Escaping Druidlike
into the tree
a light filled hollow
opening up,
warm and beckoning.
So Alice stands
before it, waiting
for the warmth,
hair growing into the earth
in perfect ringlets
in harmony, matching the tree
her arms open
hugging air
healing by the light
and belonging there.
Healing from
the evil queens
and silly cards
who paint the roses red
thinking nature
should match the wallpaper.
Healing from
the Prozak addled masses
who no longer think
or just no longer care.
Healing from
the pain, the sneers,
of those who think
that kindness is a weakness.
Healing from
arrogant science
which would deny
and criticize
the wisdom of the natural world.
Healing from
the frenzied bringers of
religions and advice
who shout with dedication
that only they
are privy to the truth.
Alice knows better,
she listens to the tree,
it told her so
and teaches her to blend
into the real reality.
Artist Statement: Recycled art
1. Painted a large painting during Gulf War 1, 36″ x 24″
2. Somewhere during Gulf War 2 it gets big hole in the middle of it.
2. So I cut pieces out of it and glued them onto a panel 16″ x 20″
3. One more Gulf War and we can get this painting down to 8″ x 10″
Earsdon Village from Rake Lane. Rapeseed oil crop flowering. This rough oil study is a couple of years old. 8×8 inches. Cheap and quick to paint. Beyond the church lies the Victorian graveyard where over 200 victims of the New Hartley pit disaster, many of them children, were laid to rest. There can be great pain in beauty…..Norman Tween
“Vibrant”. That is what this little painting has been called. The use of space here is virant indeed. The village occupies so little of the canvas and does so, so perfectly. The reddish hues compliment the green of the field and separate the field from the pretty blue sky. This sky has movement in it, the brushstrokes seem active.
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunt about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Weathered
a bit grateful
a bit humble
a bit proud
unashamed
judging not,
at last.
Me?
Whatchyouwant my picture for?
By minimizing the background, Baker’s recent work reminds me of Michelangelo’s unfinished sculptures, the figures trapped in the stone. His main figure is amazing in this. Please click on the image to enlarge. The stark realism of the figure with the background so finely sketched gives the figure of Henry the effect of singular notice. It’s almost like the background is the stone and the figure is trapped in the paper. This gives Henry a singular notice also. The drawing is of Henry and who he is and who he represents to the viewer; character, perseverance, singularity, uniqueness. It is Henry, and Henry alone who was important in that room!
Art by Kyle Baker Poem and comment by David Michael Jackson
