I have lived and I have loved;
I have waked and I have slept;
I have sung and I have danced;
I have smiled and I have wept;
I have won and wasted treasure;
I have had my fill of pleasure;
And all these things were weariness,
And some of them were dreariness;–
And all these things, but two things,
Were emptiness and pain:
And Love–it was the best of them;
And Sleep–worth all the rest of them,
Worth everything but Love to my spirit and my brain.
But still my friend, O Slumber,
Till my days complete their number,
For Love shall never, never return to me again!
What is a poet?
A solitary lake shallow on the edges…deep and vast at the belly of the beast?
A keeper of few within her soul’s home?
A fractured window omitting promises of hope peppered with disdain.
The owner of a little circle as close knit…
as a pair of Grandma’s macrame Christmas sleepers!
What is a poet? An unhappy man (woman) who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.
Great art comes from pain and suffering. Thus, the near starvation, struggling artist. Writers, painters, poets…Our art reflects those with who we live and love. Both kindness and vice.
The need of continuum? Art shall never be beaten by affliction. There will always be another Artist to carry on.
For “Hauling” The Currier Museum commissioned over 100 feet of wall drawings. The exhibition also includes two large-scale works on paper and a 52-foot-long scroll drawing animated by a kinetic sculpture. Curated by Samantha Cataldo, this show is a collaboration with other artists, craftspeople, historians, and New Hampshire citizens. Hauling is inspired by the history of the Manchester region and its people, emphasizing labor and collaboration.
He had never been an intended farmer
And, perhaps, Mr. Frost knew he never would be
Unintentionally up in the notches…working the land with hands calloused by tragedy
Cursed tractors, sullen cows, an unconditional hell’s paradise
Baskets of discoveries…In one’s own unmade garden
Trained to farm the land…Once gone…
I had no intention of going back.
Searching the pavement for creativity
poking about the neon
digging in dollar signs and dimes for deliberate self-discovery
The writings on the wall were slipping away into graffiti
So, maybe Mr. Frost had been an intended farmer, after all
His seeds of thought burning a hole in my pocket
His travels into struggle…
Left open for me green fields of self-discovery