"Cast out your Nets"
Cast our your nets,
Cast away pollution,
Renew your rivers,
Refresh your souls,
Cast out your nets,
Cast out your nets
Again, and again,
--JW, Dec 31, 2009.
This image, like the one immediately posted below, both from Flickr's "Catch the Dream" speak to me of toiling long, toiling hard, before any sign of harvest is returned. They thus speak to me of hope amid great difficulty, of rising to challenges, never despairing.
The Blog of John Walford, British-born, but long resident in The United States. I am an art historian, currently studying satire in Netherlandish art, an amateur photographer, and occasional writer, who writes here about art, photography, and the human condition--some of it ekphratic poetry, responding to works of art. This is to be a site for words and images, interacting on one another, as vehicles of human expression.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
"Cast out your Nets"
"Days of the Dream-walker"
How many days must we toil our field?
How many nights must we wonder?
How many disappointments must we
Learn to overcome? Oh! How many?
How many times will we repeat our bad ways?
How much patience will be shown toward us?
How much grace must we to others extend? -
Before we reach our dreams, reap what's sown?
The wise say: What we sow, we will reap.
The bad we do, it haunts our dreams.
The good we do, we see not where it went.
Yet please tell us, we labored not in vain.
--JW, for Catch the dream, Dec 31, 2009.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
"One Lone Biker - Lots of Snow"
We like our grids and right angles
Straight roads, straight driveways,
Lampposts standing straight, and tall,
All like soldiers, marching in rank and file.
Nature throws up its arms in gay abandon,
Flinging bent branches this way and that,
Forking, reaching, leaning out, joyful,
Up, down, out and around, never just pat.
Then comes the snow: covers works of
Man and Nature under pure, soft blanket,
Harmonizing all, until one lone figure,
Lime green--to be seen--bikes through it.
Then there is Heni, her eye alert as usual.
Seeing the winter poetry, carefully captures
So we see blended, organic and geometric -
Holding up, everywhere, bundles of snow!
--JW, for Heniusia, with thanks for 2009, and best wishes for 2010, Dec 30, 2009.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
"Caught in the Coils of Creation"
He hung there, for you and I,
Hung there till death did choke
His life out. Hung there for all.
Now he hangs there, in stone,
Feeding the imagination, as
His own creation coils around him,
Choking his body once again.
A body choked, our spirit to release,
Yours, mine, even the Creation!
Two Thousand and Ten, and still
We doubt, fight, scorn and turn away.
Yet the Son of God calls to us,
Calls through the techo-clamor,
Even through this memory of decay.
--JW, for Hurith, Dec 29, 2009.
Friday, December 25, 2009
This large ‘digicoll’ (digital photographic collage, printed on vinyl, size approx. 4' x 6') was made for Immanuel Presbyterian Church, Warrenville, Illinois, for Christmas, 2007, and is once again hanging in the sanctuary, above the altar for this season.
It also features in Tyndale Publishing's beautiful, and highly creative new Mosaic Bible, 2009, see: http://www.tyndale.com/products/biblesref/details.asp?isbn=978-1-4143-2205-6
This “Incarnation Cross,” is my attempt to express a central meaning of the Incarnation, as Immanuel's Pastor George Garrison has emphasized, namely that this child, the ‘lamb of God,’ was born to offer Himself as a sacrifice for us, through death on a cross. Beyond that, I wanted to evoke how the moment of Incarnation sliced through eons of time, time past for those who long waited, and time thereafter, as His purposes are worked out, and we wait for His return.
Thus each arm of the cross is comprised of a panoramic cloudscape, taken on a trans-Atlantic flight, to evoke a sense of great spans of space and time. The central, vertical section slices through this horizontal journey through space and time, to suggest the dramatic intervention of the Incarnation in world history. There is a slight difference between the light and shapes on either side, a bit darker, on the left side, before the Incarnation, and an opening in the clouds somewhat in the shape of a heart, on the right side.
