Poetry

Upon a Storm

by Grace E. Clifton

When the day grows dark and clouds roll in

With lightning that strikes the ground,

And shadows grow thick as the storms begin,

So that nowhere can light be found,

You spend hours waiting in a darkened room

With doors and windows locked -

Alone, and trapped in your despairing tomb

With no one to hear you talk.

Such howling winds fume above your head

With rain that screams at every side;

You huddle, shoulders shaking, upon the bed,

Stained in all the wet tears you've cried.

Then fear taps at the covered windowpane

And panic claws at the sealed door;

They beg for an innocent life to claim,

And to take what's left to live for.

A candle stands with a flicker of hope

And your eyes never break away -

Holding onto it for guidance to help cope

With the perpetual night of day.

The storm still rages - the candlelight fades –

Panic is now stepping through the door;

Fear is ready to pierce your heart like a blade

As the light is suddenly no more

With frantic desperation you raise your face

And (though no one is there to hear)

You call to the stars for a simple embrace

And protection from your fears.

Light suddenly breaks through the violent storm

And denounces its right to stay;

Fear and panic flees you, their power scorned,

And the darkness quickly goes away.

A knock at the door lifts you from the bed

And through the lighted room to respond;

A man stands on the other side, and says,

With gentle eyes so fond:

"I've been waiting here all this while,

But you never asked for my love or care.

I longed to come comfort you and make you smile

But you locked the door and hid in disrepair.

Do you not know that the storms can never last?

Do you not remember that the sun always shines?

It endures even while your faith may be overcast

Or fear has made you blind.

The light is always there, you must only believe;

All you are to do is look and make a sound.

You will find that there is never a reason to grieve,

But instead to rejoice, for you are found."

He then opens his arms to embrace me

And softly leads me from the room.

He takes me outside so that I can see

That the storm brought every flower into bloom.

The Making of a Bibliophile

            Growing up I couldn't sit still long enough like a good little kid to learn how to read.  My mom tried to help me understand all those squiggly, linear drawings, but I couldn’t wrap my head around them; what purpose was there in categorizing letters as vowels and consonants? How was Y a vowel some of the time and not others times? Why did I have to know how to read in the first place? Why does it matter if it’s a verb or a transitive verb – what’s the difference between the two anyway?

            But my parents read to my siblings and me almost every night, my dad was a writer, I’m somewhat related to John Keates (a famous poet), my older siblings were creating clever comics and essays, almost everyone my age could read, and even my middle name was after a great aunt who was an avid reader – plus our house was full of books! So I was rather obligated to learn how, but I just couldn’t figure out what those darn symbols were trying to tell me!

            But one day the letters finally clicked.  One minute I didn’t understand a single thing I was looking at, and the next minute real, tangible words were jumping from the page at me like crickets!

As it turned out, the writer’s blood that runs through our family pooled in my veins as well.  I couldn’t stop reading after my awakening; in fact, I found out I sort of kind of really very loved books! I enjoy the smell of them, the look, the feel, the sound, and the taste! Well, ok not so much the taste… newspaper tastes better.  But I guess I went from hating books to becoming a bit of a bibliophile.  I actually want to collect books one day because I think they're so pretty. 

What’s really cool is the family discussions inspired by books.  We all have similar tastes and insights, so we enjoy analyzing literature together.  Books can share knowledge, wisdom, and insight, start up a good laugh and lead a good cry, tell a good story and teach a valuable lesson, heal a wounded soul and inspire the weak, and so much more – plus, they have the potential to bring a family together in meaningful communication.  Needless to say (but I’ll say it anyway), I have very good memories attached to them.

Paintings From the Romantic and Transcendentalist period

During the romantic period, art used feelings, imagination, and mystery to communicate meaning.  It also concentrated on the supernatural, individuality, and heroism, and used nature to convey emotions and provide “divine revelation”.  Also, rebellion and revolution were a fancy of romanticists and came out in the artwork as well.

 One of my favorite series of paintings from this period (that I was fortunate to see recently at the Smithsonian) was “The Voyage of Life” by Cole Thomas:

Childhood:
The series begins with Childhood, in which a small child and its "Spirit Guide" (guardian angel) emerge from a dark cavern in a boat whose figurehead holds an hour glass. The boat's sides depict more figures of the hours. The cavern represents man's earthly origin and mysterious past; the soft light of morning and the abundant flowers and plants growing alongside the "Stream of Life" are symbols of early life. The narrowness of the river banks and the limited scope of scene represent the limited experience of childhood. The Egyptian lotus, in the foreground, provides another symbol of human existence.
http://www.allinsongallery.com/cole/index.html

Youth:
In Youth, the landscape widens and the foliage becomes diversified, with trees overshadowing the bank. Alone in the boat, the "Voyager" takes the helm himself. The "Spirit Guide" now stands on the bank. The Voyager points to the sky where the vision of an exotic dome appears to him, symbolizing the dreams and aspirations of youth.

