Now that's what I call art

comes to an end today

It is replaced tomorrow by

My Virtual Gallery of Favourite Paintings

at

myvirtualgalleryoffavouritepaintings.blogspot.com

-o0o-

No.63

POEM

Dejan Stojanovic b.1959

To hear never-heard sounds,

To see never-seen colours and shapes,

To try to understand the imperceptible

Power pervading the world;

To fly and find pure ethereal substances

That are not of matter

But of that invisible soul pervading reality.

To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul;

To be a lantern in the darkness

Or an umbrella in a stormy day;

To feel much more than know.

To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain;

To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon;

To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves;

To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets

Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching.

To be a smile on the face of a woman

And shine in her memory

As a moment saved without planning.

-o0o-

No.62

The Door

Miroslav Holub

Go and open the door.

Maybe outside there’s

a tree, or a wood,

a garden,

or a magic city.

Go and open the door.

Maybe a dog’s rummaging.

Maybe you’ll see a face,

or an eye,

or the picture

of a picture.

Go and open the door.

If there’s a fog

it will clear.

Go and open the door.

Even if there’s only

the darkness ticking,

even if there’s only

the hollow wind,

even if

nothing

is there,

go and open the door.

At least

there’ll be

a draught.

-o0o-

No.61

Billy and Me

James Hogg 1770-1835

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the grey trout lies asleep,

Up the river and over the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,

Where the nestlings chirp and flee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,

Where the hay lies thick and greenest,

There to track the homeward bee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,

Where the shadow falls the deepest,

Where the clustering nuts fall free,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away

Little sweet maidens from the play,

Or love to banter and fight so well,

That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play

Through the meadow, among the hay;

Up the water and over the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

-o0o-

No.60

A Calm

George Santayana 1863-1952

When the towering heights of the middle heavens

Deep down in the ocean appear,

How pleasant to see the great summer clouds

Reflect in the water so clear.

There are trees above,

There are trees below,

Huge rocks and sloping hills;

And another Sun with its mellow glow

The pictured landscape fills.

The deep, silent mountains beneath the calm wave

Uphold their companions above.

Until hurrying winds from the breezy west

Sky, mountains, and landscape remove.

-o0o-

No.59

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer

Thomas Moore  1779-1852

 'Tis the last rose of summer,

            Left blooming alone ;

      All her lovely companions

            Are faded and gone ;

      No flower of her kindred,

            No rose-bud is nigh,

      To reflect back her blushes,

            Or give sigh for sigh.

      I'll not leave thee, thou lone one !

            To pine on the stem ;

      Since the lovely are sleeping,

            Go sleep thou with them.

      Thus kindly I scatter

            Thy leaves o'er the bed,

      Where thy mates of the garden

            Lie scentless and dead.

      So soon may I follow,

            When friendships decay,

      And from Love's shining circle

            The gems drop away.

      When true hearts lie wither'd,

            And fond ones are flown,

      Oh ! who would inhabit

            This bleak world alone ?

-o0o-

No.58

The Man on Television

Sophia White 

She saw a man on television

In a suit and tie

And he wore a fine felt hat

Cocked over his eye.

She saw him sing and whistle

And dance a little step

And she wished the men today

Would not be so unkempt.

She saw a man on television

Woo a pretty lass

With smiles, winks, and daffodils,

And diamonds made of glass.

She saw him tip his hat to her

And offer her his arm

And lead her to the dance floor

With gentlemanly charm.

She saw a man on television

Smile with easy grace

And wished that she could find a man

With such an honest face.

But she knew that man on television

Was a dying breed

And suits and ties and tall felt hats

Had all grown obsolete.

-o0o-

IMPORTANT

A favourite blog comes to an end

A new blog takes its place

The first post at

now that's what I call art

appeared on 13th April 2014 and the final post will be made on Sunday 30th September 2018

The new blog

My Virtual Gallery of Favourite Paintings

will begin on Monday 1st September at

myvirtualgalleryoffavouritepaintings.blogspot.com

-o0o-

No.57

Extract from

Song of Songs

 My beloved spake, and said unto me, 

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, 

and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. 

