ocean water.love locked down.
subway faces.
Today we visited an art museum. and there was this one piece that was called: 1322 Blue & White Porcelain Bottle from the Joseon Dynasty 18th Century. And i thought: What was the name of that romantic poet that wrote that poem about the Urn. Ode to Urn? no, that sounds wrong. i cant remember. from what i remember of Mr. Kohler's 10th grade English is that Wordsworth, Keats, Bryon... one of them wrote about this Urn... and there were these ashes inside and there's an incredibly fascinating story painted on the outside. maybe it wasnt all that fascinating... but whoever-it-was sure made it sound that way. of course i cant remember it now but does anyone today remember the story that on THIS porcelain bottle? is the story as common and vague as the name of the piece? Blue & White Porcelain Bottle. i think im SUPPOSED to be asking: Who is this dragon and why the whispy cloud shapes....? why does he look so helpless and exactly how many scales can i count? i if really tried...
3129 White Porcelain Burial Figures-Joseon Dynasty 17th Century
And i was like: What will my burial figures be like? a broken polaroid camera that i dropped on Ilyse Koletsky's stairs wearing my prom dress because my heels were too high. Not six little perfect white porcelain men and women waiting to take me to the other whatever. sunflowers. those dried sunflowers that i still have from our last football game. inkless pens. and journals. unless i burn them all before i go. women with braided crowns and folded hands. men with tight top buns and folded hands. i guess we'll all be silent and pale with our hands folded one day... sorry to end on such a morbid note.
p.s. John Keats- Ode on a Grecian Urn
ReplyDeleteThou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
1820