Yesterday’s Moth

A cloth thread
it was yellow; shinning
bright steel blue
cob webs; recyclability
drips design retractable
and Tuesday received
buckets freely
I see a moth
from yesterday poems on
a blank piece of paper
cloth; thoughtfully pinned
inside made
thoughtfully re-read intimately
exhaust/senescent
tube; in my heart
leering down
it’s sinful weakness

My ears are doing-that
windshield-wiper
thing-slowed-down
wiping out
hands off; buzzards; leftover
ground down white wrapped yarn
the bones of a coat; hung hanger
wreck debris aged
falling of the bone
in waves; falling off the bone
in waves; it just comes
nothing hurts
it’s supposed to

 

Poem By Heather Whitley Gibson

Love

The character for ai, the ‘love’ that one person
feels for another, suggests that although the
word is now used as freely in China as elsewhere,
love was once considered a highly
spiritual emotion. Some sages believed it to be
a form of giving that should be extended not
only to those closest to us, but to more distant
members of society as well.
In the center is the ‘heart’ pictogram.
Above and below ‘heart’ are the characters
for ‘breath’ and ‘graceful movement’. Love,
therefore, can be seen as a kind of inspiration.
It breathes life into the heart, and brings grace
to the body.

Snow Tiger by YUSEF KOMUNYAKAABY

th - Copy - Copy

Ghost sun half
hidden, where did you go?
There’s always a mother
of some other creature
born to fight for her young.
But crawl out of your hide,
walk upright like a man,
& you may ask if hunger is the only passion
as you again lose yourself
in a white field’s point of view.
In this glacial quiet
nothing moves except—
then a flash of eyes & nerves.
If cornered in your head by cries from a cave
in another season, you can’t forget
in this landscape a pretty horse
translates into a man holding a gun.

Source: Poetry (April 2012).


BIOGRAPHY

In his poetry, Yusef Komunyakaa weaves together the elements of his own life in short lines of vernacular to create complex images of life in his native Louisiana and the jungles of Vietnam. From his humble beginnings as the son of a carpenter, Komunyakaa has traveled far to become a scholar, professor, and prize-winning poet. In 1994, he claimed the Pulitzer Prize and the $50,000 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award for his Neon . . .

“Love’s Last Adieu” – George (Lord) Byron

 

george-gordon-byron

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, ?Our meeting we yet may renew:?
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!

Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!

Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!

How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!

Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!

 

British pre-Raphaelite barn owl painting discovery

British pre-Raphaelite barn owl painting discovered
William James Webbe (fl.1853-1878), The White Owl, 'Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits,' signed with monogram and dated '1856' (lower left), oil on board, 17¾ x 10 3/8 in. (45 x 26.3 cm.) © Christie’s Images Limited 2012

From the Huffington Post:

Attic Owl Painting Sells For Nearly $1 Million At Christie’s Victorian Art Sale (PHOTO)

Posted: 12/17/2012 12:31 pm EST  |  Updated: 12/17/2012 12:31 pm EST

Everyone dreams of finding that one priceless item hiding in the corners of a dust-ridden attic. One UK teacher recently experienced the joy of rescuing such a forgotten antique, all thanks to an old owl painting that turned out to be worth nearly a million dollars.

Jane Cordery, an art teacher in Hampshire, discovered the detailed bird portrait in her attic after attempting to clean the space for a plumber. She’d never seen the ornate owl, but the painting’s intricate brushwork caught her eye and she decided to e-mail a photograph of the find to Christie’s auction house. According to the Daily Mail, One look at the owl and art expert Brandon Lindberg knew that that the work was worth much more than anyone suspected.

The auction house determined that the painting, titled “The White Owl,” was created by pre-Raphaelite artist William James Webbe, and experts valued the work at £70,000 ($113,449). Beyond the British masterpiece’s hefty price tag, it was also revealed that the UK’s Royal Society had exhibited the owl in the mid 19th century, exposing the piece to leading art critic, John Ruskin, who described it as “a careful study” with excellent brown wings.

The attic artwork hit Christie’s auction block last week, far outselling its estimated price — the winning bid was £589,250 ($951,050). Cordery maintains that she had never even seen the painting before her impromptu winter cleaning, while her partner, James Ravenscroft, remembers receiving the work as a present from his mother. “It’s a complete shock,” Cordery told the Daily Pioneer after the sale. “We were not imagining that in our wildest dreams.”

The owl depicted in the painting is a barn owl.

The motto of the painting is inspired by this poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

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Re-posted from (dearkitty1.wordpress.com) who nominated this blog for 2012 Best Blog!

Thank You. I am honored by this wonderful blogger! Of course I don't have all six stars, but as you can see by the re-post above why am so appreciative.

Thank You. I am honored by this wonderful blogger! Of course I don’t have all six stars, but as you can see by the re-post above why am so appreciative.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright: Poem By William Blake

The artist and poet William Blake, who lived i...

The artist and poet William Blake, who lived in Hercules Road — a portrait by Thomas Phillips (1807). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

June 28, 2012

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

The Tyger

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

The Tyger

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

For more go to:

http://awildernesswithin.wordpress.com/2012/06/28/tyger-tyger-burning-bright/