Tonight I Can Write

Edvard Munch

Starry Night

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry

and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.

'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her.

To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Is Anything

Edvard Munch

The Scream

Is Anything

Is what is what it was?

Was what was ever really what it is to me today?

Is what is what is was?

Is anything

Is anything

Is anything

What do you when you don't

What will you when you won't

Lay with me stay with me...fuck me baby

Is what is what it was?

Is anything
Is anything
Is anythng

Florida and blonde at fifteen, before

The sinking in of things, before
the critics in the wings

And the constant compromise

How can we have wondered about so much for so long

And received so few answers?
How can we have wondered about so much for so long

And received so few answers?

~ The Judybats ~

Remember

Norman Rockwell

First Love

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

~ Christina Rossetti ~

Day and Night

M. C. Escher

Day and Night

Day and Night

Day and night . . . the shadows move too slowly

From dark to light she promised she could know me

Remember when . . . I watched her on the stairway

She was drinkin' wine . . . and she told me what the stars say . . .

Some destinies, they should not be delivered . . .

But in her eyes I saw a thousand reasons

Day and night

I feel her skin . . . it's thin and white as pressed milk

I closed my eyes and she vanished just like burnt silk

And what remains was like some fallen thunder

And my lips were chained; they were filled with empty wonder

But the stars tell lies, it blinds the only warning

And when darkness dies, there's nothing left but morning . . .

Just day and night

Day and night . . . the shadows start to scatter

When touched by light . . . each promise made is shattered

And even when the question find the answer

But even then, they're something like a dancer

But even then, they're something like a dancer

Like day and night . . . dark to light

I move from day to night

~ Jim Carroll Band ~

Only until this cigarette is ended

Edouard Manet

Plum Brandy

Only until this cigarette is ended

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay ~

Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover?

Roy Lichtenstein

Forget It! Forget Me!

Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover?

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;

This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!

~ Sir John Suckling ~

After Love

Edward Hopper

Room in New York City

After Love

There is no magic any more,

We meet as other people do,

You work no miracle for me

Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—

There is no splendor any more,

I have grown listless as the pool

Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm

And from the tide has found surcease,

It grows more bitter than the sea,

For all its peace.

~ Sara Teasdale ~

Time Does Not Bring Relief

Marsden Hartley

The Absence of Felice

Time Does Not Bring Relief

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year's bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go, -- so with his memory they brim!

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay ~

Heart, We Will Forget Him!

Edward Hopper

Morning Sun

Heart, We Will Forget Him!

Heart, we will forget him!

You and I, tonight!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me

That I my thoughts may dim;

Haste! lest while you're lagging.

I may remember him!

~ Emily Dickinson ~

Feeling Fucked Up

Wayne Thiebaud

Man Sitting Back View

Feeling Fucked Up

Lord she's gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs--

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcom fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

~ Etheridge Knight ~

William Bouguereau

Meditation

I Loved You

I loved you, and I probably still do,

And for a while the feeling may remain...

But let my love no longer trouble you,

I do not wish to cause you any pain.

I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,

The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -

Made up a love so tender and so true

As may God grant you to be loved again.

~ Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin ~

When We Two Parted

Edvard Munch

Separation

When We Two Parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever the years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder, thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk, chill on my brow,
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me...
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well..
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

~ Lord Byron ~

I Shall Not Care

Edvard Munch

Death of Marat

I Shall Not Care

When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

~ Sara Teasdale ~

The Wanderer Returned

Jan Vermeer

Street in Delft

The Wanderer Returned

In the middle of the street, I wonder, Where

is the city? It’s gone, has not come back.

Perhaps this one is the same––it has houses,

it has walls, but I can’t find it.

It isn’t a matter of people––Pedro or Juan––

nor of that woman, nor of that tree;

now that city has buried itself,

has tumbled somewhere underground,

and this is another time, not the same at all,

taking on the same lines of streets,

assuming the same house numbers.

Time then does exist, I realize it.

I know it exists, but I cannot understand

how that city which had warm blood,

which had sky enough for all, and whose midmorning smile

spread like a basketful of plums,

those houses with a forest smell,

wood newly cut at dawn with the saw,

the city that always sang at the water’s edge

of sawmills in the mountains,

all that was yours and mine

of the city and its clarity,

wrapped itself up in love, secretly,

and let itself fall into forgetfulness.

Now where it once was there are other lives,

a different way of being, another hardness.

All is well enough, but why does it not exist?

Why is its old aroma now asleep?

Why did all those bells fall still,

and why did the wooden tower say goodbye?

Perhaps the city fell away in me,

house by house, its warehouses eroded

by the slow damp, by passing time;

perhaps it was I who lost the blue of the pharmacy,

the stored-up wheat, the horseshoe

that hung in the harness store,

and those souls who were always searching

as though in a well of dark water.

Then what am I coming to, what have I come to?

