The Lovers’ Chronicle 28 April – once known – birth of Charles Cotton & Harper Lee – art by José Malhoa

Dear Zazie, Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag. What are you tryin’ to get down to? What is the heart of the matter for you? Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle

Dear Muse,

dream…
-Floating in the between world,
not asleep nor awake, music starts-

first used in a pre-2016
long dramatic poem
“Not, once bitten”
ha, no but i could go there
“Maybe next time”
right, but it is not true
“You didn’t know”
nope, never did
wrote about it often,
never had a clue
so a better title would be;
never known till you

my will got weak and my thoughts scattered, then everything changed and i ignored my friends and my flesh would yield and the ashes blew in the wind, tryin' to git down to what mattered without a clue, thought i knew what it was about, but no, the resultin’ debris field was long and wide, apologies to those left in the wake, had my grip on the reins all wrong, either too tight or too loose, now just right, firm with a feel, now i can rest with ease with what was once known and proceed with you, with what is known 

© copyright 2022.2024 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

in this vision i lie upon alone,
thoughts of you carry through

this one, particularly plays on…

twilight comin’ on, the last caress
lingers, i most can feel your skin
under my fingers as they trace
your curves, softly, pressin’,
becomin’ more urgent,
yes like that, please

Pale Love, Pale Rider

indeed and then
it was torn away

remind me again,
why you allowed yourself
to get close enough, and why,
here is the part that kills me,
did you believe it could happen

still do not know what the hell

this should have been stamped
on your forehead and drilled
into your soul: not to be

in this vision,
once known upon,
the sight and touch,
keeps as is
the dawnin’

how memories
pursue, cling

temptin’, as if designed
for so she was and since
only wishes remain

a callin’,
to do this
to become
to seek

to see how far

come will you join
and we will have again

twilight on the high plains
watchin’ the changin’ tableau

weave together
dreams, reality

the wispy char, the shadows
rise, the edges of the vision

from somewhere,
a sound spreads,
the words form
a whisper catches
a ride on the wind

listen, tryin’ to understand
what could it be about
somethin’ once known
then forgotten, left behind

search in vain, nothin’ in sight
search all points in between
and say… no answers await

in this place,
dear solitudes
the presence,
or the lack thereof,
awaits, insists
the answer is here

there is no beginnin’ or end
only an indifferent view from here
in a dark sky, what is the difference
expectin’ nothin’ of the days

followin’ the Revelator,
eyes could see
but of what illuminated,
had not the strength to believe

yet perhaps, beyond this fear,
is a place where we can be

if only temporary, for awhile
would appear what i have dreamed

there, envision the source
there, find redemption,
and this truth
that has no name

what can i,
focus on the dream of you
wave on wave of wishes,
why still i
with the will,
can the way be found

weary, the sun rises on the prairie
the mornin’ wind rises
dreams, carry away

and the whispered words,
full of meanin’

that which was once known,
like a half remembered dream
the heart of the matter
if only the will can be summoned

But there is no beginnin’ or end
Only an indifferent view from here
In a dark sky, what is the difference
Expectin’ nothin’ of the days

Over there the flowin’ river
Windin’ its way into the distance
Where we wove ourselves together
Where dreams wound around reality

Listen, tryin’ to understand
What could it be all about?
Somethin’ that was once known
Then forgotten and left behind

Without you is
clearly not where
I want to be

This is not a
good feelin’; to
be without you

Thoughts of you pervade
Reduced to somethin’ that wants you
Just miss you, in many ways
Ways desperate and human

It remains stark:
Ever more
More than imagined
Hard to conceive how essential
These memories of you

My will gets weak and my thoughts seem to scatter. Then everything changes and my friends seem to scatter and my flesh will get weak and the ashes will scatter, but I am tryin’ to get down to……

The Heart of the Matter

Often on the mountain, I sit
At sunset, randomly walkin’
My gaze over the plain below,

The changin’ tableau at my feet

Over there the flowin’ river
Windin’ its way into the distance
Where we wove ourselves together
Where dreams wound round reality

At the top of this mountain, crowned
With twilight, stars throw a last light,

And the wispy char of the Queen of shadows
Rises, and the edges of the vision are visible

Dartin’ from the dark depths,
A delicate sound spreads in the air,
The Traveler stops, and the words form
A whisper catches a ride on the wind

Listen, tryin’ to understand
What could it be all about
Somethin’ that was once known
Then forgotten and left behind

Hill in hill in vain within sight,
West from dawn to sunset,
Search all points of the immense
And say… nowhere do answers await

In this valley, this place, this ranch,
River, grass, dear solitudes
The presence, or the lack thereof,
Awaits, insists the answer is here

But there is no beginnin’ or end
Only an indifferent view from here
In a dark sky, what is the difference
Expectin’ nothin’ of the days

When I followed the Revelator,
My eyes could see across the void
But of what was illuminated,
I had not the strength to believe

Yet perhaps, beyond this terminal fear,
In a place where other skies shine,
If only temporary, for awhile
Would appear what I have dreamed

There, I envision the source of aspiration
There, I find myself and redemption,
And this ideal truth that every soul desires
That has no name in the land of exile

What can I, focused on the dream of you
Wave on wave of wishes, wash me up,
In the land of exile why still I
With the will, can the way be found

Weary now, the sun sets on the prairie
The night wind rises in the valley
My dreams, similar to the fallin’ snow
Carried away by the stormy north wind

And the whispered words as well,
Carried away but not before
Finally, their meaning, clear now
As I stare over the craggy cliff

That which was once known long ago,
Like a half remembered dream
The heart of the matter: Forgiveness…
If only the will can be summoned

Today is the birthday of Charles Cotton (Alstonefield, Staffordshire, England; 28 April 1630 – 16 February 1687); poet and writer, best known for translating the work of Michel de Montaigne from the French.

