No.17
SILVER FAVOURITES
1903
Oil on Wood
69.1 cm x 42.2 cm
Lawrence Alma-Tadema
1836-1912
Nationality - Netherlands
-o0o-
In the black winter morning
No light will be struck near my eyes
While the clock in the stairway is warning
For five, when he used to rise.
Leave the door unbarred,
The clock unwound,
Make my lone bed hard -
Would 'twere underground!
When the summer dawns clearly,
And the appletree-tops seem alight,
Who will undraw the curtain and cheerly
Call out that the morning is bright?
When I tarry at market
No form will cross Durnover Lea
In the gathering darkness, to hark at
Grey's Bridge for the pit-pat o' me.
When the supper crock's steaming,
And the time is the time of his tread,
I shall sit by the fire and wait dreaming
In a silence as of the dead.
Leave the door unbarred,
The clock unwound,
Make my lone bed hard -
Would 'twere underground!
-o0o-
THE AGEING HOUSE
When the walls were red
That now are seen
To be overspread
With a mouldy green,
A fresh fair head
Would often lean
From the sunny casement
And scan the scene,
While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.
But storms have raged
Those walls about,
And the head has aged
That once looked out;
And zest is suaged
And trust is doubt,
And slow effacement
Is rife throughout,
While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!
-o0o-
HER FATHER
I met her, as we had privily planned
Where passing feet beat busily:
She whispered: "Father is at hand!
He wished to walk with me."
His presence as he joined us there
Banished our words of warmth away;
We felt, with cloudings of despair,
What Love must lose that day.
Her crimson lips remained unkissed,
Our fingers kept no tender hold,
His lack of feeling made the tryst
Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.
A cynic ghost then rose and said,
"But is his love for her so small
That, nigh to yours, it may be read
As of no worth at all?
"You love her for her pink and white;
But what when their fresh splendours close?
His love will last her in despite
Of Time, and wrack, and foes."
-o0o-
A GAME OF L'HOMBRE IN BRANDUM'S HOTEL
1885
Anna Palm de Rosa
1859-1924
Nationality - Swedish
-o0o-
SCOTIA'S THISTLE
Henry Scott Riddell 1798-1870
Scotia’s thistle guards the grave,
Where repose her dauntless brave;
Never yet the foot of slave
Has trod the wilds of Scotia.
Free from tyrant’s dark control -
Free as waves of ocean roll -
Free as thoughts of minstrel’s soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.
Scotia’s hills of hoary hue,
Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
Watering with its dearest dew
The healthy lochs of Scotia.
Down each green-wood skirted vale,
Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
Many a minstrel’s melting tale
As told of ancient Scotia.
Wake, my hill-harp! Wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake
The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
Others o’er the ocean’s foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home
Beneath the sky of Scotia!
-o0o-
SUNSET
Palette knife, oil on canvas
120 cm x 60 cm
Leonid Alfremov
Nationality - Russian-Israeli
-o0o-
Three poems by Thomas Hardy
BEREFT
In the black winter morning
No light will be struck near my eyes
While the clock in the stairway is warning
For five, when he used to rise.
Leave the door unbarred,
The clock unwound,
Make my lone bed hard -
Would 'twere underground!
When the summer dawns clearly,
And the appletree-tops seem alight,
Who will undraw the curtain and cheerly
Call out that the morning is bright?
When I tarry at market
No form will cross Durnover Lea
In the gathering darkness, to hark at
Grey's Bridge for the pit-pat o' me.
When the supper crock's steaming,
And the time is the time of his tread,
I shall sit by the fire and wait dreaming
In a silence as of the dead.
Leave the door unbarred,
The clock unwound,
Make my lone bed hard -
Would 'twere underground!
-o0o-
THE AGEING HOUSE
When the walls were red
That now are seen
To be overspread
With a mouldy green,
A fresh fair head
Would often lean
From the sunny casement
And scan the scene,
While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.
But storms have raged
Those walls about,
And the head has aged
That once looked out;
And zest is suaged
And trust is doubt,
And slow effacement
Is rife throughout,
While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!
-o0o-
HER FATHER
I met her, as we had privily planned
Where passing feet beat busily:
She whispered: "Father is at hand!
He wished to walk with me."
His presence as he joined us there
Banished our words of warmth away;
We felt, with cloudings of despair,
What Love must lose that day.
Her crimson lips remained unkissed,
Our fingers kept no tender hold,
His lack of feeling made the tryst
Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.
A cynic ghost then rose and said,
"But is his love for her so small
That, nigh to yours, it may be read
As of no worth at all?
"You love her for her pink and white;
But what when their fresh splendours close?
His love will last her in despite
Of Time, and wrack, and foes."