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

-o0o-

No.56

True Love

Anon

True love is a sacred flame

That burns eternally,

And none can dim its special glow

Or change its destiny.

True love speaks in tender tones

And hears with gentle ear,

True love gives with open heart

And true love conquers fear.

True love makes no harsh demands

It neither rules nor binds,

And true love holds with gentle hands

The hearts that it entwines.

-o0o-

No.55

Ballade Of Autumn

Andrew Lang 1844-1912

We built a castle in the air,

In summer weather, you and I,

The wind and sun were in your hair,

Gold hair against a sapphire sky:

When autumn came, with leaves that fly

Before the storm, across the plain,

You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,

My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:

I watch the moonlit sails go by;

I marvel how men toil and fare,

The weary business that they ply!

Their voyaging is vanity,

And fairy gold is all their gain,

And all the winds of winter cry,

"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,

I sit alone with memory;

The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,

To keep the outcast company.

The brooding owl he hoots hard by,

The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,

The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,

My Love returns no more again!

-o0o-

No.54

Quick! We have but a Second
Thomas Moore 1779-1852

Quick! we have but a second,
        Fill round the cup while you may;
     For time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
        And we must away, away!
     Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
        For oh, not Orpheus' strain
     Could keep sweet hours from dying,
        Or charm them to life again.
          Then, quick! we have but a second,
             Fill round the cup while you may!
          For Time, the churl hath beckon'd,
             And we must away, away.

     See the glass, how it flushes,
        Like some young Hebe's lip,
     And half meets thine, and blushes
        That thou shouldst delay to sip.
     Shame, oh shame unto thee,
        If ever thou see'st that day,
     When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
        And turn untouch'd away!
          Then, quick! we have but a second,
             Fill round, fill round while you may,
          For Time, the churl, hath beckoned
And we must away, away!

-o0o-

No.53

After the Sea-Ship

 Walt Whitman 1819-92

After the Sea-Ship - after the whistling winds;  

After the white-grey sails, taut to their spars and ropes,  

Below, a myriad, myriad waves, hastening, lifting up their necks, 

Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship:  

Waves of the ocean, bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying,          

Waves, undulating waves - liquid, uneven, emulous waves,  

Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves, 

Where the great Vessel, sailing and tacking, displaced the surface;  

Larger and smaller waves, in the spread of the ocean, yearnfully flowing;  

The wake of the Sea-Ship, after she passes - flashing and frolicsome, under the sun,   

A motley procession, with many a fleck of foam, and many fragments,  

Following the stately and rapid Ship - in the wake following.

-o0o-

No.52

O Mistress Mine, Where are you Roaming?

 (from Twelfth Night)

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 

O stay and hear! your true-love's coming 

That can sing both high and low; 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 

Journey's end in lovers' meeting - 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty - 

Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

-o0o-

No.51

Ships?

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

Ships?

Sure I’ll sail them

Show me the boat,

If it’ll float,

I’ll sail it.

Men?

Yes, I’ll love them.

If they’ve got style,

to make me smile,

I’ll love them.

Life?

‘Course I’ll live it.

Just enough breath,

Until my death,

And I’ll live it.

Failure?

I’m not ashamed to tell it,

I’ve never learned to spell it,

Not Failure.

-o0o-

No.50

A Magic Moment I Remember

Alexander Sergeyevich Poushkin 1799-1837

A magic moment I remember:

I raised my eyes and you were there,

A fleeting vision, the quintessence

Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish,

To pursuits the vain world esteems,

Long did I hear your soothing accents,

Long did your features haunt my dreams. 

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered

The reveries that once were mine

And I forgot your soothing accents,

Your features gracefully divine. 

In dark days of enforced retirement

I gazed upon grey skies above

With no ideals to inspire me

No one to cry for, live for, love. 

Then came a moment of renaissance,

I looked up - you again are there

A fleeting vision, the quintessence

Of all that's beautiful and rare.

-o0o-

No.49

PETALS

Amy Lowell 1874-1925

Life is a stream

On which we strew

Petal by petal the flower of our heart;

The end lost in dream,

They float past our view,

We only watch their glad, early start.

