

And my tiny self I see,

Painted very clear and neat

On the rain-pool at my feet.

Should a leaflet come to land

Drifting near to where I stand,

Straight I’ll board that tiny boat

Round the rain-pool sea to float.

 

Little thoughtful creatures sit

On the grassy coasts of it;

Little things with lovely eyes

See me sailing with surprise.

Some are clad in armor green—

(These have sure to battle been!)—

Some are pied with ev’ry hue,

Black and crimson, gold and blue;

Some have wings and swift are gone;—

But they all look kindly on.

 

When my eyes I once again

Open, and see all things plain:

High bare walls, great bare floor;

Great big knobs on drawer and door;

Great big people perched on chairs,

Stitching tucks and mending tears,

Each a hill that I could climb,

And talking nonsense all the time—

O dear me,

That I could be

A sailor on the rain-pool sea,

A climber in the clover tree,

And just come back, a sleepy-head,

Late at night to go to bed.

Painting, Poetry

Peace

The Voyage of Life: Old Age. Thomas Cole. 1842.

 

Peace

Henry Vaughan

 

My soul, there is a country

Far beyond the stars,

 Where stands a winged sentry

All skillful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,

And one born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,

And (Oh, my Soul awake!)

Did in pure love descend

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of peace,

The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortress and thy ease;

Leave then thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure

But One who never changes,

Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

Painting, Poetry

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars

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Ophelia and Laertes. William Gorman Wills. 1880.

 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars

Richard Lovelace, 1640

 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

 

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

 

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

Loved I not Honour more.

 

A Fine Picture—The lovely Ophelia stands with her brother Laertes, who is armed to revenge the death of their father. Ophelia, driven mad by her love for Prince Hamlet, spends her days gathering wildflowers and singing strange songs. Here, her expression is blank and pathetic, while Laertes’ brotherly affection is shown in the way he draws her near and bends to see her face. “Hadst thou thy wits,” he cries, “and didst persuade revenge,/ It could not move thus.”

A Little Poetry—The “Lucasta” addressed in this poem was Lucy Shadwell, Lovelace’s fiancée. He did indeed leave her for war, fighting as a Cavalier in the English Civil War. When, by an error, his death was reported to her, Lucy married someone else.

Painting, Poetry, Song

Spring and Fall

The Mulberry Tree. Vincent van Gogh. 1889.

 

Spring and Fall

Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1880

 

Márgarét, áre you gríeving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leáves, líke the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! ás the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wan wood leafmeal lie;

And yet you will weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sórrow’s spríngs are all the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What hearts heard of, ghost guessed:

It ís the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

 

A Fine Picture—”I’ll tell you that we’re having some superb autumn days, and that I’m taking advantage of them,” Vincent wrote to his brother Theo in October 1889, and sent him a number of “studies” including The Mulberry Tree. Vincent was staying at the Saint Paul Asylum in Saint-Remy, following his estrangement from Ganguin and subsequent nervous breakdown. Like the mulberry tree growing on the rocky hillside, he created beauty in a hard place; his thick brushstrokes flame on the canvas in vivid blues and oranges. Vincent sent Theo more paintings that December, but wrote that The Mulberry Tree remained his favorite.

A Little Poetry—The autumnal fall of leaves is a reminder of man’s mortality. Little Margaret weeps, for, though she has no words for the thought, her heart aches with the recognition. In this poem “To a Young Child,” Hopkins used the Germanic “sprung” rhythm that counts only accented syllables, and used words of Germanic origin (with three exceptions). Two words—’wanwood‘ and ‘leafmeal’—Hopkins created on a Germanic basis. The effect is strangely primal but beautiful.

The word ‘ghost‘ here is used to mean the living spirit.

A Little Music—Natalie Merchant beautifully sings Hopkin’s poem to orchestral accompaniment, on her album Leave Your Sleep. This was my introduction to “Spring and Fall.”  <http://www.nataliemerchant.com/l/leave-your-sleep/spring-and-fall-to-a-young-child>

Memory Box, Painting, Poetry

‘The Quality of Mercy’

Portia and Shylock. Thomas Sully. 1835.

 

from The Merchant of Venice

William Shakespeare, 1598

 

Portia:

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His scepter shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptered sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself,

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoken thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea,

Which is thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant there.

 

A Fine Picture—An inscription written on the back of the canvas indicates the relevant lines from The Merchant of Venice: Portia intreats Shylock to “Be merciful./ Take thrice thy money; and bid me tear the bond.” But Shylock, holding the scale in which he intends to weigh a pound of flesh cut from Antonio, scowls at Portia and points at the bond that secures his claim. The dramatic scene is romantically painted; the focus is on the fair Portia, not effectively disguised here as a doctor of law.

A Little Poetry—The Merchant of Venice is Shakespeare’s great tragic-comedy, performed as early as 1596, and first published in 1660. The lovesick Bassanio borrows money from his friend Antonio (the eponymous merchant) in order to impress the lady he loves. Bassanio wins the fair Portia, but Antonio experiences a series of setbacks that leave him in debt to the Jewish moneylender Shylock. According to their contract, Shylock is entitled to a pound of Antonio’s flesh, which he plans to cut from Antonio’s heart. The case goes to the court of Venice. Portia, disguised as a young doctor of law, argues against Shylock’s vicious claim, appealing first to mercy (in this speech) and then to the exactest justice.

Memory Box, Painting, Poetry, Song, Traditional Song

Sweet and Low

Moonbeams. Jessie Willcox Smith.

 

Sweet and Low

Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1847

 

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

   Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

   Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow.

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

   Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

   Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Painting, Poetry

Poem in Prose

Still Life with Apples. Paul Cézanne. 1879.

 

Poem in Prose

Archibald MacLeish, 1948

 

This poem is for my wife

I have made it plainly and honestly

The mark is on it

Like the burl of a knife

 

I have not made it for praise

She has no more need of praise

Than the summer has

Or the bright days

 

In all that becomes a woman

Her words and her ways are beautiful

Love’s lovely duty

The well-swept room

 

Wherever she is there is sun

And time and a sweet air

Peace is there

Work done

 

There are always curtains and flowers

And candles and baked bread

And a cloth spread

And a clean house

 

Her voice when she sings is a voice

At dawn by a freshening sea

Where the wave leaps

In the wind and rejoices

 

Wherever she is it is now

It is here where the apples are

Here in the stars

In the quick hour

 

The greatest and richest good—

My own life to live in—

This she has given me

If giver could

Painting, Poetry

Afternoon on a Hill

Girl in a Bluebonnet Field. Julian Onderdonk. 1920.

 

Afternoon on a Hill

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917

 

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

 

I will look at cliffs and clouds

With quiet eyes,

Watch the wind bow down the grass,

And the grass rise.

 

And when the lights begin to show

Up from the town,

I will mark which must be mine,

And then start down!

Painting, Poetry

Death, Be Not Proud

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Pilgrim of the Cross at the End of His Journey. Thomas Cole. 1848.

 

Death, Be Not Proud

John Donne, 1633

 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.