AH, NOTHING IS TOO LATE! — WIP OF SEASCAPE

Wip of Seascape -

' JULY 5TH, 1868: Today I have completed sixty-four Springtimes...and now here I am, a very old woman, embarked on my-sixty-fifth year. By one of those strange oddities in my destiny, I am now in much better health, much stronger, much more active, than I ever was in my youth... I am troubled by no hankering after the days my youth: I am no longer ambitious for fame: I desire no money except in so far as I should like to be able to leave something to my children and grandchildren...This astonishing old age... has brought me neither infirmity nor lowered vitality.

Can I still make myself useful? That one may legitimately ask, and I think that I can answer 'yes'. I feel that I may be useful in a more personal, more direct way than ever before. I have, though how I do not know, acquired much wisdom. I am better equipped to bring up children... It is quite wrong to think of old age as a downward slope. One climbs higher and higher with the advancing years, and that, too, with surprising strides. How good life is when all that one loves is as warm with life! '

Letter from George Sand to a friend 

George Sand

I have completed sixty- six Springtimes... and now here I am, embarked on my sixty-seventh year. Although far from great health like George Sand ... I desire no fame only maybe more hair : ) and enough money to move into the country or a larger older home and have that to leave behind to my children. Age has given me much wisdom and lessons learned. It's never too late - I Love painting ♥️, creating, learning. 

MUSIC - MARIAGE D'AMOUR

Mariage D'amour by Paul de Senneville

It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late—

Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
Wrote his grand “Oedipus,” and Simonides
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers
When each had numbered more than fourscore years;
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,
Had begun his “Characters of Men.”
Chaucer, at Woodstock, with his nightingales,
At sixty wrote the “Canterbury Tales.”
Goethe, at Weimar, toiling to the last,
Completed “Faust” when eighty years were past.
What then? Shall we sit idly down and say,
“The night has come; it is no longer day”?
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress.
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
It is never too late to start doing what is right.
Never.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Secret of The Sea

 

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends,
All my dreams, come back to me

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

The Secret of the Sea - 2024 

The Secret of the Sea 

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back 

to me. 

 

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

LISTEN 

 Secrets of The Sea ~ by Greg Maroney

'Ah! What pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea!' - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I'm haunted and bewitched by the beautiful celestial image I witnessed with my family on April 8th, 2024, of the solar eclipse. I find myself painting white suns these days. Even after bringing an unwanted hitchhiker home from the event, the tick : ) He, as well, was curious and wanted to see. I suppose he had an excellent place to watch from : )

The cliff and water need more work. Maybe add something else to the painting as well.

WIP ACRYLIC PAINTING 10 X 8 CANVAS

HEART'S DESIRE ~ A WOOD OF MY OWN

I always like to change things in my paintings as I paint and return to them often. Looking at the painting in a different light of day helps me see things I might have missed the day before. I wasn't sure about leaving the trunks without their leaves needles. When I finally decided to add the needles to the trees, I was happy I did. 

A pine stand in the woods is always fragrant and delightful. 

HEART'S DESIRE ~ A WOOD OF MY OWN

~Anna 2024

March 




by William Cullen Bryant




The stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.




Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild stormy month! in praise of thee;

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,

Thou art a welcome month to me.

NIGHT GALLERY

NIGHT GALLERY on Etsy Original Painting

Rod Serling's Night Gallery, The Art of Darkness. Back in the late 1960s, one of my favorite shows I loved watching was Night Gallery. Rod Serling would start the show by presenting each horror tale in a painting he had in an Art Gallery. Artist Thomas J. Wright was the artist behind all of the spooky artwork. Rod Serling would introduce each story of every episode with one of Wright's eerie paintings. The Cemetery was one of my very favorites. I painted over a painting I did some time ago inspired by Night Gallery's The Cemetery. Adding Florence the Ghost and Bat to The Cemetery just seemed perfectly haunting. This Original Painting, Night Gallery will soon be available on Etsy. Mixed Media ORIGINAL PAINTING "Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” ― Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost ♥️ Annabelle & M ♥️ © 2023
a Mixed Media ORIGINAL PAINTING
"Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” 
― Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost
♥️ Annabelle & M ♥️ 
© 2023 @batandmaggie

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

Sometimes, you have to believe in ghosts, fairies, and the luck of the Irish.

This little black pussy cat was rescued early this morning on Saint Patty's Day. Florence picked up the tiny creature who wasn't quite ready for upstairs with some help from the fairies. They lent Florence their Fairy's ladder made of Lily of the Valley. The fragrance was heavenly. Now, Florence had a new kitten to name.


Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️


This is a very old Irish poem written by a monk in the 8th or 9th century.

"Pangur was a common name for cats at that place and time and the word “Ban” means white in Gaelic." 




Pangur Ban - THE IRISH CAT POEM (vulpeslibris.wordpress.com)

I and Pangur Ban, my cat,

'Tis a like task we are at;

Hunting mice is his delight,

Hunting words I sit all night.




