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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Bag of Tools

Posted in Motivation, Neat Stuff, Painting, Poetry, Recent Paintings, tagged , , , on October 20, 2015| 5 Comments »

GC Myers- Blocked 2015 smIsn’t it strange how princes and kings,
and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
and common people, like you and me,
are builders for eternity?

Each is given a list of rules;
a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.
And each must fashion, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.

–R. L. Sharpe

*****************

I came across the short poem, Bag of Tools, above recently and it caught my eye with its simple yet insightful message.  Looking deeper, into it, I found that it is often quoted and there are even videos of people reciting it, including one with Maggie Smith that was used in an ad for a large bank.

But who was the author , this R. L. Sharpe and when was it written?

There is little info on the poet and I have seen the poem dated 1890 as well as 1809, although I felt the earlier date was just a misinterpretation of the 1890. date.  So after a bit of digging, I came across  one little blurb on a forum that stated about the poet:

He was born in the 1870s and died in the 1950s.
For years he worked with his father, Edwin R. Sharpe,
who owned The Carrollton Free Press and a printing shop in Carrollton, Georgia.
In his later years he traveled a lot, mostly freelancing for magazines
of the ’20s and ’30s.

I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the info although I have seen a number of references from books of the early 20th century with attributions from an R’L. Sharpe in Carrolton , GA.  I wonder if he ever realized the possibility that his words would one day become so widespread?  He obviously fashioned a stepping-stone.

The painting at the top is a new piece, 8″ by 8″ on paper, that I call Blocked.  It seems to fit…

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I Lock My Door Upon Myself

Posted in Favorite Things, Poetry, Video, tagged , , , , , on August 4, 2015| 3 Comments »

Fernand Khnopff I Lock the Door Upon MyselfGod strengthen me to bear myself;
That heaviest weight of all to bear,
Inalienable weight of care.

All others are outside myself;
I lock my door and bar them out
The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.

I lock my door upon myself,
And bar them out; but who shall wall
Self from myself, most loathed of all?…

– Christina Rossetti

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The painting at the top, I Lock My Door Upon Myself,  is from Belgian Symbolist painter Fernand Khnopff who lived from 1858 until 1921.  The title is taken from a verse of a poem, Who Shall Deliver Me? (shown in part above), from Christina Rossetti, the pre-Raphaelite poetess whose brother,  Dante Rossetti, was an influence on the work of Khnopff.

It’s a haunting painting, one that always makes me stop a bit when I stumble across an image of it.  Perhaps it is the symbolist elements in it but for me it is probably the beautiful construction of forms and color that give the overall piece an almost abstract feel.  Just a great image in so many ways.

I came across a video from the free educational series Khan Academy that offers a short and insightful exploration of the painting’s symbolism.  Very interesting if you have five minutes or so.

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How to Be a Poet

Posted in Favorite Things, Influences, Poetry, tagged , , , , on May 13, 2015| 1 Comment »

GC Myers- Trio:Three SquaresI came across this poem from author Wendell Berry on Maria Popova‘s wonderful site, Brain Pickings.  It’s a lovely rumination that could apply to any creative endeavor or to simply being a human being.  I particularly identified with the final verse that begins with the line: Accept what comes from silence.  I’ve always thought there was great wisdom and power in silence, a source of self-revelation.  Perhaps that is why so many of us shun the silence, fearing that it might reveal our true self to be something other than what we see in the mirror. Berry’s words very much sum up how I attempt to tap into silence with my work.

At the bottom is a recording of Wendell Berry reading the poem which gives it even a little more depth, hearing his words in that rural Kentucky voice.  It’s fairly short so take a moment and give a listen.

HOW TO BE A POET
(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill — more of each
than you have — inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

—Wendell Berry

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Possibilities

Posted in Influences, Poetry, tagged , , , , on March 18, 2015| 7 Comments »

I was struggling this morning with the blog and was just about to say enough and just move on to my work when I came across the latest entry on BrainPickings.  It is a poem from the late Nobel Prize-winning Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska (July 2, 1923–February 1, 2012) called Possibilities.  It is basically a laundry list of her personal preferences.   Some are small and some significant but all contribute mightily to her wholeness as a person.  We are all the totality of our own laundry lists of preferences that define our character and personality  just as our DNA determines our physical characteristics.

