Walt Whitman — May 31, 1819 – 1892
This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body… — Preface to Leaves of Grass, 1855
(Photo of Uncle Walt, 1866)
via Ordinary Finds
Allen Ginsberg (June 3, 1926 – 1997) was one of the best American poets to “follow Walt Whitman’s beard…”
Ginsberg’s role in the Beat Generation and subsequently in the counterculture of the 60s and 70s was incomparable. His consistently confessional and political poetry will stand among the best of the 20th C.
In Back of the Real
railroad yard in San Jose
I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
and sat on a bench
near the switchman’s shack.
A flower lay on the hay on
the asphalt highway
—the dread hay flower
I thought—It had a
brittle black stem and
corolla of yellowish dirty
spikes like Jesus’ inchlong
crown, and a soiled
dry center cotton tuft
like a used shaving brush
that’s been lying under
the garage for a year.
Yellow, yellow flower, and
flower of industry,
tough spiky ugly flower,
flower nonetheless,
with the form of the great yellow
Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.
— San Jose, 1954
via Ordinary Finds
Federico García Lorca (June 5, 1898 – 1936), Spanish poet – an emblematic member of the Generation of ‘27; murdered at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War…
The Guitar by Federico García Lorca
(Translated by Cola Franzen)
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.
via Ordinary Finds
Francesca Woodman was born in 1958, in Denver Colorado, and lived most of her tragically brief life in New York. Having taken her first photograph at 13, she committed suicide in 1981 at the age of 22, but in the few years that account for her career she created an enduring body of photographic work that continues to fascinate and influence today. Woodman appears frequently in her exquisitely odd and unsettling silver gelatin photographs, her body often seeming to blend into her surroundings: caught in a state of metamorphosis she is not quite here, not quite there. In others, she uses a variety of props to create strange and dreamlike tableaux tinted with melancholy. Woodman’s work has been subject to extensive critical study by Western academics and has influenced many important artists of subsequent generations.
Much more via Ingleby Gallery