The vertical section is comprised of details from Hugo van der Goes’s 15th c. Portinari altarpiece (made for a Florentine merchant resident in the Netherlands, and now in the Uffizi Museum, Florence). From this altarpiece I have taken the key figures, Joseph & Mary, adoring the Christ Child, lying on the ground. He lies parallel to a sheaf of wheat, below him. This recalls the ‘bread of life,’ come down from heaven, to nourish us. The large areas of blood-red evoke the immensity of Christ’s sacrifice.
No surprise that we, as church worshipers, like the angels, surround Him in adoration. The golden angels at top are taken from Ghiberti’s ‘Gates of Paradise,’ on the Baptistery of Florence Cathedral, in which context they wonder at the Creation of Eve. This brings us full circle, from our creation to our redemption. We are now of the generations that look back to the Incarnation, with wonder, and await Christ’s return, as surely as our forebears anticipated his Incarnation.
--John Walford, December 25, 2009, wishing all or any reader God's revelation of Himself, in light of what Christmas commemorates and properly celebrates.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
"How Will It Be?"
Standing, watching, dreaming,
Wondering at glimmering water,
Holding its dark secrets, under
A shimmering surface. Sunlight,
Lending life to all it touches,
And here, the chance to ponder,
What will the new year bring?
--JW, Dec 23, 2009.
"Silent Speaking Shadows"
Shadows, shimmering in their insubstantial softness,
Unreal presences of something else yet real,
Marvel at the shadows, what then actuality?
And we, too, are but a shadow of what we will become.
--JW, Dec 23, 2009.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Photo: Courtesy of Matt & Rachel's Vanderpoel's blog, in post for Dec 17, 2009: "Life in Beni" in para "Walking to UCBC," see: http://sweetvanderpoel.wordpress.com/
From up above you would but see
A verdant, dense, un-trodden jungle,
Yet winding its way between the green,
We tread together this well-worn path.
Not broad, not always safe, narrow,
Yet, no narrow gate we see, no guide,
But song-birds accompany our way.
It can be dry and dusty, and sometimes
We encounter others, unlike us, going
The other way. They look quizzically,
What are ‘them’ doing here? For
Narrow roads, like this, lead often
Where others, like us, are not wont to go.
Yet we will go, where we are called.
Calling; we hear the song-birds
Calling out in love to each other.
Their song cheers our hearts,
As they break the silence of the forest.
But the call of the one who calls us,
Is far harder to distinguish, amidst
The bustling life of this jungle world.
And yet, we hold fast together,
Consult together, walk this narrow
Path, together, great comfort there.
And if some day the song-birds
Are all disturbed, flipping from
Tree to tree, cheeping with agitation,
Listen hard, they call to thee.
A Christmas Greeting dedicated to Matt & Rachel Sweet Vanderpoel, while spending an academic year in the DR Congo, knowing Matt's love of song-birds, and thinking also of Joachim Patinir's paintings of landscape, as an image of the pilgrimage of life, may this path leave its mark on you, as you leave your mark on it. – JW, Dec 21, 2009.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
"Back next Spring"
Now half-way through December,
Chilliest day since last February,
We are told. My mind heavy, slow,
Seeking oxygen, led me outdoors,
Over brittle, frost-chilled snow
To my woodland thinking stool.
Too cold to sit, I thought to pass,
When this little note from Nature,
Wafted down in last night's wind,
Tucked in tightly under the wire,
Beckoned my eye, stirred my mind.
Its message, "Back next Spring."
--JW, Dec. 15, 2009
"What then 2010?"
Two thousand and nine
Sorrow, pain, grime -
What hope then
Two thousand and ten?
Maybe - something sublime!
--JW, Dec 15, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Death of the Virgin, c. 1564, grisaille, Upton House, Banbury, Oxfordshire, England, first owned by the famous Antwerp cartographer, and friend of Bruegel, Abraham Ortelius, and later owned by the Flemish painter, Peter Paul Rubens.
Philips Galle's 1574 engraving thereafter, published by Galle and Ortelius, jointly.
"John the Apostle at the Death of the Virgin"
Scholars for years have wondered about John,
As placed apart in the Virgin's bedroom, and
Not only apart, but asleep, when all others
So attentive around the bedside of Mary,
Virgin and mother of God Incarnate.
