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Detail of Susanna and the Elders by Pierre van Hanselaere (1820)
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mementomoriiv: “ Carolein Smit ”
i love this game, too awesome:)
Discover the finest artists from animation, games, illustration and comics..
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By Katrina Sesum
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUSWho wouldn't want to live in Story, Indiana? Sounds like a place right out of a book . . . or a place where you could read all the time! Rustic Hoosier Postcard of Stone Head, Brown County by photographer Darryl Jones See also The Spirit of the Place: Indiana Hill Country As you may have heard me say before, my inspiration for designing this blog came from two writers: Goethe, who hopes that each day might include a song, a poem, some fine art, a few wise words; and Yeats who describes "a house where all's accustomed, ceremonious." This poem, particularly the closing, has been a favorite of mine for many years, decades: Prayer For My Daughter Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle But Gregory's wood and one bare hill Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind, Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; And for an hour I have walked and prayed Because of the great gloom that is in my mind. I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. May she be granted beauty and yet not Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, Or hers before a looking-glass, for such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. Helen being chosen found life flat and dull And later had much trouble from a fool, While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray, Being fatherless could have her way Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man. It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone. In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned By those that are not entirely beautiful; Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise, And many a poor man that has roved, Loved and thought himself beloved, From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. May she become a flourishing hidden tree That all her thoughts may like the linnet be, And have no business but dispensing round Their magnanimities of sound, Nor but in merriment begin a chase, Nor but in merriment a quarrel. O may she live like some green laurel Rooted in one dear perpetual place. My mind, because the minds that I have loved, The sort of beauty that I have approved, Prosper but little, has dried up of late, Yet knows that to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief. If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf. An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind? Considering that, all hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will; She can, though every face should scowl And every windy quarter howl Or every bellows burst, be happy still. And may her bridegroom bring her to a house Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; For arrogance and hatred are the wares Peddled in the thoroughfares. How but in custom and in ceremony Are innocence and beauty born? Ceremony's a name for the rich horn, And custom for the spreading laurel tree. William Butler Yeats, 1865 - 1939 Irish poet and dramatist Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1923 The next two poems made their way into my notebook more recently. A few years ago, I discovered Louis Untermeyer's "Prayer For This House" in an poetry anthology that my children brought home from school; and around the same time, a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's "Family Prayer" was given to me by a neighbor in Philadelphia who told me that her mother read this poem every year before Thanksgiving dinner. Both are similar in tone and purpose to each other, and to Yeats' "Prayer for My Daughter": Yeats prays for happiness, though "every bellows burst" Untermeyer - for warmth, "though all the world grow chill" Stevenson - for loyalty "down to the gates of death" Yeats invokes "custom" and "ceremony" in the face of howling winds Untermeyer - faith "to withstand the battering storm" Stevenson - constancy in "all changes of fortune." Yeats seeks a refuge from "arrogance and hatred" Untermeyer - from "the raucous shout" of hate Stevenson - from peril, tribulation, wrath Yeats desires reprieve from the scowling face Untermeyer - from "ill-fortunes," roar and rain Stevenson - from "the lurking grudge" Yeats hopes for the triumph of "innocence and beauty" Untermeyer - for a "shrine" of peace and laughter Stevenson - for "courage and gaiety and the quiet mind." May their prayers be answered. We Give Thanks Prayer For This House May nothing evil cross this door. And may ill-fortunes never pry about these windows; may the roar and rains go by. Strengthened by faith, the rafters will withstand the battering of the storm. This hearth, though all the world grow chill will keep you warm. Peace shall walk softly through these rooms, touching your lips with holy wine, till every casual corner blooms into a shrine. Laughter shall drown the raucous shout and, though the sheltering walls are thin, may they be strong enough to keep hate out and hold love in. Louis Untermeyer, 1885 - 1977 American poet, critic, anthologist 14th United States Poet Laureate, 1961 - 63 Prayers at Breakfast A Family Prayer Lord, behold our family here assembled. We thank you for this place in which we dwell, for the love that unites us, for the peace accorded to us this day, for the hope with which we expect the morrow; for the health, the work, the food and the bright skies that make our lives delightful; for our friends in all parts of the earth. Let peace abound in our small company. Purge out of every heart the lurking grudge. Give us grace and strength to forbear and to persevere. Give us the grace to accept and to forgive offenders. Forgetful ourselves, help us to bear cheerfully the forgetfulness of others. Give us courage and gaiety and the quiet mind. Spare to us our friends, soften to us our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavors. If it may not, give us the strength to encounter that which is to come, that we be brave in peril, constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath, and in all changes of fortune, and, down to the gates of death, loyal and loving one to another. Robert Louis Stevenson 1850 - 1894 Scottish poet and novelist Now you can store these poems somewhere safe, then take them out to share around the table next Thanksgiving! Autumn Leaves All paintings above by Jessie Willcox Smith, 1863 - 1935 American illustrator of magazines and children's books SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY Next Fortnightly Post Tuesday, December 14, 2010 Between now and then, read THE QUOTIDIAN KIT: www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com my shorter, almost daily blog posts www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com Looking for a good book? Try KITTI'S LIST: www.kittislist.blogspot.com my running list of recent reading www.kittislist.blogspot.com
Kay Nielsen knew his way around a fantasy. The Danish illustrator was raised in a “tense atmosphere of art” (his words) during the Golden Era of Illustration – a time when folks one-upped each another with books bearing golden spines and marbled end papers; elaborately illustrated copies of Grimm's
French 3D artist Jean-Michel Bihorel has been rendering films for the past 6 years, while also keeping up with personal projects that utilize the same professional tools. In his latest works, he has produced two digital sculptures of the female form composed of a sample of dry flowers. In the first work the body is completely shaped from the floral sample, the woman shown in different poses that demonstrate her whole form. The second rendered figure is focused on just the torso, and has a cracking marble skin that reveals flowers inside. More
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nada para y nadie te espera
