Wyeth Sky

Wyeth Sky

N.C. Wyeth sky, cobalt and cumulus.
Cotton candy, billowed snow,
thrilling show in a big top circus.

Giants stride through ocean waves.

Children watch, amazed, as Crusoe
swings upstage to colonial caves

in search of Magua and Monro.
Robin Hood wakes old Van Winkle,
up the Brandywine they row

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flanked by native Navajo. In vain,
these fabled men did not restrain
the saddest Pagliacci pain,

over Chadds Ford landscape, dynasty reigned.
Too soon cut down by a racing steel train.

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Willow, 2009

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I love to call a deep blue sky with huge puffy clouds an "N.C. Wyeth

sky". We had a glorious one here in Ohio earlier this week and it

inspired me to write this poem. It is speculated that Wyeth's tragic

death in 1945, at a local Chadd's Ford railroad crossing, was a

suicide.

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And, hey, did you notice I slipped in Pagliacci? (click for recent post)

Opera's on the brain this week!)

Wyeth's Pilgrims

It's about time to pull N. C. Wyeth's Pilgrims off the shelf. I get
it out every Thanksgiving, even though I don't have any children
around to read it to. I love to browse through it myself! It's the story
of the settling of the Plymouth Colony and celebration of the first
Thanksgiving, magnificently illustrated with paintings by the renowned
American artist N.C. Wyeth and carefully researched text by the well
known children's author Robert San Souci. It's a beautiful reminder of
the bravery and determination of our forebears. It's a must have if you
have children or grandchildren around for Thanksgiving, or just simply
because it is a lovely little book. Get a copy this holiday season and
snuggle up on the sofa with the cuties in your life...little ones, or big
ones!

The Scythers

The Scythers, N. C. Wyeth, 1908

I posted this beautiful Wyeth painting earlier, but it is one of my

very favorites and just had to show it again, before the summer is

over. You can feel the hot sun, the thirst of the workers and smell

the freshly cut field. I think it fits this poem by Robert Frost very

nicely.

Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.

What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;

Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,

Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound--

And that was why it whispered and did not speak.

It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,

Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak

To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,

Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers

(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.

The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

~~~~~

It takes WT about three solid hours to cut our grass and that

is with a riding mower! And I'm all too happy to have him handle

it! I always get a good chuckle over Susan talking about dealing

with her mower, at 29 Blackstreet, fondly named "The Red

Beast". One thing I do enjoy about mowing, however, is the fresh

scent of newly cut grass! Pam posted on the subject of grass this

week and a poem by Walt Whitman which refers to grass as "the

handkerchief of the Lord". I love that.