Manhood:
As the Voyager enters Manhood the landscape shifts to a dramatically dark and stormy setting. The dreams of youth are replaced by the struggles of middle age. The current of the stream has become swift and the Voyager seems to have lost control of his boat. Ahead of him is a waterfall with sinister trees in the foreground. "Life's Passenger" looks toward heaven for guidance, but in the clouds lurk the demons of Suicide, Intemperance and Murder, which Cole thought were ever present in the life of man.

Old Age:
In the final scene, Old Age, the Voyager has navigated the Stream of Life, which has emptied into a tranquil but dark and lonely sea, lined with jagged rocks and cliffs. The boat, damaged from life's storms, reveals that time is nearly at an end for the Voyager. Only now is the Spirit Guide revealed to him, guiding him toward his final destination. Old and gray, the passenger assumes a pious pose and readies himself for his inevitable fate. A shaft of light parts the clouds, and angels descend to usher the Voyager to another life. 

          I chose the Voyage of Life to represent Romanticism because they suitably exhibit supernatural beings, mysterious phenomena, imaginative symbolism in the natural world, and are centered around the life of an individual.  The meaning of the paintings are not entirely explicit, but can be divined by the mood of its colors, minute details, and dramatic scenes.  The series of paintings even reveal, in subtle terms, a quality of the human condition.  Therefore these paintings, to me, are the epitome of the romantic period. 

                        

          The transcendentalist period was based on total self-reliance and independence from society.  Its focus was on the natural world and the most inner, spiritual essence of mankind as it is in the solitude of nature.  Probably the most famous author of this time was Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose story Life in the Woods tells of his life in the two years that he stayed in an isolated cabin in the woods.
          Paintings of landscapes are always popular, but I think the transcendentalists focused more on illustrating the innate beauty, perfection, peace, and timelessness of the natural world.  The following are some of my favorite paintings by Albert Bierstadt that I believe capture these qualities very well:

Looking Up the Yosemite Valley

On the Saco

Conway Meadows New Hampshire

Bierstadt was swept away by the majesty of the American West, and even called it a "Garden of Eden".  He also had a fascination for the Native Americans and lived amongst them, even dressed like them.  Bierstadt saw nature as being almost godlike, a both mysterious and powerful, yet peaceable, entity, and he painted the landscapes according to this vision.  This reverence and respect he had for nature is truly the spirit of the transcendentalists.    

Hawthorne's stories

Nathanial Hawthorne might be another favorite author.  I don’t always understand his stories, but his writing is well organized, educated, and attention-getting; for instance, The Minister’s Black Veil started off with a mystery: “but what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face (409)?” everyone turns to look, but the reader does not find out the answer for a few more paragraphs.  I must admit that when I found out, I had to keep reading hoping that the veil would be removed and the mystery solved.

                Suspense is the word.  Hawthorne’s stories are tinged with mystery, intrigue, and suspense.  In Young Goodman Brown the reader had to read for some pages to find out what Brown was doing in the forest, with only furtive hints along the way that it was for some secret evil.  And Rappaccini’s Daughter flowed with dark mysteries around the doctor, Beatrice, the shrub, and Rappaccini’s experiments on Giovanni. 

                Honestly, I kept meaning to skim these stories, but I found that my eyes would stop and trace the words more closely to catch any revelation to the mysteries.  I was admittedly let down at the end of The Minister’s Black Veil, as I never got to see the man’s face, but it did not render the story any less fascinating.  All the stories were cryptic in their messages, so the fun of interpreting them remained. 

I found also that Hawthorne was very versatile; he could go from writing authentically of Italy and its people, of religious folk and their habits and fears, and he had an imagination for illustrating magical circumstances – those both faint, and the obviously supernatural.

                I hope to enjoy more of this author’s work, and if you enjoy what I have described then I recommend it to you as well!

Hawthorne,  Nathanial. “The Minister’s Black Veil.”  The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Nina Baym and Robert Levine. 8th. A. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012. 409. Print.