The Lovers’ Chronicle 6 January – fulfill – art by Gustave Doré – verse by Carl Sandburg – photography by Wright Morris

Dear Zazie,  Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse.  Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle 

Dear Muse,

dreamin’ again:
at a nightclub havin’ drinks with a beautiful redhead, one of their favorite things to do
a spotlight shines on them and someone hands him a microphone, wait
is that Elvis, and then they sing a song to the redhead, then he leaves them alone
and now they are in bed talkin’ about dreams fulfilled

© copyright 2024 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

the first song i thought of, or line
from a song, Linda Ronstadt singin’;
“All my dreams fufill”
“Such a beautiful voice”
one of the best, the song itself
perhaps a little over the top
but that line hits close
writin’ is all i want to do
and you, the only one
i want to be with
all my dreams indeed

© copyright 2023.2024 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

between you and writin’, absolutely; each day dawns, new sunrise, new verse, tryin’ to git close, not gonna say right, to what matters, speakin’ of which, forgot to pay tribute to Snodgrass yesterday, perhaps his fault for startin’ us confessionals on a trail we cannot leave even if we wanted to

© copyright 2022.2024 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

i wish i was there
for a nap with you

“I bet I could make you
late getting back to work!”

my dear
i would take that bet
and it would be
so much fun losin’ it

you well know
it only takes
a look, a smile
hearin’ you say,
hey baby

you need but be
and my will is yours

© copyright 2021 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

Pale Love, Pale Rider

reckless dreamer
future verse delivers
by creatin’ sumpthin’
outta nothin’

night happenin’
hope illumined

you believed,
the only desire

“We can still be!”

you seek the vision
what fills the night

yes, she smiles

what will be, as is
the rest, matters not

“Fulfill her wish.”

© copyright 2020 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

reckless dreamer
future verse delivers
by creatin’ faith
in front of nothin’

night happenin’ in its sails
hope illumined by you
tomorrow’s stars
will glow on what remains

you believed, the light
reserved for you its flame
the circle broken, sigh
“We can still be!”

you seek the vision
what fills the night
yes, she smiles,
“What makes your happiness?”

the only desire,
stillness, without end,
hungry lover took forever
“What makes you leave?”

what will be, as is
the rest, matters not
you, like you,
“Fulfill her wish.”

© copyright 2019 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

yes, that is what we are doin’
not into anything as grandiose
as destiny, but there it is

to come here everyday and spread
these words, open my feelin’s
and pour ’em out, sift through ’em,
poke at the ones that hurt most
make some sense outta the why
and the what, dance with spirits
fulfill my purpose on this stage

© copyright 2018.2024 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

Therefore, reckless dreamer
Future verse delivers
By creatin’, leave hope
In front of nothin’ness

The night happenin’ in its sails
Hope illumined by your light
Alas, tomorrow’s stars
Will glow on what remains

You believed that the light pressed you
Reserved for you its flame and rays
The circle broken, sigh
“We can still be!”

You seek what is invisible
Which fills the mountains and valleys
Yes, She smiles, but She is insensitive
“What makes your happiness”

The only desire, the immortal one,
Stillness, without end, without truce,
Hungry lover took forever with it
“What makes you leave”

Her foresight is what will be born
The rest, confusion overwhelms
You, like you, disappear
“Fulfill her wish”

***

Pity this must
Be our last
Where I go
There is not
Room for a pair

© copyright 2016 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

The life that we
Built together;
Torn asunder
My fault, your fault
Nobody’s fault
Does not matter
What is done is
Done. Ashes to
Ashes, Amen

***

The apprehension had arrived, and was comin’
Throughout the old house
All the memories were dyin’

***

All that’s left, all that I can do
Is seek solace in these letters
I write for you, and search my thoughts
For all that’s left of could have been

© copyright 2015 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

Gustave Doré

Today is the birthday of Gustave Doré (Paul Gustave Louis Christophe Doré; Strasbourg; 6 January 1832 – 23 January 1883 Paris); artist, printmaker, illustrator and sculptor.  Doré worked primarily with wood engraving.

