med_cat: (cat in dress)


(from BFI's archives; quite short and amusing, do take a look ;))
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Fishing on the Susquehanna in July

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one--
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table--
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on )

By Billy Collins

[One of Billy Collins' most critically acclaimed works, "Fishing on the Susquehanna in July" has been added to the preserved works of the United States Native American literary registry as being deemed a culturally significant poem.]

Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] duathir at Billy Collins, 'Fishing on the Susquehanna in July'
med_cat: (woman reading)
Pea Brush

I walked down alone Sunday after church
To the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the birch
He said I could have to bush my peas.

The sun in the new-cut narrow gap
Was hot enough for the first of May,
And stifling hot with the odor of sap
From stumps still bleeding their life away.

The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill
Wherever the ground was low and wet,
The minute they heard my step went still
To watch me and see what I came to get.

Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—
All fresh and sound from the recent axe.
Time someone came with cart and pair
And got them off the wild flower’s backs.

They might be good for garden things
To curl a little finger round,
The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings,
And lift themselves up off the ground.

Small good to anything growing wild,
They were crooking many a trillium
That had budded before the boughs were piled
And since it was coming up had to come.

Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963

(found via [livejournal.com profile] browngirl--many thanks!)
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Abraham Hunter



При копировании просьба указывать автора картины
оригинал поста ЗДЕСЬ.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Robert Finale. Summer in Tuscany




_____________________________________________
Автор картины - в заголовке, при копировании просьба указывать автора!


Не надо ставить здесь лайки. Если вам нечего сказать о картине - просто идите мимо.



Скажите, а что заставляет приличных людей ставить эти лайки там, где открытым текстом просят их не ставить? Это какая-то тайна, или люди СОВСЕМ читать разучились?
med_cat: (cat in dress)


In the first half of the early 1870s, Winslow Homer made a series of dinner-horn images. This painting, "The Dinner Horn (Blowing the Horn at Seaside)" is the first in that series.

The woman is described as "a farmer’s daughter and maid of all work, just from the kitchen . . . blowing the dinner horn" for the farm workers in the distant field. Breezy and fresh, "The Dinner Horn" captures a moment in time. Imagine you are standing in the space created by this work of art. Describe the look and feel of the sun.

Winslow Homer, "The Dinner Horn (Blowing the Horn at Seaside)," 1870, oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington, Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mellon

(from National Gallery of Art FB pg)
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Boy and Squirrel
by
Juliana Horatia Ewing




Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.

Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise;
If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.

Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump, /What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump? )
med_cat: (cat in dress)


Alfred Stevens (1823 - 1906)
Un soir à la mer
oil on panel ; 64.7 by 45 cm
Private collection

(from Elina Bell's FB pg)
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Fishing

Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun,
With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes,
While he dips his line in the ocean brine,
Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes.

'Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess
Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting.
But I dare not move- 'Quiet, there, my love!'
Says my Angler, 'for I think monster fish is biting.'
Oh, of course it's bliss, but how hot it is!
And the rock I'm sitting on grows harder every minute;
Still my fisher waits, trying various baits,
But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it.

Oh, it's just the way to pass a July day,
Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming,
But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way the insect crawls
Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming.
'Any luck?' I gently ask of the angler at his task,
'There's something pulling at my line,' he says; 'I've almost caught it.'
But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace,
We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it.

(Ella Wheeler Wilcox)
med_cat: (woman reading)
Град
Качнуло небо гневом грома,
Метнулась молния, и град
В воде запрыгал у парома,
Как серебристый виноград.

Вспорхнула искорка мгновенья,
Когда июль дохнул зимой-
Для новых дум, для вдохновенья,
Для невозможности самой…

И поднял я бокал высоко,
Блеснули мысли для наград…
Я пил вино, и в грезах сока
В моем бокале таял град.

Игорь Северянин.

Hail

The sky was rocked by the fury of thunder,
Lightning darted, and hail
Began leaping up and down in the water by the ferry,
Like silvery grapes.

The small spark of the moment flew up,
When July blew with the breath of winter--
For new thoughts, for inspiration,
For impossibility itself...

And I lifted my goblet high,
My thoughts flashed for awards...
I was drinking wine, and in the daydreams of juice
Hail was melting in my goblet.

(Igor Severyanin)

Two picnics

Sep. 6th, 2015 05:08 am
med_cat: (cat in dress)

"The Picnic", by James Archer, 1870

(from the Tea and Polite Conversation FB pg)



Emile Claus (Belgian painter) 1849 - 1924
Le Pique-Nique, ca. 1887
oil on canvas
129 x 198 cm.
Royal Collection, Brussels

Emile Claus was born on 27 September 1849, in Sint-Eloois-Vijve, a village in West-Flanders (Belgium), at the banks of the river Lys. Emile was the twelfth child in a family of thirteen. Father Alexander was a grocer-publican and for some time town councillor. Mother Celestine Verbauwhede came from a Brabant skipper’s family and had her hands full with her offspring.

Read more... )
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] elenbarathi at 'Robin Hood', by John Keats
Robin Hood

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June, )
med_cat: (Spring garden)
Summer Song
by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The meadow lark’s trill and the brown thrush’s whistle
From morning to evening fill all the sweet air,
And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle –
The world is so bright and the earth is so fair.

There is life in the wood,
There is bloom on the meadow;
The air drops with songs that the merry birds sing.
The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow,
And she’s dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring.

The bee leaves his hive for the field of red clover
And the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow,
And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs over
The calm little pond, where the pale lillies grow.

In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voices
Are singing in chorus some jubilant air.
The bird and the bee and all nature rejoices,
The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair.

I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather;
I have tossed all my burdens and trials away;
My heart is as light – yes, as light as a feather; -
I am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day.

Can it be there approaches a dark, dreary to-morrow?
Can shadows e’er fall on this beautiful earth?
Ah! To-day is my own! No forebodings of sorrow
Shall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth.

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