Mary, soon to depart, to rejoin her son,
Readied for her transition from this world
To the next, to throw off her mortal coil,
And be robed in immortality, by her own Son.
Why sleeps John, at such a moment?
Why sleeps John, indeed? Why John?
John, with his brother James, and Peter,
Disciples, the closest three to Jesus.
Among these three, John singled out,
In Christ's last earthly legacy, to John
He entrusted the care of his mother.
Was he, the care-giver, now worn out?
Relieved his burden to let go? Tired
Beyond the understanding of the others,
Who had not known his singular burden?
Peter, James, and John, these three,
Consider all they shared with Christ:
They alone did witness the raising of
Jarius's daughter, saw life restored
To a girl, already dead. They alone
Were witness to Christ's Transfiguration,
Glimpsing this man as also divine.
They alone remained as witnesses
To Christ's lone agony in the garden
of Gethsemane, time of deep rue.
How our Lord with his Father did struggle,
Beseeching Him, with sweat and blood,
Falling as teardrops from his agonized brow,
Resistant to his fate, imploring God
To let pass this bitter, but inevitable cup.
What did Peter, James, and John, his companions,
In this dark hour? With him watchful? No!
They all did fall asleep! And so it was again!
Mary, now, his special charge, in her last hour,
And John, he sleeps, or dreams of Patmos.
--John W, Dec 10, 2009,
having been taken by admired Bruegel,
to the Virgin's bedchamber, in the home of John,
leaving me wondering, am I sleeping, dreaming,
when I should be watchful?-Can we each see
ourselves as the exhausted, self-absorbed
companions of those closest to us, in their
time of need? And yet, what mercy, what grace,
for sleepy-head John was ever called, "the
disciple whom Jesus loved;" and to him was
entrusted, if tradition be correct, when on Patmos,
the most extraordinary of all visions that
man has ever had, the vision of end times
and eternity, as recorded in the Bible's
Book of Revelation, from the hand of John.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
"A Silent Earthquake" - a phrase from John Steinbeck's "East of Eden," as recalled by my friend, musician Howie Whitaker.
"A silent earthquake"
When the first snow of winter falls upon the ground,
Like a soft blanket, it covers the year's tumult,
And a silent stillness falls upon the world.
Painted over with a snow-white purity,
All pains and scars are covered over,
And a serenity fills the still air. And yet -
It is cold inside, deep down inside,
As a chill sets into our souls and bones,
With a sadness for what has passed,
And the bleak prospect before us:
For some, just getting through winter;
For some, loneliness and heart ache,
Unrelieved by the warming rays of
Summer sun, splashing water,
Humming bees, nectar, and flowers
Dancing in the breeze. For yet others -
Alone in the crowd, going about one's day,
Carrying inside what few can know,
The tremors of a silent earthquake.
Thus, must each of us recall, indeed,
Once more the earth, it will be shaken.
Nothing we can build will stand, and yet -
And yet, our one and only, steadfast hope,
Faith, the Word of God endures for ever.
-- JW, for Howie Whitaker, Dec 8, 2009.
Friday, December 4, 2009
"One black crow"
Such pure, white light,
Fog and mist,
One black crow.
--JW, Dec 4, 2009.
Monday, November 30, 2009
"Soon Ripe, Soon Rotten"
Severed from the Sap of Life,
How fast the rot sets in.
From timbers once firm,
Does emerge foul resin.
--JW, November 30, 2009
From the rot rises
A new brief life
Fed by what has fallen
Back to it's earth
To it's chance to breed again
Which made me reflect and realize:
I am but a fungus,
Feeding on a tree,
Little to see.
And so it continues, as she replies:
This roundish hat
So stuck to me
I wish delightfully to put
To the place in the sky
Where once my vanquished
Leaf-elevator gaily flaunted
Its earth-bound girth!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Stretch out your hand,
Stretch out your body,
Turn your eyes to the water,
As the boat passes bye.
