I have just got into Bullet Journaling created by Ryder Carroll. I have the new Sheaffer Targa and am going to write in blue.
Also I now need different Washi tapes
Plus inspiration to decorate my books cover.
I have Rachel Wilkerson Millers book on how to do it. But suspect the original Ryder Carroll might be needed. This will change my life for sure.
Miles Whinfrey June 2017 (c)
Untitled
Solipsism or sophistry
Who can tell?
It’s what it is
After all
You are, hard science
Business deals
Make it happen- like the first
No time for pleasantries
Enjoy Prague holiday
Ice-cream once
Now you’re miserable
It’s time to dance on the head of a pin
You can’t shut-up.
Afternoon On A Hill
1917.
I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes
Watch the wind bow down the grass
And the grass rise
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town
I will mark which must be mine
And then start down
© Miles Whinfrey 2016.
A poem by Miles Whinfrey of Derby on a poem by
Thomas Deloney
Skit on ‘The tribulations around the self-made
Jack of Newbury.’
In 1597 Jack’s maidens served his clothiers’ business
ione born of wealthy parents, brought up in good qualities
Much time in the office
was comely, in full bloom
Serious minded
Bless her soul
But some might say a ‘plain Jane’
Don’t blink in love or business or you might miss it
Once Italian merchant made offerings of love
“I’ve no time for you,” she said, “Keep your friendship
to yourself… I won’t marry you.”
He was hurt
“You don’t have to marry me, visit me in the bedroom.
Shit on my bed, let me kiss you.”
She laughed
Sweet talker
This suitor’s knowledge of Italian C15th jokes on awkward
situation is amazing
I probably like him more than I could love him
I won’t hurt him
He lovingly handles cloth, takes it to see from in
The best light
Goes to a quiet corner to think, matriculate, comes
back strident
“If I can’t offer you something through conversation,
accept these four crown coins.”
“I won’t take them.”
Punishing him twice
If you or I had been there we would have hugged him
It ended there.
ione later met with an English nobleman called Benedick
He too was smitten
Work’s out the window or she’s been promoted
She’s crazy I’ll tell you that now
Heading for disaster
She wanted to rub him with the sweat of a mule
Car crash
Benedick and ione were lovers
They split
Strangely arguing over Italians.
© Miles Whinfrey Feb 2017.
Cento
Games
1. I wandered thro each chartered street
2. Some are plain lucky we ourselves among them houses with books
3. In my beginning in my end in succession houses rise and fall
4. My mother groaned my father wept
5. The colour quick in fluid oil affirms the flesh
6. Balance is everything
7. Hold fast to dreams
8. Apartment on Rue de Charenton the window cleaner stands in freeze frame
9. Older more generous we give each other hope.
1. Blake, London
2. Jay Macpherson, A Lost Soul
3. TS Elliott, East Coker
4. Blake, Infant Sorrow
5. Yvor Winter, On the portrait of a scholar of the Italian Renaissance
6. Alice B. Fogel, Balance
7. Langston Hughes, Dreams
8. Suzannah Evans, Street View
9. N. Scott Momaday, A Lost Soul.
Cento response- Modus
1. Drive to Chartered Surveyor
2. Maybe privileged. Needed, felt- strive
3. Being, seeing, conquering- thinking be ready
4. Disappointing, but not when things go wrong
5. Conventional outsider- convinced of immanent success
6. My battle, my turmoil, aggregates all else
7. Worth the sacrifice
8. Drinking in life, cultures, change the norm
9. Lends power to pay it back.
To the Reader
by Samuel Daniel
Behold, once more with serious labour here
Have I refurnished out this little frame,
Repaired some parts defective here and there,
And passages new added to the same,
Some rooms enlarged, made some less than they were;
Like to the curious builder who this year
Pulls down and alters what he did the last,
As if the thing in doing were more dear
Than being done, and nothing likes that’s past
For that we ever make the latter day
The scholar of the former, and we find
Something is still amiss that must delay
Our business, and leave work for us behind.
As if there were no sabbath of the mind.
And howsoever be it well or ill
What I have done, it is mine own, I may
Do whatsoever therewithal I will.
I may pull down, raise, and re-edify;
It is the building of my life, the fee
Of Nature, all th’ inheritance that I
Shall leave to those which must come after me;
And all the care I have is but to see
These lodgings of my affections neatly dressed,
Wherein so many noble friends there be,
Whose memories with mine must therein rest.
And glad I am that I have lived to see
This edifice renewed, who do but long
To live to amend. For man is a tree
That hath his fruit late ripe, and it is long
Before he come t’ his taste; there doth belong
So much t’ experience, and so infinite
The faces of things are, as hardly we
Discern which looks the likest unto right.
Besides, these curious times, stuffed with the store
Of compositions in this kind, do drive
Me to examine my defects the more,
And oft would make me not myself believe,
Did I not know the world wherein I live,
Which neither is so wise as that would seem,
Nor certain judgement of those things doth give
That it dislikes, nor that it doth esteem.
I know no work from man yet ever came
But had his mark, and by some error showed
That it was his, and yet what in the same
Was rare, and worthy, evermore allowed
Safe convoy for the rest; the good that’s sowed,
Though rarely, pays our cost, and who so looks
T’ have all things in perfection and in frame
In men’s inventions, never must read books.
And howsoever here detraction may
Disvalue this my labour, yet I know
There will be found therein that which will pay
The reckoning for the errors which I owe,
And likewise will sufficiently allow
T’ an undistasted judgement fit delight;
And let presumptuous self-opinion say
The worst it can, I know I shall have right.
I know I shall be read, among the rest,
So long as men speak English, and so long
As verse and virtue shall be in request,
Or grace to honest industry belong:
And England, since I use thy present tongue,
Thy form of speech, thou must be my defence
If to new ears it seems not well expressed,
For, though I hold not accent, I hold sense.
Sonnet XLIII
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love you to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love you to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, – I love thee with the breadth,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and , If God chose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Sonnet from Monna Innominata
Christina Rossetti
I loved you first: but afterwards your love
Outsoared mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? my love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved I guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be-
Nay, weights and measures do us both wrong.
For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love;
Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’
Both have the strength and the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love that makes us one.
Just like I ‘like’ the Baz Lerman film Romeo + Juliet and the song Roxanne.
PM Poets- 8th September Derby Museum & Art Gallery
Miles Whinfrey © September 2015.
Turner’s Paintings & Clouds
Born Covent Garden, in the rule of George the Third
Barber and Wigmakers son
From a child drew and painted
Pictures up and sold in fathers quarters
Wanted to be an Artist
Thomas Malton Topo Draughtsman took as apprentice
Have a go Joseph- It’s for money
On to the RA of Joshua Reynolds
No direct entry- through the Schools
Wasn’t taught painting
A feature artist for magazine travelling Britain and
Europe
In France saw first Claude Lorrain, then more and more
‘Work before life,’ the whole regime, practiced
and perfect: Chalk, pencil- tobacco juice, watercolour
Fine touches of aquarelle, bold strokes of impasto
Around then made Academician
The modern world we know was emerging at this time
Must have thought hard- ‘what can be achieved with painters
roll and easel?’
Photographic insights, paint development, and Goethes colour
selection rules
Light, force of elements, clouds, enormity of the geographic
The Sublime
Delacroix was wrong
Searching sunlight through mist: ‘Louis Phillipe at Clarence Yard’
Tumultuous swirling maelstrom: ‘Slavers in the Typhoon’
Rippingdale knew.