It’s a simple yet thought-provokingly complex poem that leave me wondering about my own preferences, my own possibilities.  What are those small things that give you shape, make you who you are?

The poem is below but if you would prefer the spoken version there is a recording at read by performer Amanda Palmer.

POSSIBILITIES

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

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Two Angels

Posted in Music, Poetry, tagged , , , , , , on February 14, 2015| Leave a Comment »

GC Myers Two Angels 2001It’s Valentine’s Day. I went back through the blog archives and discovered that I sometimes don’t post anything on this day or sometimes post something  off the subject of this day.  One year, it was baseball.  Well, I do love the game so maybe it was a Valentine of sorts.

I thought I would post something this year, a poem that I posted several years ago.  It’s an anonymous verse from India that strikes just the right chord of love and devotion for me without turning to pablum.

Although I Conquer All the Earth 

Although I conquer all the earth,

Yet for me there is only one city.

In that city there is for me only one house;

And in that house, one room only;

And in that room, a bed.

And one woman sleeps there,

The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom.

    —Anonymous, Ancient India

Also, below is a song from Peter Case, Two Angels,  an elegantly simple song that is a favorite of mine and also on subject for the day.  Surprisingly, it is a fairly little known song though I understand it was used on an episode of True Blood.  If that doesn’t scream romance, I don’t know what does.

The painting above is an oil on panel, 10″ by 58″,  that I did back in 2001.  I cannot find or recall its title at the moment but am calling it Two Angels for today.

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Far Above It All

Posted in Painting, Poetry, Recent Paintings, tagged , , , , , on November 3, 2014| 4 Comments »

GC Myers- Far Above It All smThis is a new painting, a 20″ by 24″ canvas , that is called Above It All, part of the show opening December 5th at the Kada Gallery.  I felt from the time this painting was complete that with its intertwining tree set apart from the village below that it was about some form of love.  But what sort of love and how to describe it in words?
It seemed like a from of eternal love, one bound together through time, much like that in the myth of Baucis and Philemon that I have described here on  several occasions.  But I thought I would look to the words of someone else to perhaps give a new perspective on what I was seeing in this.

That brought me to the poems of Rupert Brooke, the British poet who was just in his ascension as a major poetic voice when he died at the age of 27 in 1915.  He was in the British naval forces of WW I on the way to Gallipoli  when he developed sepsis from an infected mosquito bite.   He was buried in an olive grove on the Greek island of Skyros.   An odd casualty of the war but still a casualty that deprived the world of what might have come from his hand.

The poem of Brooke’s that hit me the most fitting for this piece was one titled The Call, written when he was only about 20 years old.  It has the intensity of youthful love, like a flaming torch held high.  And that’s what I see in this painting.  So, if you can tolerate poetry, and I know some can’t, give a read to the verses below from Rupert Brooke.  It’s powerful and straightforward. And fitting, or so I think.

                      The Call

Out of the nothingness of sleep,
The slow dreams of Eternity,
There was a thunder on the deep:
I came, because you called to me.

I broke the Night’s primeval bars,
I dared the old abysmal curse,
And flashed through ranks of frightened stars
Suddenly on the universe!

The eternal silences were broken;
Hell became Heaven as I passed. —
What shall I give you as a token,
A sign that we have met, at last?

I’ll break and forge the stars anew,
Shatter the heavens with a song;
Immortal in my love for you,
Because I love you, very strong.

Your mouth shall mock the old and wise,
Your laugh shall fill the world with flame,
I’ll write upon the shrinking skies
The scarlet splendour of your name,

Till Heaven cracks, and Hell thereunder
Dies in her ultimate mad fire,
And darkness falls, with scornful thunder,
On dreams of men and men’s desire.

Then only in the empty spaces,
Death, walking very silently,
Shall fear the glory of our faces
Through all the dark infinity.

So, clothed about with perfect love,
   The eternal end shall find us one,
Alone above the Night, above
   The dust of the dead gods, alone.

            -Rupert Brooke

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