I could spend hours playing with Maya Angelou quotes… such a wise and beautiful soul! But I have many chores today, so have picked just two quotes and three posters to share with you, in honor of this lovely, inspirational woman on her 85th birthday. We are blessed to have her in our midst!
Waves and seagulls, and
Skies made for painting,
Ice cream trucks and watermelon seeds
And lazy streams in shaded glens
Where dragonflies lead to fairy dens.
Moonlit walks and dusty trails,
Kites and flip-flops, storms and rainbows,
Sails and snails and lemonade,
Crickets sing, zinnias smile ~
Ah, yes…
Summer’s come to stay a while.
~ P. Saxton
On this day of love, whether you have a sweetheart or not, it seems a perfect day to share some sophisticated literary candy from a few poets whose words have withstood the tests and tides of time… enjoy them well!
Two Tulips (close-up) / © Patricia Saxton
18th Sonnet, William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43), Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Love’s Philosophy, Percy Bysshe Shelley
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle–
Why not I with thine?
See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;–
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
and a virtual treat for you... yes you, reading this post : )
Week #57 / 52 Weeks of Peace (squared) / © Patricia Saxton
Under one sky
Our blood runs red
Our eyes see, our feet walk
Our hearts beat.
We love, we laugh
We grieve.
We hope.
Red, white, black, yellow
We circle and dance,
Fight and rejoice,
Dream and breathe
And raise our voice
For peace.
~ P. Saxton
Scraggly and unkempt. Small. Skinny. Brilliant.
Bob Dylan’s piercing blue eyes defy his understated presence; his talent for song defines him.
In some ways, Dylan is an acquired taste. So rough around the edges, but so genuinely gifted. You like him or you don’t, but you always admire.
Looming larger than life during the 60’s folk music revolution, his scratchy, often off-key voice reconfigured our concept of singer-songwriter. His words resonating with millions, he always seemed a bit reticent on stage. Like he had someplace he’d rather be. Not a big smiler.
But we love his realness, his mind, his lyrics.
Some call him the greatest poet of our time. And when the poetry lines up with a simple acoustic tune, something close to magical happens. He’s every bit as remarkable as they say.
Philosopher, poet, revolutionary, freedom-lover, troubadour, balladeer, prolific songwriter, living legend. Who would have thought Bob Dylan would be anything but forever young? But then again, he‘s had a lot of work to do, and we’re glad he’s stuck around.
Happy Birthday to one of the very best.
Carolyn Naught Saxton / 1920 - 1980
When I was a little girl, my mother was “my world”.
She did all the things you’d expect a Mom might do, like hold your hand, read you a story, fix meals, teach manners, dry tears, cheer you up and on.
As I grew, I saw that she loved to give. And that she loved to laugh. She loved people and loved life, and tried to worry only on Tuesdays.
Lucky for us, she also happened to be an accomplished poet. Her works appeared in anthologies as early as her teens, and her last, perhaps greatest work, was the collection of sonnets published in her book The Pine and The Power.
My mother left the world much, much too soon ~ but she left gifts. Treasured, timeless words; gifts from the heart, mind and spirit.
So on this day reserved for mothers, I’d like to share some of those words. I share them, as I did last year, in honor and life-giving celebration of mothers near and far, here or remembered. Happy Mother’s Day!
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God help our children to transcend the dark
And walk the earth with dignity and cheer;
God help them seek the mountains, persevere
The road that twists through thorn and tanglebark,
Ascending finally where eagles mark
Their point of vision. Help our children find
Two masters ~ one the spirit, one the mind ~
And rediscover constancy of heart.
Help us to find cathedrals in the skies,
A will to walk the long uncharted mile;
(The will to find in winter’s legacy
The ochre sands from which the lime trees rise!)
Help us to know the measure of the child ~
To live in time and in eternity.
© Carolyn Naught Saxton
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“All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.” ~ Kahlil Gibran
And what an incredibly rich feast lay in the mind of this poet/philosopher/artist!
Best loved for The Prophet ~ (considered his greatest achievement, translated in more than 20 languages, and of real note, has never been out of print since its first publication in 1923) ~ Kahlil Gibran’s essays, parables and poems are some of the most inspirational and cherished works ever written.
Rarely has one individual written consistently with the depth, sensitivity, and mysticism of Gibran. He has literally touched millions of hearts with extraordinarily beautiful – yet very accessible – prose. His words rise from the soul, easily intermingling divinity and humanity. His wisdom is truly timeless.
Gibran’s path started early; his gifts publicly recognized while still in his teens. But that recognition was not for his writings. First, he was an artist …
Around the age of 15 his drawings were published on book covers, and by 21 his works were being exhibited in Boston galleries. A few years later, he was in Paris, studying with Auguste Rodin.
I find this really fascinating in light of the fact that Gibran’s youth (in Lebanon) was one of poverty, with no formal education – and that after emigrating to the U.S. in 1895, his mother raised the family alone by peddling lace and linens.
So how did his opportunity change so profoundly? He went to public school ~ nothing special there. The key seems to be that at the same time he also went to a local art school, where his artwork caught the eye of his teachers. A couple of those teachers had significant associations within the Boston community, and were compelled to open some fateful, well-connected doors for the young Gibran that inevitably lead to his success.
The simple fact that he arrived in this country at the age of 12 and was already making an artistic imprint during his teen years, speaks volumes about his remarkable abilities. And I’m one of countless who are no doubt grateful for the teachers who perceived greatness in their midst and opened those doors.
