got the blues again

Tall Trees by Mike Tedder


Blue Saxophones by Moya Cannon

In Buenos Aires the sidewalks are broken,
but the trees are tall and blue,
blue like Cézanne’s blue pitcher,
which speaks to some still corner of the soul –
a quite unnecessary, delicate blue –
and the unmended pavements are strewn
with a carpet of blue blossoms,
and with the bent pennies,
the tough leathery purses,
which are the seed cases of the Jacaranda –
a surety, until now,
that there would certainly
be more and more of this,
more tall blue trees in October,
singing, gratuitously,
above the dusty pavements
out of thousands of blue,
clustered saxophones.






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Self-Portraits

Painting Title: Self Portrait with Cloak 1901
Pablo Picasso: Early/Blue Period Paintings
Famous Spanish artist - 20th Century Painter

About the Self Portrait Painting
Pablo Picasso painted this Self Portrait with Cloak painting during his famous blue period series. Like many of his other paintings from this period, this self portrait uses all blue tones and is very melancholy in nature.

The young artist presents himself as the struggling painter, unshaven, somber, mysterious, while still remaining confident. [Source: artquotes.net]

If you are feeling a bit blue and need to get your mind off of your troubles you might enjoy fiddling around with this online Picasso drawing program, called picassohead.

I have had some fun with it lately. This is my self-portrait.

MLydiaM

 Self-Portrait by Linda Pastan
       (After Adam Zagajewski)

I am child to no one, mother to a few,
wife for the long haul.
On fall days I am happy
with my dying brethren, the leaves,
but in spring my head aches
from the flowery scents.
My husband fills a room with Mozart
which I turn off, embracing
the silence as if it were an empty page
waiting for me alone to fill it.
He digs in the black earth
with his bare hands. I scrub it
from the creases of his skin, longing
for the kind of perfection
that happens in books.
My house is my only heaven.
A red dog sleeps at my feet, dreaming
of the manic wings of flushed birds.
As the road shortens ahead of me
I look over my shoulder
to where it curves back
to childhood, its white line
bisecting the real and the imagined
the way the ridgepole of the spine
divides the two parts of the body, leaving
the soft belly in the center
vulnerable to anything.
As for my country, it blunders along
as well intentioned as Eve choosing
cider and windfalls, oblivious
to the famine soon to come.
I stir pots, bury my face in books, or hold
a telephone to my ear as if its cord
were the umbilicus of the world
whose voices still whisper to me
even after they have left their bodies.

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The mystery which binds me still . . .

Walk Alone by True Bavarian


Alone 
    ~by Edgar Allen Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —


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