Three chimneys, an arch,
And light rippling on water,
Remain, to caress your eyes,
Rest, soak it in, for tomorrow,
We must all toil, once again.
--JW, for pericomart, Nov 28, 2009.
Still waters, still sky,
boats and crane,
Over which rolls
Water-laden cloud -
No second bombing.
--JW, Nov 28, 2009, with gratitude to bartvandamme for this magisterial cloudscape, in the best Dutch tradition.
"Disintegrating with Dignity"
Wall once proudly painted
by husky Rotterdamers,
Filled with beer and herring,
Now flakes, peels, neglected,
No nurse to add make up,
As the old lady declines.
In front of her, space once
Tendered, rife with weed,
No groundsman cuts away.
Now even weed has seen its day.
But to the eye, alert, a beauty,
In disintegrating gracefully,
Saved by the camera,
To feed our eyes and minds.
--JW, for bartvandamme, Nov 28, 2009.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Jungle Mama, on Flickr's "A drying Almond Leaf... gold and silver patches highlight still green vein patterns"
"Silver and gold"
Stop and ponder,
In our golden years.
--JW, for jungle mama, Nov 25, 2009
"Hold Your Smile, Yet a While"
Farewell, golden autumn,
We let you go - reluctantly.
Hearts are everywhere
Heavy now, at the prospect,
of chill, snow, and darkness,
Filling long days, and cold nights.
Fair flower, hold on yet a while,
We cannot, will not let you go.
Hold the light in your yet-green
Leaves, stay open and smiling,
With your little purple face;
Then, good-bye, until next Spring.
--JW, for paho47, Nov 25, 2009.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
(Ring Mountain, Tiburon, California)
It was there for you, and you for it,
When the light was low in the sky.
Grasses bent, under your foot,
As they always did before,
Giving out their own aroma,
As you picked your way
Through lichen-clad rocks,
That have been that way,
For years, waiting to reassure,
That some things do not change.
--JW, for Helen, whose writings inspired me to try writing -and happy you could revisit your beloved mountain, and remind us, once again, of the beauty of sky, breeze, grasses, wind-swept bushes, stone, water, and light., Nov 21, 2009.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Mellow, yellow lichen
Crawled across wall,
Warming stone gray,
To await the day,
When it could serve
As foil, to the queen
of flowers - Blue Iris.
She marks woman's tomb,
To remind Isis, to come,
And waft her beyond the grave.
Royal flower of France,
To the moon goddess Hera,
A sacred flower. But here,
Before this yellowed wall,
A blaze of blue, so strong,
To Heniusia does belong.
--JW, Nov 19, 2009.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
"Ominous Hangs The Threat"
Fox--stealthy creature of the night,
Steals through the long grasses,
Under the shadow of threatening cloud,
Slyly giving a slipping glimpse
To Paolo's yet more stealthy camera.
Man and fox, engaged in outfoxing
Each other, both miss a greater danger,
Spies and soldiers, waiting to drop,
From one silent, stealthy, air balloon,
Before clearing sky exposes all.
--JW, for Paolo Avalle, Nov 15, 2009.
On further reflection on this image:
Actually, this image comes close to the experience of depression, through which I go from time to time, although there is more sense of "hope" here, in the light on the horizon.
However, when depressed, as in this image, where we look towards that light, there hangs there this "ominous" air balloon, the one thing we see in the light we have, and, like depression, it seems that it just won't go away - although, with time, it always does. One just has to ride it out, like waiting for this great balloon to pass.
Yes, Paolo, this is a powerful, and ominous image. Thank you for sharing it with me. I think it is one of the strongest you have made - if not, THE strongest.
Monday, November 9, 2009
"A Hand - A History"
It was so long ago, I do not recall,
And nor does she, long gone.
But this hand of mine once did grip
Its pink and pudgy flesh around
My Mamma's finger; and I looked
Up into her eyes, and wondered,
What will my Mamma feed me,
When bath me, when lay me
Down to rest, shake my rattle, sleep.
Mamma, now long gone, her eyes
But a feint memory, lined by age,
Her fingers, that touched so tenderly,
They let me go, and so did I grow.