In 1656 he married his cousin Isabella Hutchinson. She died in 1670. At the request of his wife’s sister, Miss Stanhope Hutchinson, he undertook the translation of Pierre Corneille’s Horace in 1671. In 1675, he married the dowager Countess of Ardglass; she had a jointure of £1500 a year, but he did not have the power to spend it.

Here is an interesting epitaph that Cotton wrote for “M.H.”, a prostitute (spacing, spelling and capitalisation as originally printed):

Epitaph upon M.H

In  this cold Monument  lies one,
That I know who has lain upon,
The happier He : her Sight would charm,
And Touch have kept King David warm.
Lovely, as is the dawning East ,
Was this Marble’s frozen Guest ;
As soft, and Snowy, as that Down
Adorns the Blow-balls  frizled Crown;
As straight and slender as the Crest,
Or Antlet  of the one beam’d Beast;
Pleasant as th’ odorous Month  of May :
As glorious, and as light as Day .

Whom I admir’d, as soon as knew,
And now her Memory pursue
With such a superstitious Lust,
That I could fumble with her Dust.

She all Perfections had, and more,
Tempting, as if design’d a Whore ,
For so she was; and since there are
Such, I could wish them all as fair.

Pretty she was, and young, and wise,
And in her Calling so precise,
That Industry had made her prove
The sucking School-Mistress  of Love :
And Death , ambitious to become
Her Pupil , left his Ghastly home,
And, seeing how we us’d her here,
The raw-bon’d Rascal  ravisht her.

Who, pretty Soul, resign’d her Breath,
To seek new Letchery in Death.

Today is the birthday of José Malhoa (José Vital Branco Malhoa; Caldas da Rainha, Portugal; 28 April 1855 – Figueiró dos Vinhos, Portugal; 26 October 1933); painter.

Malhoa was, with Columbano Bordalo Pinheiro, the leading name in Portuguese naturalist painting, in the second half of the 19th century. He painted often popular scenes and subjects, like his two most famous paintings, The Drunks (1907) and Fado (1910). He always remained faithful to the naturalist style, but in some of his works, there are impressionist influences, like in his Autumn (1918), that can be considered as an “impressionist exercise”.

He saw at the end of his life, the inauguration of the José Malhoa Museum, in Caldas da Rainha.

Malhoa’s House, also known as the Dr. Anastácio-Gonçalves House-Museum, in Lisbon, was originally built in 1905 as a residence and studio for the artist. It was bought by Dr. Anastácio-Gonçalves, an art collector, a year before the painter’s death, and it became a museum in 1980, showcasing several items from his collection, namely works from Portuguese painters of the 19th and 20th century.

Gallery

“Ilhas dos Amores” (1908)
Museu Militar de Lisboa

Senhora entre os Vidros

a rainha

Portrait of Laura Sauvinet (a pupil of the artist), Museum José Malhos, Caldas da Rainha, Portugal

And Today is the birthday of Harper Lee (Nelle Harper Lee, Monroeville, Alabama, April 28, 1926 – February 19, 2016 Monroeville); novelist widely known for To Kill a Mockingbird, published in 1960. It won the 1961 Pulitzer Prize and has become a classic of modern American literature.

Lee helped with the adaption of the book to the 1962 Academy Award–winning screenplay by Horton Foote, and said: “I think it is one of the best translations of a book to film ever made.” Gregory Peck won an Oscar for his portrayal of Atticus Finch, the father of the novel’s narrator, Scout.

For 40 years, Lee lived part-time at 433 East 82nd Street in Manhattan, near her childhood friend Truman Capote. As the To Kill a Mockingbird manuscript went into publication production in 1959, Lee accompanied Capote to Holcomb, Kansas, to help him research what they thought would be an article on a small town’s response to the murder of a farmer and his family. Capote would expand the material into his best-selling book, In Cold Blood, serialized beginning in September 1965 and published in 1966.

Over the decades, her friend Capote had adopted a decadent lifestyle, which contrasted with Lee’s preference for a quiet, more anonymous existence. Lee preferred to visit friends at their homes (though she came to distance herself from those who criticized her drinking), and also made unannounced appearances at libraries or other gatherings, particularly in Monroeville.

Lee died in her sleep, aged 89. On February 20, her funeral was held at First United Methodist Church in Monroeville.

Quotes

“I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it.
“Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

thanks for stoppin’ by y’all

Mac Tag

The Lovers’ Chronicle 28 April – once known – birth of Charles Cotton & Harper Lee – art by José Malhoa

The Heart of the Matter

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The Lovers’ Chronicle 28 April – once known – birth of Charles Cotton & Harper Lee – art by José Malhoa

The Heart of the Matter

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