Freighted with hope,

Crimsoned with joy,

We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;

Their widening scope,

Their distant employ,

We never shall know. And the stream as it flows

Sweeps them away,

Each one is gone

Ever beyond into infinite ways.

We alone stay

While years hurry on,

The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

-o0o-

No.48

ODE TO AUTUMN

John Keats 1795-1821 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-o0o-

No.47

My Aches and Pains
Anon

Thought I'd let my doctor check me,

'Cause I didn't feel quite right. . .

All those aches and pains annoyed me

And I couldn't sleep at night.

He could find no real disorder

But he wouldn't let it rest.

What with Medicare and Blue Cross,

We would do a couple of tests.

To the hospital he sent me

Though I didn't feel that bad.

He arranged for them to give me

Every test that could be had.

I was fluoroscoped and cystoscoped,

My aging frame displayed.

Stripped, on an ice-cold table,

While my gizzards were x-rayed.

I was checked for worms and parasites,

For fungus and the crud,

While they pierced me with long needles

Taking samples of my blood.

Doctors came to check me over,

Probed and pushed and poked around,

And to make sure I was living

They then wired me for sound.

They have finally concluded,

Their results have filled a page.

What I have will someday kill me;

My affliction is old age. 

-o0o-

No.46

Autumn Song

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-82

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering, 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

And how the swift beat of the brain 

Falters because it is in vain, 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 

Knowest thou not? and how the chief 

Of joys seems - not to suffer pain? 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 

Bound up at length for harvesting, 

And how death seems a comely thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

-o0o-

No.45

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

Langston Hughes

1902-67

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the

      flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln

     went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy

     bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers

My soul has grown deep with rivers.

-o0o-

No.44

Message

Wendy Cope

Pick up the phone before it is too late

And dial my number. There's no time to spare

Love is already turning into hate

And very soon I'll start to look elsewhere.

Good, old-fashioned men like you are rare

You want to get to know me at a rate

That's guaranteed to drive me to despair.

Pick up the phone before it is too late.

Well, wouldn't it be nice to consummate

Our friendship while we've still got teeth and hair?

Just bear in mind that you are forty-eight

And dial my number. There's no time to spare.

Another kamikaze love affair?

No chance. This time I'll have to learn to wait

But one more day is more than I can bear

Love is already turning into hate.

Of course, my friends say I exaggerate

And dramatize a lot. That may be fair

But it is no fun being in this state

And very soon I'll start to look elsewhere.

I know you like me but I wouldn't dare

Ring you again. Instead I'll concentrate

On sending thought-waves through the London air

And, if they reach you, please don't hesitate.

Pick up the phone.

-o0o-

No.43

Ill Fares the Land

(from the Deserted Village) 

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintained its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no more:

His best companions, innocence and health;

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet's rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.

-o0o-

No.42

Across the Hills

Leon Rosselson

Across the hills black clouds are sweeping,

Carry poison far and wide,

And the grass has blackened underfoot,

And the rose has withered and died.

But the rose is still as red, love, and the grass is still as green,

And it must have been a shadow in the distance you have seen,

Yes, it must have been a shadow you have seen.

But can't you hear the children weeping?

Can't you hear the mournful sound?

And no birds sing in the twisted trees

In the silent streets around.

I can hear the children laughing in the streets as they play,

And you must have caught the dying of an acho far away,

Yes, it must have been an echo far away.

But can't you see the white ash falling

From the hollow of the skies?

And the blood runs red down the blackened walls

Where a ruined city lies.

I can see the red sun shining in the park on the stream,

And you must have felt a shiver from the darkness of a dream,

Yes, it must have been the darkness of a dream.

But the rose is still as red, love, and the grass is still as green,

And death shall reap a hellish harvest,

Yes, the rose is still as red, love, and the grass is still as green,

Make a desert of this land.

And it must have been a shadow you have seen.

-o0o-

No.41

Is My Team Ploughing

A. E. Housman 1859-1936

“Is my team ploughing, 

   That I was used to drive 

And hear the harness jingle 

   When I was man alive?” 