Over so many years, so much I saw,
Before my hands lost their pulp.
Taught skin, gradually did sag,
Showing my bones more than I care,
Needs rest them now upon my purse.
Like the rings in the trunk of a tree,
These wrinkles of mine, they tell
A story, of fat years, and lean,
Laughter, joy, pain, and sorrow,
The motor car, a swirling satellite.
In war, famine, again war, and peace,
These hands have cut onions, sewed
Well-worn socks, turned the newspaper,
And opened my birthday cards,
One hundred times.
These hands of mine, that speak,
Algo saw, glowing in light,
And shared what few might see,
Hands, ripened by history.
--JW, for esteemed Algo, Nov 9, 2009.
Dear friend, thank you for your long, thoughtful note. Your new glasses stole nothing from your inner vision, ever sensitive to what speaks, to what nourishes the soul. Flickrites--like me--are fickle, each thirsty for some token of recognition, in the give and take of comments, favs, and invites.
None of that ephemera matters one jot, for rarely does something take root and endure beyond the moment of recognition of the work of another. I, for one, have gone to comment on the image of another, only to discover I already commented on it, two months ago. How mercilessly we forget.
But in conceiving the images that each makes which resonate deeply--acknowledged, commented on, or not--there should be our focus -- for these stay long in the memory. For recognition, give no thought, but concentrate only on birthing cogent, poetic, visible life to what you see that moves you, for so presented, it will move others too. The gift shared, that's all that really matters here, on Flickr.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
"Solace for the Weary Soul"
How to account for the great allure of this "Autumn Chiltern view?" - viewed on Flickr over 28,000 times (by Nov 8, 2009), for more than 1,000 such people marked as a favorite of theirs! Remarkable, indeed! So, how to account therefore?
A luminous, framed vista, luminously framed, the frame shaped like a transparent scarecrow, with outstretched arms and skirt, colored by the sun, and effects of declining sap in Autumn leaves. A fading beauty, is it nostalgia that tugs at us? Or the soft light on the meadows beyond, so delicately lit that only fairies could walk there, and beyond, a glowing haze.
Or is it what is not there? No trains, cars, buses, power lines and pylons, tractors, dirt, noise, work, towns, cities, rush, speed and crowds. No soul present, but the poetry-finding eye of Algo, and in his poetry, an echo of all our daily striving, aches, losses, fears, and longings - longings for a life of imagined Chiltern calm, an aching for arcadia - or is it Eden?
--PS: I deliberately came here--to Algo's photostream--for peace, on a Sunday evening, and as sure as I anticipated, I found it in his delectable, incomparable landscapes; and now, refreshed, I can again face the new week that lies ahead--the other side of sleep. Thank you, esteemed friend from the Chilterns. I knew I could count on you tonight. As sure as sure, you delivered needed solace, quietness, and reassurance that yes, while there is yet beauty in the world, we can find courage to press on along life's wearing road.
"Sentinel in the Shadows"
Steady flame, sentinel,
Flickering bright and strong,
Illumines petals, gathered,
To pay homage to her flame.
Peace, hope, joy, exuding.
--JW, for jitendraapi, Nov. 8, 2009.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
"The Stairs of Charles V"
Light, lustrous, its warm caress
Along smooth sandstone glides,
Chiseled to flawless precision
By the hand of the ancient Moor.
Or was it, in truth, his Spanish
Master, augmenting the work
Of the Moor? No more can I tell
Each so finely crafted stone,
Here curving so gently, an arched
Pilaster hinted at -- not more,
A classic baluster, gently turned,
And a flight of stairs, drawn up
By light so lustrous, the ascent
No strain, for opening onto the
Alhambra, all is gain.
--JW, for pericomart, in honor
of light on stone,
so beautifully handled,
November 1, 2009.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Photo: David Wright, "Dive into the Light, Son, Dive!" (Facebook, Oct 25, 2009, photo by David Wright's mother)
Waiting in the light,
There is one there
To catch thee!
Jump, boy jump,
Shadows in the water,
To be sure,
But jump, boy, jump,
Dive into the light,
He's there to catch thee.
