The Lovers’ Almanac 6 January – Fulfill – art by Gustave Doré – verse by Carl Sandburg

Dear Zazie,  Here is today’s Lovers’ Almanac from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse.  Rhett

The Lovers’ Almanac – Pale Love, Pale Rider

Dear Muse,

Therefore, reckless dreamer
Future verse delivers
By creatin’, leave hope
In front of nothingness
The night happenin’ in its sails
Hope illummed by your light
Alas, tomorrow’s stars
Will glow on what remains
You believed that the light pressed you
Reserved for you its flame and rays
The circle broken, sigh
“We can still be!”
You seek what is invisible 
Which fills the mountains and valleys
Yes, She smiles, but She is insensitive
“What makes your happiness”
The only desire, the immortal one,
Stillness, without end, without truce,
Hungry lover took forever with it
“What makes you leave”
Her foresight is what will be born
The rest, confusion overwhelms
You, like you, disappear
“Fulfill her wish”

© copyright 2016 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved


Paul Gustave Doré
Doré by Nadar 1867 cropped.jpg

Photograph by Nadar, 1867

Today is the birthday of Paul Gustave Louis Christophe Doré (Strasbourg; 6 January 1832 – 23 January 1883 Paris); French artist, printmaker, illustrator and sculptor.  Doré worked primarily with wood engraving.


Doré by Carolus-Duran (1877)

Landscape in Scotland, ca. 1875, Toledo Museum of Art

Le Christ quittant le prétoire 1867–72, Strasbourg Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art

Les Oceanides Les Naiades de la mer, 1860s

Doré never married and, following the death of his father in 1849, he continued to live with his mother, illustrating books until his death in Paris following a short illness.  The city’s Père Lachaise Cemetery contains his grave.

Loch Lomond

 Paolo and Francesca da Rimini

Landscape in Scotland, ca. 1878, Walters Art Museum

Doré illustrated several fairy tales: Cendrillon (or Cinderella).

A Doré wood engraving illustration from The Divine Comedy

 Over London by Rail Gustave Doré c 1870. From London: A Pilgrimage

Crusades troubadours singing the glories of the crusades

Don Quijote illustrated by Gustave Doré.

Don Quijote illustrated by Gustave Doré, another one of the 500 pieces Doré created for the work.

Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quijote illustrated by Gustave Doré.

Another example of Don Quixote (Don Quijote in Spanish) illustrated by Gustave Doré.

 Gustave Doré illustration. 
Carl Sandburg
Photograph of Sandburg

Sandburg in 1955

Today is the birthday of Carl Sandburg (Galesburg, Illinois; January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967 Flat Rock, North Carolina); American poet, writer, and editor who won three Pulitzer Prizes: two for his poetry and one for his biography of Abraham Lincoln.  During his lifetime, Sandburg was widely regarded as “a major figure in contemporary literature”, especially for volumes of his collected verse, including Chicago Poems (1916), Cornhuskers (1918), and Smoke and Steel (1920).  At his death in 1967, President Lyndon B. Johnson observed that “Carl Sandburg was more than the voice of America, more than the poet of its strength and genius. He was America.”

Sandburg met Lilian Steichen at the Social Democratic Party office in 1907, and they married the next year.


 Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

  • “Under the Harvest Moon” (1916)

Tell me if the lovers are losers… tell me if any get more than the lovers.

  • “Cool Tombs” (1918)

I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.

  • “Prairie” (1918)

Drum on your drums, batter on your banjos,
sob on the long cool winding saxophones.
Go to it, O jazzmen.

  • “Jazz Fantasia” (1920)

Man’s life? A candle in the wind, hoar-frost on stone.

  • The People, Yes (1936)

Mac Tag

We’re supposed to be able to get into other skins. We’re supposed to be able to render experiences not our own and warrant times and places we haven’t seen. That’s one justification for art, isn’t it: to distribute the suffering?

E. L. Doctorow

Poetry is a pack-sack of invisible keepsakes. Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

Carl Sandburg

There’s little to see, but things leave an impression. It’s a matter of time and repetition. As something old wears thin or out, something new wears in. The handle on the pump, the crank on the churn, the dipper floating in the bucket, the latch on the screen, the door on the privy, the fender on the stove, the knees of the pants and the seat of the chair, the handle of the brush and the lid to the pot exist in time but outside taste; they wear in more than they wear out. It can’t be helped. It’s neither good nor bad. It’s the nature of life.

Wright Morris

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