Better far than praise of men

'Tis to sit with book and pen;

Pangur bears me no ill will;

He, too, plies his simple skill.




'Tis a merry thing to see

At our task how glad are we,

When at home we sit and find

Entertainment to our mind.




Oftentimes a mouse will stray

Into the hero Pangur's way;

Oftentimes my keen thought set

Takes a meaning in its net.




'Gainst the wall he sets his eye

Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

'Gainst the wall of knowledge I

All my little wisdom try.




When a mouse darts from its den.

O how glad is Pangur then!

O what gladness do I prove

When I solve the doubts I love!




So in peace our tasks we ply,

Pangur Ban, my cat and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine, and he has his.




Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade ;

I get wisdom day and night,

Turning Darkness into light.'




Translation by Robin Flowers 

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

REMEMBER ME ♥️

REMEMBER ME ♥️

In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

    That mark our place; and in the sky

    The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

    The torch; be yours to hold it high.

    If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

        In Flanders fields.

A COUNTRY ESCAPE ♥️

A COUNTRY ESCAPE

Happy am I when I slip into bed-
I dream of a pastoral place,
A country escape,
And find heaven on earth

There’s a cottage @ Rideau Ferry, it’s name - “Heaven on Earth” and I think it is😇

This lovely mixed media painting is a treasure I found on one of my shopping trips, unfortunately, the artist didn’t sign their name to the artwork.

MY HOUSE, I SAY...COTTAGE BY THE SEA ~ FORGET-ME-NOT COTTAGE ( WIP/2 )

Yes, this could be my house and mine, said my husband when he looked at my painting this morning. It's still a WIP. I need to finish painting the grass along the path, maybe a couple of doves on the roof and a cat, just like Robert Louis Stevenson wrote about in the poem "My House, I Say."

The Forget- Me- Nots and Tansy are flowers we collected on our trip down east. THE INN AT WHALE COVE COTTAGES, GRAND MANAN ISLAND, NEW BRUNSWICK is a place that will always be dear to me and M. We had such a great time there and, Laura, the Inn Keeper at Whale Cove Cottages, made it extra special for us. This painting, inspired by that special place we stayed at one cold October month in 2017. One day, we shall go back!

MY HOUSE, I SAY 
~ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 1850-1894


"My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves  

That make my roof the arena of their loves,  

That gyre about the gable all day long  

And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:  

Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares  

And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;  

And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath  

If any alien foot profane the path.  

So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces,  

Our whilom gardener, called the garden his;

Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode  

And his late kingdom, only from the road."

I seem to be quite captivated by this fellow ~ The Scarecrow

The Scarecrow

- Walter de la Mare

No filter, just my phone, the garden, the scarecrow and, the sunflowers in the snow.

All winter through I bow my head 

beneath the driving rain;
the North Wind powders me with snow
and blows me black again;
at midnight 'neath a maze of stars
I flame with glittering rime,
and stand above the stubble, stiff
as mail at morning-prime.
But when that child called Spring, and all
his host of children come,
scattering their buds and dew upon
these acres of my home,
some rapture in my rags awakes;
I lift void eyes and scan
the sky for crows, those ravening foes,
of my strange master, Man.
I watch him striding lank behind
his clashing team, and know
soon will the wheat swish body high
where once lay a sterile snow;
soon I shall gaze across a sea
of sun-begotten grain,
which my unflinching watch hath sealed
for harvest once again.

DORMIR SOUS UN CYPRES

"Dormir sous un cyprès, or “to sleep under a cypress” means to be dead."

I left it for dead.

When I was inspired to paint The Quiet Garden, it was after I had come upon a beautiful garden behind The Saint John the Baptist Anglican Church in Richmond, Ontario, next to the church graveyard. But, I failed in capturing the serene landscape of The Quiet Garden and tossed the painting into the woodpile.

Sometimes, what I have in mind does not always turn out the way I conceive it in my mind. Now, I have arrived where the road leads to though not so sure how to go on. I will need to give it some thought before I make my next brush stroke.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


~Robert Frost

SEPTEMBER WOODS

SEPTEMBER WOODS

A glory of gold
And russet and grey,
The tree-tops old
Glow in the day;
And, one by one,
The dry leaves fall,
And the Autumn sun
Smiles on them all.


Where all is still
The rabbits play,
And pheasants fill
Each woodland way;
And, one by one,
The dry leaves fall,
While the Autumn sun
Smiles on them all.

 ~ Sunlight and Shade

ONLY THE LONELY 🌱

'Only the Lonely' Nicotiana Sylvestris, White Shooting Stars or Woodland Tobacco.

It was the only Nicotiana Slyvestris plant to grow in the compost garden, and I left it alone to grow next to the Pumpkin Patch.
Now that the Pumpkin Patch is gone, Only the Lonely is truly alone. 

