Redtree Times

Navigating Chaos– At the Principle Gallery

It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.

–John Masefield, The West Wind 

I can see the painting at the top fitting well with the tone of the times, as we try to find our way through the current storms of craziness that seem to batter us from all sides. To keep it simple for this morning, I thought I would pair it with a poem, The West Wind, from poet John Masefield from his 1902 collection Salt-Water Ballads.

In it, the West Wind is the voice of home and things familiar calling out to a weary sailor at sea. This idea of wanting to make our way past the perils of storm and disconnectedness to return to some simple form of stability, security, and warmth probably describes the desires of most of us in this moment. 

I’m including the entire poem at the bottom. I am also including a reading of it taken from a radio program, The Big Show, in 1951. Lots of legends involved here. Actress Tallulah Bankhead introduces the poem which is performed by Ethel Barrymore. The background music is a composition written by her brother, Lionel Barrymore, who was a talented musician as well as an extraordinary actor. 

Safe voyage to you…

The West Wind

It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.

It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

“Will you not come home, brother? you have been long away,
It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the spray;
And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, —
Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?

The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,
It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,”
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.

It’s the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes’ song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.