That woman I loved once among the plums

in the stunning summer, clear, clear

as an ax blade catching the moon,

she with the eyes that bit

like acid into the metal of helplessness,

she went away, went away without leaving,

without changing house or country,

went of her own will, tumbling through time

backwards, and did not fall into mine

when she opened, possibly, those arms

which clasped my body, and she was calling me

perhaps at the distance of some many years,

while I, in another corner of the planet,

was drowning in the distance of my age.

I will ask leave of myself to enter,

to return to the missing city.

Inside myself I should find the absent ones,

that smell from the lumberyard;

perhaps the wheat that rippled on the slopes

still goes on growing, but only within me,

and it’s in myself I must travel to find that woman

the rain bore off, and there is no other way.

Nothing can last in any other way.

I am the one who must attend those streets

and somehow or other decide

where the trees should be planted, all over again.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Waiting for Icarus

Hobson Pittman

The Spinster

Waiting for Icarus

He said he would be back and we'd drink wine together

He said that everything would be better than before

He said we were on the edge of a new relation

He said he would never again cringe before his father

He said that he was going to invent full-time

He said he loved me that going into me

He said was going into the world and the sky

He said all the buckles were very firm

He said the wax was the best wax

He said Wait for me here on the beach

He said Just don't cry

I remember the gulls and the waves

I remember the islands going dark on the sea

I remember the girls laughing

I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me

I remember mother saying: Inventors are like poets, a trashy lot

I remember she told me those who try out inventions are worse

I remember she added: Women who love such are the worst of all

I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer.

I would have liked to try those wings myself.

It would have been better than this.

~ Muriel Rukeyser ~

Ballad of the Despairing Husband

Jean-Antoine Watteau

Mezzetin

Ballad of the Despairing Husband

My wife and I lived all alone,

contention was our only bone.

I fought with her, she fought with me,

and things went on right merrily.

But now I live here by myself

with hardly a damn thing on the shelf,

and pass my days with little cheer

since I have parted from my dear.

Oh come home soon, I write to her.

Go fuck yourself, is her answer.

Now what is that, for Christian word?

I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.

But still I love her, yes I do.

I love her and the children too.

I only think it fit that she

should quickly come right back to me.

Ah no, she says, and she is tough,

and smacks me down with her rebuff.

Ah no, she says, I will not come

after the bloody things you've done.

Oh wife, oh wife -- I tell you true,

I never loved no one but you.

I never will, it cannot be

another woman is for me.

That may be right, she will say then,

but as for me, there's other men.

And I will tell you I propose

to catch them firmly by the nose.

And I will wear what dresses I choose!

And I will dance, and what's to lose!

I'm free of you, you little prick,

and I'm the one to make it stick.

Was this the darling I did love?

Was this that mercy from above

did open violets in the spring --

and made my own worn self to sing?

She was. I know. And she is still,

and if I love her? then so I will.

And I will tell her, and tell her right . . .

Oh lovely lady, morning or evening or afternoon.

Oh lovely lady, eating with or without a spoon.

Oh most lovely lady, whether dressed or undressed or partly.

Oh most lovely lady, getting up or going to bed or sitting only.

Oh loveliest of ladies, than whom none is more fair, more gracious, more beautiful.

Oh loveliest of ladies, whether you are just or unjust, merciful, indifferent, or cruel.

Oh most loveliest of ladies, doing whatever, seeing whatever, being whatever.

Oh most loveliest of ladies, in rain, in shine, in any weather.

Oh lady, grant me time,

please, to finish my rhyme.

~ Robert Creely ~

Fault

Arshile Gorky

The Artist and His Mother

Fault

In the airport bar, I tell my mother not to worry.

No one ever tripped and fell into the San Andreas

Fault. But as she dabs at her dry eyes, I remember

those old movies where the earth does open.

There's always one blonde entomologist, four

deceitful explorers, and a pilot who's good-looking

but not smart enough to take off his leather jacket

in the jungle.

Still, he and Dr. Cutie Bug are the only ones

who survive the spectacular quake because

they spent their time making plans to go back

to the Mid-West and live near his parents

while the others wanted to steal the gold and ivory

then move to Los Angeles where they would rarely

call their mothers and almost never fly home

and when they did for only a few days at a time.

~ Ron Koertge ~

it may not always be so; and i say

Edvard Munch

The Kiss

it may not always be so; and i say

it may not always be so;and i say

that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch

another's,and your dear strong fingers clutch

his heart,as mine in time not far away;

if on another's face your sweet hair lay

in such a silence as i know,or such

great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,

stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be-

you of my heart,send me a little word;

that i may go unto him,and take his hands,

saying,Accept all happiness from me.

Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird

sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

~ e. e. cummings ~

When the Heart is Cut

Camille Pissarro

Woman with Green Scarf

When the Heart is Cut

When the heart
Is cut or cracked or broken
Do not clutch it
Let the wound lie open
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt

Let a stray dog lick it
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell
And let it ring
Let it go. Let it out.
Let it all unravel.
Let it free and it can be
A path on which to travel.

~ Michael Leunig ~