Ay, the horses trample, 

   The harness jingles now; 

No change though you lie under 

   The land you used to plough. 

“Is football playing 

   Along the river shore, 

With lads to chase the leather, 

   Now I stand up no more?” 

Ay the ball is flying, 

   The lads play heart and soul; 

The goal stands up, the keeper 

   Stands up to keep the goal. 

“Is my girl happy, 

   That I thought hard to leave, 

And has she tired of weeping 

   As she lies down at eve?” 

Ay, she lies down lightly, 

   She lies not down to weep: 

Your girl is well contented. 

   Be still, my lad, and sleep. 

“Is my friend hearty, 

   Now I am thin and pine, 

And has he found to sleep in 

   A better bed than mine?” 

Yes, lad, I lie easy, 

   I lie as lads would choose; 

I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart, 

   Never ask me whose.

-o0o-

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No.40

A Wish for My Children

Evangeline Paterson

On this doorstep I stand

year after year

to watch you going

and think: May you not

skin your knees. May you

not catch your fingers

in car doors. May

your hearts not break.

May tide and weather

wait for your coming

and may you grow strong

to break

all webs of my weaving.

-o0o-

No.39

If I can stop one heart from breaking

Emily Dickinson 1830-86

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one lonely person

Into happiness again,

I shall not live in vain.

-o0o-

No.38

Her Father

 Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

I met her, as we had privily planned,

Where passing feet beat busily:

She whispered: "Father is at hand!

He wished to walk with me."

His presence as he joined us there

Banished our words of warmth away;

We felt, with cloudings of despair,

What Love must lose that day.

Her crimson lips remained unkissed,

Our fingers kept no tender hold,

His lack of feeling made the tryst

Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.

A cynic ghost then rose and said,

"But is his love for her so small

That, nigh to yours, it may be read

As of no worth at all?

"You love her for her pink and white;

But what when their fresh splendours close?

His love will last her in despite

Of Time, and wrack, and foes."

-o0o-

No.37

The Ash Grove

Thomas Oliphant

Down yonder green valley, where streamlets meander,

When twilight is fading I pensively rove

Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander,

Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove;

‘Twas there, while the blackbird was cheerfully singing,

I first met my dear one, the joy of my heart!

Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing,

Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part. 

Still glows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,

Still warbles the blackbird its note from the tree;

Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,

But what are the beauties of nature to me?

With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,

All day I go mourning in search of my love;

Ye echoes, oh, tell me, where is the sweet maiden?

"She sleeps, 'neath the green turf down by the ash grove." 

No.36

A Character

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I marvel how Nature could ever find space 

For so many strange contrasts in one human face: 

There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom 

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. 

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; 

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 

Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, 

Would be rational peace - a philosopher's ease. 

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, 

And attention full ten times as much as there needs; 

Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; 

And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. 

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare 

Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, 

There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 

Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. 

This picture from nature may seem to depart, 

Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; 

And I for five centuries right gladly would be 

Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. 

-o0o-

No.35

The Rose

Gordon Mills

Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed,

Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed,

Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need,

I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance,

It's the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance,

It's the one who won't be taking, who cannot seem to give,

And the soul afraid of dying, that never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long,

And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows,

Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose.

-o0o-

No.34

A Musical Instrument

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 

    Down in the reeds by the river ? 

Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 

    With the dragon-fly on the river. 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 

    From the deep cool bed of the river : 

The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly had fled away, 

    Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 

    While turbidly flowed the river ; 

And hacked and hewed as a great god can, 

With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 

    To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 

    (How tall it stood in the river !) 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 

Steadily from the outside ring, 

And notched the poor dry empty thing 

    In holes, as he sate by the river. 

This is the way, laughed the great god Pan, 

    Laughed while he sate by the river, 

The only way, since gods began 

To make sweet music, they could succeed.

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 

    He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 

    Piercing sweet by the river ! 

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 

The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

    Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

    To laugh as he sits by the river, 

Making a poet out of a man : 

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 

For the reed which grows nevermore again 

    As a reed with the reeds in the river.

-o0o-