-o0o-
A GAME OF L'HOMBRE IN BRANDUM'S HOTEL
1885
Anna Palm de Rosa
1859-1924
Nationality - Swedish
-o0o-
The Scottish thistle has been the emblem of Scotland since the reign of Alexander III in the 13th century.
The story of how this humble plant acquired such an honour goes back to the feuding between Scotland and Norway. It’s said that one dark night an invading army of King Haakon’s men were stealing up on a camp of Scots, hoping to surprise them. One of the Norwegians in his bare feet stepped on a thistle and let out a cry of pain. This alerted the Scots and the attack was repelled.
In 1470, when James III was on the throne, the thistle appeared on Scottish silver coins.
SCOTIA'S THISTLE
Henry Scott Riddell 1798-1870
Scotia’s thistle guards the grave,
Where repose her dauntless brave;
Never yet the foot of slave
Has trod the wilds of Scotia.
Free from tyrant’s dark control -
Free as waves of ocean roll -
Free as thoughts of minstrel’s soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.
Scotia’s hills of hoary hue,
Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
Watering with its dearest dew
The healthy lochs of Scotia.
Down each green-wood skirted vale,
Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
Many a minstrel’s melting tale
As told of ancient Scotia.
Wake, my hill-harp! Wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake
The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
Others o’er the ocean’s foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home
Beneath the sky of Scotia!
-o0o-
SUNSET
Palette knife, oil on canvas
120 cm x 60 cm
Leonid Alfremov
Nationality - Russian-Israeli
-o0o-
Finally, this monologue holds special memories for me and my daughters.
SOMETHING ABOUT MR. HENDERSON
Anon
It was 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club,
I was tired - I was dead on my feet.
Then he walked in and gave me his coat
And my heart seemed to miss a beat.
I checked his hat - that was usually that,
Then he said "Can I walk home with you?"
Of course when a customer starts to get fresh
I usually know what to do.
But -
There was something about Mr. Henderson,
You know the feeling I guess,
I'm a girl who knows all of the answers,
But he made me feel like a princess.
Now a check girl gets plenty of chances
And I'd heard the old routine before.
There was something about Mr. Henderson
That I thought was worth waiting for.
We took a little apartment way up on the seventh floor.
We hadn't much money but I did my best
And I couldn't have asked for more.
We were happy alone up there on our own,
Just we two in our little flat.
I figured some day we'd get married
But we just didn't get round to that.
Still -
There was something about Mr. Henderson
Soon his career reached the heights
And he knew oh such elegant people
That we dared not be seen out at nights.
So I guess that I just didn't blame him
When he told me one day we were through.
There was something about Mr. Henderson,
If he said it was best - well, he knew.
Now, it's 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club
And I'm back where I started again,
But those years have made quite a difference
And I don't have much trouble with men.
This evening he came, he looked just the same,
And he smiled the same smile I had known.
There was nothing about him changed one little bit
Except that he wasn't alone.
And -
There was something about Mrs. Henderson
That seemed familiar to me,
I had somehow the feeling I knew her
Though she wasn't my sort I could see.
Then I glanced at us both in a mirror
And I realised why I felt so.
The was something about Mrs. Henderson,
She looked like me - ten years ago.
Mr. Henderson, you were nice - to know.
-o0o-
UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY
-o=0=o-
It was 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club,
I was tired - I was dead on my feet.
Then he walked in and gave me his coat
And my heart seemed to miss a beat.
I checked his hat - that was usually that,
Then he said "Can I walk home with you?"
Of course when a customer starts to get fresh
I usually know what to do.
But -
There was something about Mr. Henderson,
You know the feeling I guess,
I'm a girl who knows all of the answers,
But he made me feel like a princess.
Now a check girl gets plenty of chances
And I'd heard the old routine before.
There was something about Mr. Henderson
That I thought was worth waiting for.
We took a little apartment way up on the seventh floor.
We hadn't much money but I did my best
And I couldn't have asked for more.
We were happy alone up there on our own,
Just we two in our little flat.
I figured some day we'd get married
But we just didn't get round to that.
Still -
There was something about Mr. Henderson
Soon his career reached the heights
And he knew oh such elegant people
That we dared not be seen out at nights.
So I guess that I just didn't blame him
When he told me one day we were through.
There was something about Mr. Henderson,
If he said it was best - well, he knew.
Now, it's 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club
And I'm back where I started again,
But those years have made quite a difference
And I don't have much trouble with men.
This evening he came, he looked just the same,
And he smiled the same smile I had known.
There was nothing about him changed one little bit
Except that he wasn't alone.
And -
There was something about Mrs. Henderson
That seemed familiar to me,
I had somehow the feeling I knew her
Though she wasn't my sort I could see.
Then I glanced at us both in a mirror
And I realised why I felt so.
The was something about Mrs. Henderson,
She looked like me - ten years ago.
Mr. Henderson, you were nice - to know.
-o0o-
UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY
-o=0=o-
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