--JW, for David & son, Oct 25, 2009.
Companions in Death
Chill sets in, the earth
Its nutrients withhold.
Each slowly strangled
On the branch, until -
It loses its last hold.
Wind cruelly plucks it,
Gravity tears it away,
Grass, yet green,
Gravely cradles it
For a tender farewell,
And soon it will be gone.
Taken back by the earth.
And us, can we hope
To fall, companions,
In death, as in life?
To be cradled
One last, tender time,
In the arms of our
And then let go?
Too much to hope for,
Yet, though the earth
Will reclaim us too,
We hope for glory
--JW, an Autumn lament,
Oct 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
From some long-limbed
Creature, fur remnants,
And dried blood,
Left upon a dinner table
perforated, and rotting leaves.
By violence or time.
So with us, caught
In the vicious chain
Of being, and non-being.
--JW, for NYC.andre, October 24, 2009.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Eduard Munch, "Death and the Maiden," 1893, Oil, Munch Museum, Oslo.
Meeting at first light of dawn,
Hour too innocent to be suspect,
He cast his mantle on the dewy ground.
No sooner moist on both its sides,
Anointed by nature and man alike.
Sweet bed of but one blissful hour,
When, stealing up, sunlight,
Exposed and burned their love.
--JW, October 16, 2009.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Where the tile ends,
The concrete begins;
Where the concrete ends,
The dirt road begins;
And where the dirt road ends,
You would not want to be.
But as for them -
No chance to escape.
--JW, for magneticart, Oct 8, 2009. I salute your documentary series on rural prostitution - may it bring people with resources who can offer a better way of life.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Wintercove uploaded this lovely, serene photograph to Flickr, September 18, 2009, see: http://www.flickr.com/photos/65687061@N00/3932080654/
The rhythms of this photograph possess an inexpressible poetry - at least, I cannot find the words, but perhaps something like this:
Puffy clouds drifting from left to right,
Deep shadows, and soft water
Likewise lead the eye.
All seems still.
But stillness truth
Disguises, even as
Jagged icebergs, shrunken,
Wonder which way to go,
But downward sink, to rejoin
That from whence they came.
Wafted by the breeze,
Lean against these forces,
Yet are subject to the same,
Once fresh, supple, ripe,
And green - now brown,
And aged by the summer sun,
Stiffer, dryer, like our old bones,
And our skin, wrinkled,
Lacking oil, they too decline.
-- JW, for Wintercove, Sept 20, 2009,
after a long hiatus. Glad to see you are
still there, watching, as God performs His
glorious dance, daily before your eyes.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Rural Italy, invaded by tourists, yet still
Keeping her ancient beauty.
A patchwork of fields, golden and green,
Secluded under the protection
Of unyielding, granite hills,
With wild boar lurking in the woodland.
Sunlight, warming the mellow stone,
Causing the ridges of the clay tiles,
Hosts for lichens, to glitter in the light,
Which beats down on my shoulders,
In the absent imagination. Oh! Italia,
Refuge of the sensitive soul.
---JW, for AndreasC, Spetember 18, 2009.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Nine o’ Nine: “Time is the Culprit” (Albert Einstein)
Nine o’ Nine, on Nine, Nine, o’ Nine – Oh Wow!
This, an auspicious time, on anyone’s dime!
What to make of life - existence in time?
How possibly can time more signify?
Ours, yours, his, hers, or mine?
Is time but a construct?
Reckoned on a dial?
Or, a mere friction
Derived from only
As time itself -
So lucidly transparent!
Yet, glass and time remain
Both cruelly enigmatic and still
Beyond best scrutiny. They reveal,
And yet, their enduring qualities hide.
One seemingly passable, transparent,
Yet impenetrable to touch, but not to light.
The other, invisible, intangible, yet palpable!
While reflecting on time, it runs through my fingers,
Like sand, slip-sliding to the constant rhythm of the sea.
