All my life long I shall see moonlight on the fern
And the black trunks of trees. Only the hair
Of any woman can belong to God.
The stalks are cruelly broken where we trod,
There had been violets there,
I shall not care
As I used to do when I see the bracken burn.
Charlotte Mew, closing lines to “The Fête,” The Complete Poems, ed John Newton (Penguin Books, 2000)
wetreesinart: Lucy Boyd (Austr. 1958- ), Forest with Fence, c. 1985, oil on canvas, 153 x 121 cm, University of York
Joanna Newsom - Sadie
But the water got so cold,
and you do lose
what you don’t hold.
This is an old song, these are old blues.
This is not my tune, but it’s mine to use.
And the seabirds where the fear once grew
will flock with a fury,
and they will bury what’d come for you.
The moon’s a dead rock, but I still like the word,
so black in its white space.
what can we say to the
moon except You again?
You again." — Franz Wright, from “Morning Moon,” in Kindertotenwald: Prose Poems (Alfred A. Knof, 2013)
w: Léon Spilliaert (Belg. 1881- 1946), Bomen (Arbres), 1919, pastel sur papier, 48 x 68 cm
fyeahwomenartists: Eva Hesse, Metronomic Irregularity I, 1966.
amare-habeo: Nathalie Gontcharova (Russian-French, 1881-1962), backdrop for “The Firebird”, 1926
drakontomalloi: Léon Spilliaert, Femme au Bord de l’Eau, 1910