Wine is bottled poetry

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2013

To Autumn — John Keats

  

artworks by Josephine Wang © 2013

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
…………………
— To Autumn, John Keats

Season of Sweetness

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2012

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2012

Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones and good in everything

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2013

Rends-moi... I·II

rends-moi la différence
entre le soleil et la pluie
ma vaste solitude
où  je pouvais courir
rends-moi le ciel
les heures les années
une fenêtre
— Silvia Baron Supervielle
artwork by Josephine Wang © 2015

 

Give me back the difference
between sun and rain
my vast solitude
in which I could run about
give me back the sky
the hours the years
a window
— Silvia Baron Supervielle
artwork by Josephine Wang © 2015

 

All Quiet on the Water Front

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2015

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Artwork by Josephine Wang ©2015

 

Nothing is more musical than a sunset

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2013

The art of art...

The art of art, the glory of expression, and the
sunshine of the light of letters is simplicity.
artwork by Josephine Wang © 2015

You must believe in Spring

artwork by Josephine Wang © 2012

You Must Believe in Spring — Jan Zwicky
Because it is the garden. What is left to us.
Because silence is not silence without sound.
Because you have let the cat out, and then in, and then out, and then in,
and then out, and then in, and then out, and then in, and then out, and then in, enough.
Because otherwise their precision at the blue line would mean nothing.
Because otherwise death would mean nothing.
Because the light says so.
Because a human being can gladly eat only so much cabbage.
Because the pockets of your overcoat need mending.
Because it's easy not to.
Because your sweaters smell.
Because Gregory of Nazianzen said that geometry has no place in mourning,
by which he meant despair presumes too much.
Because it ain't over 'til it's over. — Hank Aaron, Jackie Robinson. Satchel Paige.
Because Kant was wrong, and Socrates, Descartes and all the rest.
Because it is the body thinking and Newt Gingrich would like you not to.
Because the signs are not wrong: you are here.
Because I love you. Or you love someone. Because someone is loved.
Because under the sun, everything is new.
Because wet snow in the trees is clotted light.
Because in 1841 it took six cords of wood to get through a winter in one room at
Harvard and two-thirds of Maine used to be open country as a result.
Because sleeping is not death.
Because although an asshole was practising his Elvis Presley imitation, full voice,
Sunday morning, April 23rd at Spectacle Lake Provincial Park, the winter wren simply
moved 200 yards down the trail.
Because the wren's voice is moss in sunlight, because it is a stream in sunlight over stones.
Because Beethoven titled the sonata.
I mean: would Bill Evans and Frank Morgan lie to you?
Because even sorrow has a source.
For, though it cannot fly, the heart is an excellent clamberer.

Sonnet 98

artwork by Josephine Wang ©2015

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
   Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
   As with your shadow I with these did play.
—William Shakespeare

I still live...

I still live, I still paint, I still have to live, I still have to paint...