Gibran was one of the world’s most brilliant minds. Though known today for his writings, his talents manifested with equal eloquence and exquisiteness in both the visual and verbal realms ~ with expressions that will continue, indefinitely, to uplift, guide and reach the innermost spaces of people’s hearts.
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“His power came from some great reservoir of spiritual life else it could not have been so universal and so potent, but the majesty and beauty of the language with which he clothed it were all his own.” ~ Claude Bragdon
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Kahlil Gibran was born on January 6, 1883 in Lebanon (then a Turkish province of Syria). He died on April 10, 1931, in New York City. If you’re interested in learning more, resources about his life abound – and if by chance you haven’t read his works, particularly “The Prophet”, I urge you to do so!
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© e.e.cummings / self-portrait
“Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable. In so far as every child and woman and man may be immeasurable, art is the mystery of every man and woman and child. In so far as a human being is an artist, skies and mountains and oceans and thunderbolts and butterflies are immeasurable; and art is every mystery of nature.”
from E. E. Cummings, A Miscellany Revised Edited by George Firmage. New York: October House, 1965.
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While I’d never been a huge fan of E.E. Cummings, I adore the above quote. And he certainly earned a great deal of respect and recognition for his inventive poetry. He became, and remains, a household name in literature.
My admiration for his work has grown though, as I recently studied him a little more ~ and learned that he was also a painter. Judging by this self-portrait (and the two at the bottom of this essay), quite a good one, too.
Suddenly my view was broadened. He was no longer the writer of oddly punctuated poetic snippets we were relentlessly fed in school. He was more. He had true depth, and multiple means of expression. I’m newly impressed.
In this great little piece below, E.E. Cummings connects his painting with his poetry. An imaginary interview, it’s part wisdom, part amusement. Enjoy ~
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Why do you paint?
For exactly the same reason I breathe.
That’s not an answer.
There isn’t any answer.
How long hasn’t there been any answer?
As long as I can remember.
And how long have you written?
As long as I can remember. I mean poetry.
So do I.
Tell me, doesn’t your painting interfere with your writing?
Quite the contrary: they love each other dearly.
They’re very different.
Very: one is painting and one is writing.
But your poems are rather hard to understand, whereas your paintings are so easy.
Easy?
Of course–you paint flowers and girls and sunsets; things that everybody understands.
I never met him.
Who?
Everybody.
Did you ever hear of nonrepresentational painting?
I am.
Pardon me?
I am a painter, and painting is nonrepresentational.
Not all painting.
No: housepainting is representational.
And what does a housepainter represent?
Ten dollars an hour.
In other words, you don’t want to be serious–
It takes two to be serious.
Well let me see…oh yes, one more question: where will you live after this war is over?
In China; as usual.
China? Of course.
Wherabouts in China?
Where a painter is a poet.
from E. E. Cummings, A Miscellany Revised. Edited by George Firmage, New York: October House, 1965.
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© e.e.cummings / marion morehouse cummings in profile
© e.e. cummings / nasturtiums and marigolds
The human mind is a minefield of creativity and brilliance.
A couple years ago, inspired by Donald Friedman’s acclaimed book “The Writer’s Brush: Paintings, Drawings, and Sculpture by Writers”, I began to look more at artists who write and writers who draw and/or paint ~ creative people who are known for excellence in one art form, but also have credibility in another. Sometimes the second is overshadowed, or completely overlooked, due to the prominence of the first, but it’s interesting to see dual talents exposed.
"Palm of Creativity" / © Patricia Saxton
I love the topic. But it got my thoughts bubbling. … As I see it, there have always been artists who cross mediums. Artists who write, writers who dance, dancers who sing, singers who paint, poets who play the saxophone.
It’s as if all these outlets arise from one great vat of creative expression.
So it makes sense to me that individual creativity, more often than not, spills from one medium over into another. It’s probably far less common to find a musician without a drop of interest for painting, or an artist with no stirrings of choreography running through their mind.
At the same time, it seems to be human nature to categorize or label: He’s a writer. She’s a dancer. He’s an artist. She’s a pianist. Just the way someone is a carpenter, or a doctor, or an accountant.
Yet none of us are one-dimensional. We arrive packaged with multi-faceted interests, talents, skills, propensities. I never understood why some feel the need to box people in to one “thing” or another, to say they “are this” or they “are that”. But to answer my own question, I suppose it helps frame the individual, helps us see them in some logical way.
In reality it isn’t always logical. There may well be strong leanings – creatively, mechanically, scientifically, etc. But there are also lawyers who paint, writers who fix cars and accountants who sculpt.
It starts early. There are “good kids” and troublemakers. Cheerleaders and jocks, geeks, nerds and rebels. Later your career choice defines you. Or your mate’s career choice. Or your kid’s career choice. There’s some real pigeon-holing that goes on. But we are all so much more!
We’re all fascinating, creative beings – whether writing, painting, solving crimes or tending the sick, cooking, singing, crunching numbers, building engines or raising livestock.
Sure, it’s flattering, that someone who writes and paints and draws is considered somehow unique. But I don’t agree that it’s so unusual ~ I believe that every single one of us has gifts that overlap. Maybe they’re not as easily defined, or maybe just not as romanticized, but they’re there ~ awesome, mysterious and immeasurable.
the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.
In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.
But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news
that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with — some will be delighted to hear —
the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and — clap your hands — the Peanuts Play School.
So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.
And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.
