cumuluscastle: (Default)
Monet Refuses the Operation
BY LISEL MUELLER




Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don’t see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don’t know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
cumuluscastle: (cicada)
So, all of these images I have posted so far pretty much exist outside of the actual words of the poem I am illustrating.I think it's necessary to really tell a story. I don't know if this is a good or a bad thing.

I have to start thinking of my next project. I like the way this project is going - it gives me a lot to work on. I am just about to get into the more difficult parts though. These parts involve close-ups of people's heads, which can be tricky, in my opinion, but also horses. Lots of horses. I am not very good with horses. We'll see how agonizing this becomes.

From The Fairy Child
cumuluscastle: (Default)
Two painting based on The Stolen Child, by Yeats.

My concept here is what if faeries stole human 'children' away when they were young and sometimes also when they were very old. I imagine to a fairy, any human counts as a child. Perhaps this is even the same person in both images.


The Stolen Child by *marybethcragg on deviantART


Stolen Child II by *marybethcragg on deviantART
cumuluscastle: (slithytove)
The Stolen Child
William Butler Yeats

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
cumuluscastle: (Default)
And, I swear, I don't feel that bad. In fact, I feel all the better for having thought of something creative, really and I suppose it contradicts the very thing I am writing, about, but this is what came out of me between exercising, washing dishes and making lunches for work. While I was exercising I happened to glance over at my still in progress green man painting and, ugh. I just feel rotten that I'd been working on it so long with so little progress, but it's not like I've given up on it though, which is a step forward for me. So, seriously, don't feel bad for me or anything. I promise, I am fine and I actually feel kind of good now. It's been eons since I wrote a poem, of all things. Shane just read it. How embarrassing. :P


There is a time when the soul feels drained to its dregs
Like the last charge has bled out of the battery
Like the sickening flicker of an incipient brownout
And then a sinister thing occurs—the brain
Lurches forward
With a gentle grinding of gears
And the truth of the matter is revealed:
The body goes through the motions.
It performs every last task,
Though the soul may hang, horrified
As on a gibbet, observing,
The body does what is required:
Every last quotidian article
Of the old routine.
Look here, the body is
A small tin wind up toy
And it will jerk and twitch
And carry out its habitual
Responsibilities, irregardless
Until, with a final delicate shudder
It collapses into bed.
That is not the final horror,
But this—What if, finally, the soul
Becomes wrung out entirely?
What if every last drop of passion
Finally evaporates?
What, then, will be left,
But an eyeless burrowing
Worm of apathy.
cumuluscastle: (sad kitty)
This poem always gets to me, yet I never save it or remember where I read it.

It reminds me of all fairy tales, the lists of requirements you have to follow in order to complete your quest. It reminds me of mythology too, of the stories where people do go to the land of the dead to find their loved ones and the rules they have to follow and the rules they never seem to be able to follow.

The mythological setting gets mixed up with a hospital.

The last line is very sad.
cumuluscastle: (bogstrok)
"The Sloth" by Theodore Roethke

In moving-slow he has no Peer.
You ask him something in his Ear,
He thinks about it for a Year;

And, then, before he says a Word
There, upside down (unlike a Bird),
He will assume that you have Heard--

A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.
But should you call his manner Smug,
He'll sigh and give his Branch a Hug;

Then off again to Sleep he goes,
Still swaying gently by his Toes,
And you just know he knows he knows.

sloth

sloth

Shane was laughing at this fellow the whole time I was making him, but I think that's the proper response to his grin. Dude, there is fuzz EVERYWHERE.

Thank goodness the toffee I made yesterday worked and the nanaimo bars are all packed up in the fridge. The caramel was a disaster, but I think I will use it to make Turtle Brownies, which I wasn't going to bother with, but they were popular last year and I think Victoria asked after them.

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