Ode to Autumn

Welcome to the third edition of Poetry and Painting


For this third blog I have selected a poem written by John Keats (1795-1821). It was suggested by my friend, Ellie Densen, who majored in English literature, is still an avid reader, and resides in Iowa:

                     

                                 TO AUTUMN.

                                            1.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
   

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
       

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 
   

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 
       

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 


To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
   

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
       

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
       

Until they think warm days will never cease, 
           

For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

                                            2.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
       

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
   

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
       

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
   

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, 
       

Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
           

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
   

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
       

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
       

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
           

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

                                            3.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
       

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
   

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
       

And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; 
   

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
       

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
           

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
   

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
       

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
       

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
           

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

My painted response to this poem was a work I began en plein air in Western NC in early fall. As I recall painting it I could feel some of Keats' description of impending Autumn, especially “thy laden head across a brook”.   So I decided to go back to this piece and finish it with that sense of place and time in mind. 

For information about the above painting and my art in general, 
please visit ...

KarenMeredithArt.com

I welcome you to sign up (under my profile in the email box) for this twice-a-month blog and share it with your friends who might be interested. AND I invite you to (continue) to send favorite photos you have taken and writings (inspiring, thought provoking, or humorous)  to me at kmeredithart@gmail.com.  

Feel free to add personal comments and links to your own images related to this posting. I would like to make this creatively interactive!

Crossing

Welcome to the second edition of Poetry and Paintings!

I am excited to share this adventure with you!  I continue to receive wonderful responses to the idea. Many have submitted photos that they have taken, while some have sent poems and sayings that they have written themselves or that have certain meaning to their lives.  

For this second blog I have selected a poem by Archibald MacLeish submitted by Phillip Carl, a creative writer in his own right. MacLeish (May 7, 1892 – April 20, 1982) was an American poet and Librarian of Congress who received three Pulitzer Prizes for his work. 

Crossing

At five precisely in the afternoon

The dining car cook on the Boston and Albany

Through train to somewhere leaned and waved

At the little girl on the crossing at Ghent, New York---

The one with the doll carriage.

Who understood it best?

She, going home to her supper, telling her Pa?

The Negro cook, shutting the vestibule window,

Thinking: She waved right back she did? Or I,

Writing it down and wondering as I write it

Why a forgotten touch of human grace

Is more alive forgotten than its memory

Pressed between two pages in this place?

My painted response to this poem....is based on a photo I took during a recent visit to Lugano, Switzerland. I was struck by the pensive look on the gentleman's face and his posture. What was he pondering? Interestingly,  I added another layer to this story by observing HIM! And yes, he was decked out in green and white!

For information about the above painting and my art in general, please visit ...

KarenMeredithArt.com

I welcome you to sign up, below, for this twice-a-month blog and share it with your friends who might be interested. AND I invite you to (continue) to send  favorite photos you have taken and writings (inspiring, thought provoking, or humorous)  to me at kmeredithart@gmail.com.  

In the following section, I hope that you will add personal comments and links to your own images related to this posting. I would like to make this creatively interactive!