--John Walford, a meditation on Semay Johnston’s ceramic piece,
“The Culprit” (after Albert Einstein’s “Time is the Culprit”)
at nine o’clock, in the evening, of 09/09/09,
and, with thanks to Lauren Anderson,
for timely inspiration.
Monday, September 7, 2009
How it captures our imaginations,
That little space up there,
Above the street, above our heads,
A place, private and public both.
From this floating little ledge,
The passing world, we can engage.
To passers by, we show our selves,
And then retreat to private realms.
We display, we hide, we hover,
Somewhere in between, seduction,
There, but not there, seen but secluded,
Engaging others on our own terms.
For those shut in, a small way out,
For those shut out, a small way in.
A threshold in the air, and yet,
A threshold none directly cross.
--JW, Labor Day, Sept 7, 2009,
a day for idling on a balcony.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Whence Hope? (For David M.)
Curled up, fetal, in my warm bed,
Cars rumble by, headed somewhere.
Cruel awakening, sleep’s last defense,
My destination, yet undefined.
For what shall I leave this warmth?
Why enter the next day’s chill?
Who travels by my side, who smiles
Into my sad, lonely eyes? Who?
Who sustains on the inside?
Whence hope? Cruel fate that
Strips me of family and friends.
What motivation to do this or that?
Yes, I could do this, or that!
But why bother? Should I?
Why should I? Who says?
What end to toil and struggle?
None can reply, anguish to assuage,
Yet, One, of old did say, “I know
The plans I have for you,
To give you a future, and a hope.”
---- JW, for David, Sept 5, 2009.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Two Nests - Two Dramas
Two little birds build with woven twigs;
Hornets galore chew wood into pulp.
Each to have a home, to call their own.
Why birds deserted, leaving one egg?
Why fly entered, never to escape?
What to learn from each one's drama?
--JW, Sept 3, 2009.
Friday, August 28, 2009
"Stillness before Ecstasy"
Young, and in your prime,
Gracious in your gestures,
Poised before the cosmos:
Earth, air, and water - Beware!
Fire and passion may seize you
From behind, wrapping two hands,
Round your slender waist.
And into the somnolent waters,
You both shall fall.
-- JW, for an enamored Robi, 8/28/09
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Image above, "For dou_ble_you, 'If 6 Was 9 (Jimi Hendrix) II,' 2009, original by dou_ble_you, as altered by John Walford.
Text (from JW) under reads: "6 as 9, on my dime!/ Jimi boy, I loved your sound,/ In my prime./ I too cut off my locks,/ While Charlie boy was smokin' her,/ Not Princess Di!/ Now that's gotta be/ A f---'ing royal sigh!/ God save the Queen!/ Millie is, and ain't, our next queen."
My luminous, flat panel, my global interface,
I am drawn to it, mesmerized moth to lamp.
Eyes trained on images, projected on the screen,
Made one’s own, to play with, it can seem.
Then, one day, sneaking through snail mail,
A postcard from Warsaw, two playing cards,
Altered just for me, held in my hand, worn,
Browned by use, adorned, freshly inscribed.
--JW, for dou_ble_you, 25 August, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Photo: John Walford, "End of Semester Chaos, 2008"
New Media, seductive allure, opening new worlds,
Anesthetizing focus, our brain enfolds.
Hours like minutes, slipping through our hands,
Where's self-discipline, that time commands?
Eager to learn, open to the new,
How to distinguish putrid rain from dew?
--JW, for Matthew Huggins, 8/05/09,
the 28th anniversary of my arrival in the USA,
as he and I reflect on New Media, empty content,
and human distraction. Matt: Had I not come,
we would not be having this conversation!
That surely, would have been my loss.
Mantegna, "Christ's Descent into Limbo," 1470-75 (Barbara Piasecka Johnson Collection).
How can it be?
What will it be?
Will it be?
Will we "be?"
Will I be me?
If flesh did rot and drop,
Brittle bones break,
How shall I stand?
If drowned, or burned,
Faith is to believe!
Yet us weaker ones,
Need to see, to believe.
How can it be?
We just have to
Wait, and see.
