Minutes: September 26, 2011
Green Bay Art Colony
For Members:
Spring 2012 GBAC Themed Art Exhibit
(The time is now to get those creative juices flowing!!)
Theme:
Poems for Creative Visual Expression: Rules
1. Artists will have the choice of picking one poem that inspires
them visually for each of three future art pieces.
2. Poems will be available from a selection of five pre-chosen
poems written by famous poets.
3. Should Artists not respond to pre-chosen poems, a poem
written by themselves or others can be used. [keep them short]
4. When submitting artwork for next themed show, artists will
also provide a copy of poem to be placed below their name tag.
5. Artists will work toward three finished works following above
rules.
POEMS:
A Slash of Blue by Emily Dickinson
A slash of Blue --
A sweep of Gray --
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky --
A little purple -- slipped between --
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on --
A Wave of Gold --
A Bank of Day --
This just makes out the Morning Sky.
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" by Emily Dickinson
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" --
The hue -- of it -- is Blood --
An Artery -- upon the Hill --
A Vein -- along the Road --
Great Globules -- in the Alleys --
And Oh, the Shower of Stain --
When Winds -- upset the Basin --
And spill the Scarlet Rain --
It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below --
It gathers ruddy Pools --
Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away --
Upon Vermilion Wheels --
Flower in the Crannied Wall by Alfred Tennyson
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies;
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand;
Little flower—but /if/ I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
*****
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
W.B. Yeats, from "The Lake Isle of Innisfree"
Hope is the thing... by Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.