The Materialistic Maiden

Where I sip coffee and judge everyone.

Month: January, 2014

Mark Rothko-An Arising Obsession

I am in love with his style. Below are five of my favorite pieces of his. In a nutshell, this Latvian-born artist was a genius amidst the (what we consider now) contemporary art scene.

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Blue, Green, and Brown, 1951
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Green Over Blue, 1956
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Underground Fantasy
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Untitiled, 1940
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Untitled Painting in Red and Black, 1955

“Dover Beach” by Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart-Edna St. Vincent Millay

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.

(Taken from here.)

Don’t Hug me I’m Scared-My Latest Obsession

You can see the quirky videos here and here. I am pretty much head-over-heels for that clock.

Warning: these are pretty grotesque, so be prepared. They are not what they truly seem, which is what makes them ingenious, in my opinion.

Happy Birthday, My Dearest Edgar Allan Poe

Today marks Edgar Allan Poe’s 205th Birthday. I am so proud and delighted that his legacy continues to live on. He has made such a mark on the world and my heart, and I am grateful each day to have discovered this incredible writer and poet.

We love you, Edgar. May you continue on for all of eternity as one of the greatest writers alive.

Now, to share a couple of his poems that I’ve held dear for over ten years-

Ulalume
“The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere –
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir –
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through and alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul –
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll –
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole –
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere –
Our memories were treacherous and sere, –
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) –
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here) –
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn –
As the star-dials hinted of morn –
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn –
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said: “She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs –
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies –
To the Lethean peace of the skies –
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes –
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: “Sadly this star I mistrust –
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! -ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! -let us fly! -for we must.”
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust –
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust –
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: “This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendour is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight! –
See! -it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright –
We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom –
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb –
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied: “Ulalume -Ulalume –
‘Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere –
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: “It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed -I journeyed down here! –
That I brought a dread burden down here –
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber –
This misty mid region of Weir –
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

 

Annabel Lee
A Dream Within A Dream
The Raven
To the River

The Pirate by Henry Poe-Part One

In the next few posts, I will be scribing William Henry Leonard Poe’s stories, as I had done with his poetry. 

Now, I happily present The Pirate, part one. 

[Original.]
To the Editor of the North American.
On my last voyage to the West Indies, a friend whom I met after a long separation, related to me the following adventure, and as it appeared singular and romantic, I made a memorandum of it, and I now transcribe it from my “log book” for your use, which you are at liberty to do with as you may deem proper. Yours, W.H.P.
__________________________
THE PIRATE. 
I went to the Havana in the summer of 182-, on business, and having settled it to my satisfaction, engaged my passage in a vessel bound to New York–We had been but a few hours on the voyage when I felt that weariness and pain which indicates the approach of the yellow fever. I continued to grow worse, and to add to my distress, the vessel began to roll violently and sea-sickness with all its horrors cause upon me–I would have sacrificed every thing for a quiet place in which to die, as I felt that this was all I could wish for. Overcome at length with weakness, and completely exhausted, I fell asleep, from which I was awakened by a confused noise. I at first believed it was merely imagination, but as it became louder, I felt convinced that what I heard was a reality. At length the cabin door opened, and several persons descended. Our captain approached my birth and told me the vessel had been captured by pirates, and that we were now standing in for the land. I heard the first part of his speech with an apathy which my illness only can account for;-but the very name of land seemed to operate like a charm upon me. A young man now approached and told me to be under no apprehension, as no personal injury was intended, and that every care should be bestowed upon me. He inquired the nature and state of my disease, and brought me a cordial, which considerably relieved me. In a short time we were at anchor, and I was told our vessel would be detained for a day or two, and after a few articles had been taken out, permitted (cannot read word here) proceed on her voyage. The same person subsequently entered, and observed that I could be much better attended on shore, where I would be relieved from the bustle and confusion of the vessel. To this I cheerfully assented, and in the afternoon I was placed in a boat and carried to a hut near the beach;-here I was treated kindly, and every attention paid me. I had been three days on shore when the young man (whom I now discovered to be captain of the corsair) arrived, and told me our vessel would sail in an hour, and if I wished to proceed in her I was at liberty to do so, although he remarked, in my present state it would no doubt cost me my life:-and that if I would trust to him, and could bear the detention of a month or so, he would convey me to some part of Cuba, from whence I could easily procure a passage home. Believing a removal in my present state would be almost certain death, added to a strong desire to know more of a man who appeared so different from what I had heard of men engaged in the profession with which he was connected, made me assent to his proposal. In about a week I was decidedly convalescent, and I felt really grateful for the kindness of the youthful outlaw. One evening on entering my room he expressed himself gratified to see me so much recovered, as he was to sail in the morning for the other side of the islands, and it was his wish that I should accompany him, as it was likely he would fall in with some vessel bound to the United States, and I could thus get home–the next morning we were underweigh. 

It was near midnight when I was awakened by a deep groan in the cabin in which I slept–I raised my head and perceived the captain gazing on a small but beautiful dagger, which he was holding to the light as if to see more plainly–before him on the table, as well as I could judge, lay a miniature–he was in tears, and appeared much affected–In a few moments he placed them in his desk and went on deck. I mused some time on the singularity of this man, who seemed fitted for a situation better than that of a piratical captain:–he was rather small in his person, but well formed–had been handsome, I should think, but sorrow seemed to have set her seal upon his brow; his hair exhibited the marks of premature old age, although he could not be more than twenty-three.

The next night I determined to watch and see if he would again look at the dagger–he at length came down, and after sitting some time in a contemplative posture, opened the desk and again the dagger met my eye–Curiosity could bear it no longer–“What a singularity beautiful dirk,” I exclaimed–he started as if he had been shot, but suddenly reocvering himself, said, with a look which seemed as if he would reach my very thoughts, “Why did you make that remark?” I felt abashed, but he immediately added, “Since you appear anxious to know my history, I will tell it you. Do you see that,” he exclaimed, as he moved the light nearer and placed the dagger before me–“‘Tis blood,” I answered, sickening at the sight–“Ay, ’tis blood!–blood! to save one drop of which I would give all this miserable body contains–and yet,” added he, wildly, “’twas I that shed it!”–He buried his face in his hands and groaned deeply–in a few moments he became more composed, and began his story. 

Hmm. 

I’m sorry, however I cannot get over the fact of reviewers referring to him as “Poe” in their reviews, nor can I get over the fact that he has given himself the pseudonym of “— Allan Poe.” I may read this, however I am only lightly considering it. 

I will be scribing more of Henry’s works as soon as I can. This time, I will be posting his stories, as well as a few articles. 

I apologize, classes have been overwhelming this week. 

Truly yours,
Ann

Anhalt-An Old Poem

Blistering sunsets of desire
illuminate dark horizons,
gold flakes and gamboge splashes
portraying an arrogant display.

Luscious grassy hills roll
and swell, like hands upon a
lover’s figure, deep winds
chuckling at the thought.

A blushing flower blooms from
beneath its passionate gaze,
love pouring through the soil,
rich, deep and providing.

The flower, though seemingly alone,
is enraptured by the warmth of its
grassy bed, the silky sheets of
lustful skies providing it a home to reside
in the comforting embrace of Anhalt.

In Which I Go To the Cemetery With My Dear Friends

I have always adored cemeteries. There is something so enchanting and gothic about them; they’re a step out of reality and into a time standing still. 

My dear friend The Miskatonic Drinker and I visited together, alongside a friend, and had quite the splendid time. Below are some photos that I took and “professionally” edited with Instagram. (I certainly cannot lie about how I edited them, regardless of how embarrassing it is.) Please enjoy.
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