--JW, August 4th, 2009, in thinking about Mahler's Resurrection Symphony, to be performed at Wheaton College, Oct. 22-23, 2010. With thanks to my years-long friend and colleague, Joel Sheesley, for offering me Mantegna's "Christ in Limbo" of c. 1470-75, for my further reflection.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Dumbstruck, eyes transfixed,
Unable to deflect my gaze.
Tears well behind my eyeballs,
Tears conjured by a heady mix
Of sight and memory, even smell!
Warm rays of Mediterranean sun,
Trellises, sandstone arches,
Edged by light, a cypress tree,
Such as stirred the troubled soul,
Of Vincent, painter,
Lonely in sun-drenched Arles.
And beyond! Ah! beyond:
Azure waters, barely touched
By movement, sharing with
Softer, azure sky, a space,
So wondrous, ineffable,
Free from care, expansive,
Beckoning the tired soul,
Here to find, to find what?
Some fleeting solace,
Maybe recover hope.
--JW, for Rita Crane, 7/27/09,
in thanks for this wondrous
gift of stone and sunlight --
Since I am partly Greek, I have spent my married life, in jest, trying to convince my Italian wife that--whether she realize it or not--she is married to the closest thing on earth to Apollo that any mere mortal could be!!!! Of course, for 35 years, she has just rolled her eyes dismissively. But I still try to convince her! - And this was one last attempt, in producing the photographic evidence, from childhood -- with Apollo at least as my nurturing spirit! This last-ditch attempt has been the only one that ever got close to convincing her! :-)
Today, for someone else, I wrote about their childhood reflections in a quasi-Haiku form, and then thought that these words also spoke to an aspect of this image of mine, made last year:
"Childhood, a dream,
from which, on waking,
we never recover." - JW, for Robi, 7/267/09
3 lines, 10 words, 15 syllables.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
CARF's "c o n n e c t e d . . .," 11 July 2009 (Photo: via Flickr, copyright of Children At Risk Foundation – CARF (www.carfweb.net).
Eyes Vigilant Beyond Their Years.
Eyes vigilant, beyond their years,
Always on the look-out.
Looking out for what?
Survival - bare survival.
Who is that boy in the multi-colored stencil?
The same, we are told, as he in the single-color!
Yes, but he is some broken mother's son,
A child at risk. By now he may be "was,"
-- Like Claudiney, and his brother Roney.
Brazilian boys, street kids of Sao Paulo,
Equal to our boys, in every way,
Except for love, care, and protection,
For who is there to give it?
To give even the merest protection,
From the predators of death,
That roam the streets, looking,
For one, for some, to destroy.
May our sorrow rise to anger,
Our anger stir our conscience,
And our conscience drive our wills,
To reach out, with CARF, and others.
Others, as "compassionate Thomas,"
Who Smoaks the streets in search
Of boys to save from prostitution,
Drugs, and the cruel hand of early death.
--JW, dedicated to all those at CARF, Brazil,
who are doing what we fail to do;
and also, more personally,
to my compassionate friend,
who reaches out his hand
to just such boys.
May God bless all of you
in your efforts, 7/23/09,
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- John Walford
- United States
- I am a British-born, art historian, teaching in the USA; I studied law, in England,1964-68; worked part-time in the art world, 1968-69; then studied art history at the Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, 1969-76; completed my Ph.D. diss. at the University of Cambridge, 1981; moved to the States in 1981, and have since written, or co-authored, other books. I am currently studying satire in Netherlandish art. My wife, Maria, was born in Milan, Italy, where she worked as an interpreter, in business; she spent seven years in Switzerland, at the University of Lausanne, 1963-70. She came to Amsterdam in 1971, and we soon married. She is a wife, mother, literary critic, of Italian (and French) literature, and completed her Ph. D. diss. in 2002, at the University of Chicago, on Cesare Pavese and His Critics. We have three married children, and eight grandchildren, all of whom we excessively adore! I welcome dialog about art, photography, human behavior, beliefs, and motivation from all comers, regardless of race, color, gender, orientation, values, or beliefs. This is to be a site for words and images, as vehicles of human expression, around topics of mutual interest.