sunthroughdarkclouds

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Waking from delight

Unto the real day void and white

- William Morris

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The sun shone from behind frozen skies speaking as old photographs which serve to trigger memories we said were best forgotten. Those bright details how they begin to fade as does the face that shone. I wondered if time was kept as an underside of a bandaid covering healing wounds folding old cells into forgotten scrapbooks leaving behind scars, fading a memory, when photographs have all been left behind.

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Eve, by Edmund Joseph Sullivan, circa 1900

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John Collier (1850-1934) "The Laboratory" (1895) Pre-Raphaelite

The painting is based off the Robert Browning's 1844 poem, "The Laboratory."

The poem is set in seventeenth-century France, and is the monologue of a woman speaking to an apothecary as he prepares a poison, which she intends to use to kill her rivals in love. It was inspired by the life of Marie Madeleine Marguerite d'Aubray, marquise de Brinvilliers (1630–1676), who poisoned her father and two brothers and planned to poison her husband, matching the narrator's actions in "The Laboratory."

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Currently on sale for $1.49.

My first published work.

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Beatrice Cenci / The Conspiracy of Torture (1969)

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'Spirit of the Night', detail, by John Atkinson Grimshaw, (1836 - 1893)

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1. Two girls don traditional wreaths near a bonfire during Ivan Kupala Night celebrations, outside the small town of Turov, Belarus, on July 6, 2016 # Sergei Gapon / AFP / Getty.

2. People celebrate the Slavic pagan holiday of Ivan Kupala outside Novokuznetsk, Russia, on July 6, 2011 # Yaroslav Belyaev / AP.

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Only silence

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A Moonlit Woodland Scene Ottoman School

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In a 100 years from now, none of our daily dramas that loom so large in the moment are going to matter. None of our worries. None of our unrealized dreams. None of our regrets. None of our hates, not even and especially our self hates. None of our preferences. None of our unmet desires or unrequited loves. Our personal dramas won't be known or remembered by anyone alive. Most of us will only be a name with a birth and death date on someone's genealogy, leaving future people to wistfully wonder what our lives were like.

Somehow, this gives me comfort.

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Your eyes engross me even now as you look to me with a sly laconic ease that belies our belief that we belong, two satisfied souls, sinuously entwined.   Then I ponder our past apart and together. How long it has lapsed since we were little and you with your eyes, You looked at me languidly, without longing, only playfulness. It was so simple then, the sojourn of our shared fantasy.   Back then your hands helped me with a house of twigs in the yard.  Your youth yearned or so it seemed for some bond, not in body, but only to bare my laugh from its hidden harbor when your humor released it.   And now your hands help me to heal from wounds of dismay,  a distant disaster that sent us on separate ways.  You simmer my soul with a look and old evils evaporate leaving only vestiges of memory.   Forgotten are the phantoms of fear and grief at least as long as you lie here beside me sharing a secret of the senses, not just a fantasy. Your kiss, candid and covert, is invocation--   the temple of twigs we made together, though gone, is reborn and  re-imagined, our reification, our haven. My sensuality is not a sin.  It is my offering to bless you, my beloved, and our bed of absolution.

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Poe Walking on the High Bridge (Bernard Jacob Rosenmeyer, 1930)

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William Louis Sonntag - "Night in the Forest" (1859)