Doré never married and, following the death of his father in 1849, he continued to live with his mother, illustrating books until his death in following a short illness.  The city’s Père Lachaise Cemetery contains his grave.

Gallery

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 1870

Doré by Carolus-Duran (1877)

Landscape in Scotland, ca. 1875, Toledo Museum of Art

Le Christ quittant le prétoire 1867–72, Strasbourg Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art

• La Siesta, Memory of Spain
• Mont Sainte-Odile avec mur païen
• Flower Sellers of London
• Jacob wrestling with the angel – 1855
• Little Red Riding Hood
• Dante’s The Divine Comedy

Loch Lomond

Landscape in Scotland, ca. 1878, Walters Art Museum

Wood engraving illustration from The Divine Comedy

Over London by Rail c 1870. From London: A Pilgrimage

Crusades troubadours singing the glories of the crusades

Don Quijote illustrated

Don Quijote illustrated, another one of the 500 pieces Doré created for the work.

Another example of Don Quixote (Don Quijote in Spanish)

 Illustration

Carl Sandburg

Today is the birthday of Carl Sandburg (Galesburg, Illinois; January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967 Flat Rock, North Carolina); poet, writer, and editor who won three Pulitzer Prizes: two for his poetry and one for his biography of Abraham Lincoln.  During his lifetime, Sandburg was widely regarded as “a major figure in contemporary literature”, especially for volumes of his collected verse, including Chicago Poems (1916), Cornhuskers (1918), and Smoke and Steel (1920).  At his death in 1967, President Lyndon B. Johnson observed that “Carl Sandburg was more than the voice of America, more than the poet of its strength and genius. He was America.”

Sandburg met Lilian Steichen at the Social Democratic Party office in 1907, and they married the next year.

Verse

 Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

• “Under the Harvest Moon” (1916)

Tell me if the lovers are losers… tell me if any get more than the lovers.

• “Cool Tombs” (1918)

I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.

• “Prairie” (1918)

Drum on your drums, batter on your banjos,
sob on the long cool winding saxophones.
Go to it, O jazzmen.

• “Jazz Fantasia” (1920)

Man’s life? A candle in the wind, hoar-frost on stone.

• The People, Yes (1936)

Poetry is a pack-sack of invisible keepsakes. Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

And today is the birthday of Wright Morris (Wright Marion Morris; Central City, Nebraska; January 6, 1910 – April 25, 1998 Mill Valley, California); novelist, photographer, and essayist. He is known for his portrayals of the people and artifacts of the Great Plains in words and pictures, as well as for experimenting with narrative forms.

Morris moved to Chicago in 1924. Later that year, he accompanied his father on a road trip to the west coast that formed the basis for his first novel, My Uncle Dudley. He also lived briefly with his uncle in Texas before enrolling in Pacific Union College in California. He graduated from Pomona College in 1933. He married Mary Ellen Finfrock in 1934; the couple divorced in 1959. He later married Josephine Mary Kantor.

Morris won the National Book Award for The Field of Vision in 1956. His final novel, Plains Song won the American Book Award in 1981.

Morris developed close friendships with several other American authors, most notably John O’Hara and Thornton Wilder, and was a pall bearer at O’Hara’s funeral in 1970. He also conducted a weekly correspondence with Scottish author Muriel Spark from 1962 until his death.

Morris died of esophageal cancer. He is buried in the Chapman Cemetery in Chapman, Nebraska.

Gallery

Quotes

There’s little to see, but things leave an impression. It’s a matter of time and repetition. As something old wears thin or out, something new wears in. The handle on the pump, the crank on the churn, the dipper floating in the bucket, the latch on the screen, the door on the privy, the fender on the stove, the knees of the pants and the seat of the chair, the handle of the brush and the lid to the pot exist in time but outside taste; they wear in more than they wear out. It can’t be helped. It’s neither good nor bad. It’s the nature of life.

thanks for stoppin’ by y’all

Mac Tag

We’re supposed to be able to get into other skins. We’re supposed to be able to render experiences not our own and warrant times and places we haven’t seen. That’s one justification for art, isn’t it: to distribute the suffering?

E. L. Doctorow