Dear Zazie, Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse. Rhett
The Lovers’ Chronicle
Dear Muse,
© copyright 2021 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved
Pale Love, Pale Rider
© copyright 2020 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved
reckless dreamer
future verse delivers
by creatin’ faith
in front of nothin’
night happenin’ in its sails
hope illumined by you
tomorrow’s stars
will glow on what remains
you believed, the light
reserved for you its flame
the circle broken, sigh
“We can still be!”
you seek the vision
what fills the night
yes, she smiles,
“What makes your happiness?”
the only desire,
stillness, without end,
hungry lover took forever
“What makes you leave?”
what will be, as is
the rest, matters not
you, like you,
“Fulfill her wish.”
© copyright 2019 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved
Therefore, reckless dreamer
Future verse delivers
By creatin’, leave hope
In front of nothingness
The night happenin’ in its sails
Hope illumined 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 | |
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Photograph by Nadar, 1867
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Today is the birthday of Paul Gustave Louis Christophe Doré (Strasbourg; 6 January 1832 – 23 January 1883 Paris); artist, printmaker, illustrator and sculptor. Doré worked primarily with wood engraving.
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.
Gallery
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 1870
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Soir en Alsace
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La Siesta, Memory of Spain
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Mont Sainte-Odile avec mur païen.
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Andromeda
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Flower Sellers of London
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Jacob wrestling with the angel – 1855
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Little Red Riding Hood
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Dante’s The Divine Comedy
| Carl Sandburg | |
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Sandburg in 1955
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And today is the birthday of Carl Sandburg (Galesburg, Illinois; January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967 Flat Rock, North Carolina); 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.
Verse
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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