It's beautiful, candelabra-like clusters of tubular luminous white blossoms still intoxicate the evening autumn air with a rich Jasmine-like perfume.
In the past, when the white shooting stars of the Nicotiana Sylvestris bloomed in our summer garden at the front of the house where we could see and smell its beautiful scent, we would see hummingbird moths come around twilight to sip from the tiny trumpets. But this year, the trees have taken over the sun-loving garden, and only now are the self-sown seeds from the nicotiana of last summer starting to grow, a little too late, I'm afraid. So, come early spring next year, I must remember not to forget 'Only the Lonely' and plant some of its seeds indoors. This way, I will find it a better place to grow and watch its miniature chandeliers light up under the moonlight, maybe even catch a glimpse of a little fairy in the secret garden flitting here and there in the flowers of the 'Woodland Tobacco.'

'Where at dusk the dumb white nicotine awakes and utters her fragrance in a garden sleeping.' ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Bat's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw~ Happy Caturday!

After retiring to bed late last night, my cell phone kept going off with text messages. My husband, annoyed by the numerous tinkling spells, asked me to hand him my phone and turned it off. Still drowned in sleep, it didn't occur to me until a few minutes later that it probably was my daughter, Emma texting me photos of Bat she had just taken earlier in the evening. I looked at the screen, sure enough, Bat was looking back at me.

So I got up and joined Emma in the living room, had some good laughs at all of the funny poses, picked a few we liked and went back to bed.

Of course, what came to mind looking at Bat hiding inside the old flowerpot was T.S. Eliot's story of 

'Macavity - The Mystery Cat.'

Used the filter here and made it a bit spookier

Original

PHOTO BY EMMA ( M )

"For he's the master criminal who can defy the law.

Bat, Bat, there's no one like Bat, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare: And whatever time the deed took place - BAT WASN'T THERE!"

Only this time we caught you, Bat!

The Little Sunflower's Wish 🌱🌻🧡🌻🌱🧡🌻🧡🌱

The Little Sunflower's Wish  🌱🌻🧡🌻🌱🧡🌻🧡🌱

Magic in a Tangled Garden

I glanced up to look at the sunny heads looking down from the towering stalks of the giant sunflowers. A little sunflower was looking up too. This tangled garden of ours keeps creating magic.

Nature tells us many things, and this little guy, I believe, is telling us where there is love life grows.

Ah! Sun-Flower
By William Blake

Ah, Sun-flower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the Sun:

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Where the traveler's journey is done.

Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:

Arise from their graves and aspire,

Where my Sunflower wishes to go.

Pussycat Pussycat Where Have You Been?🍀☘️🌱🌿🌷

🌷🍀☘️🌱🌿

I sneaked into M's room to visit her flowers.

Oooh, and?

When I saw a plant with teeth open its mouth I ran under the chair.

Ask M if she can grow you some Cat Grass 🌱

image ~ Wiki How

 I think you guessed the plant that scared Bat under the chair to be the mysterious, meat-eating loving plant  The Venus Flytrap . A little reading and research might just be all you need to successfully grow one of these unusual plants.




Good Luck 🍀

AIR CASTLES AND A BLACK CAT ~ MARCH 1ST/2020 🍀😺

Happy March 1st / 2020

When I am tired of toil and strife
And wearied of pursuing care,
I turn aside from real life
And build a castle in the air. 

 ~ 
Heritage Minutes: Lucy Maud Montgomery

Taking a break from the news today.

 Happy March 1st 🍀

Sunday Morning Moon Through the Trees~ Melon ~Like! 🌚

Over the top of the mountains the moon

Rose unexpectedly In the sky, it drifted, A bird, a fairy! Blown out, round and sweet Melon~ Like! ~ Patrizia Gattaceca

LILIES OF THE VALLEY

When at the end of spring I pick for the last time
My favourite flowers— a yearning fills my breast,
And to the future I urgently appeal:
Let me but once again look upon the lilies of the valley.
Now they have faded. Like an arrow the summer has flown by,
The days have grown shorter. The feathered choir is still,
The sun more charily grants us its warmth and light,
And already the wood has laid its leafy carpet.
Then when harsh winter comes
And the forests don their snowy cover,
Despondently I roam and wait with new yearning
For the skies to shine with the sun of spring.
I find no pleasure in books, or conversation,
Or swift-rushing sledges, or the ball's noisy glitter,
Or Patti, or the theatre, or delicate cuisine,
Or the quiet crackling of smouldering logs on the fire
I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears,
The wood has cast off its shroud
And prepares for us shade,
And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound,
And at last the long-looked-for day is here!
Quick to the woods!—I race along the familiar path.
Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled?—
There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand
I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring.
O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye?
Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand,
With brighter colours and livelier patterns,
Yet they have not your mysterious fascination.
Where lies the secret of your charms? What do you prophesy to the soul?
With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart?
Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures,
Or is it future bliss that you promise us?
I know not. But your balmy fragrance,
Like flowing wine, warms and intoxicates me,
Like music, it takes my breath away,
And like a flame of love, it suffuses my burning cheeks.
And I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley,
The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace,
And oppressive thoughts are gone, and in my heart in languid comfort
Welcomes, with you, forgetfulness of trouble and woe.
Yet now you fade. Again in monotonous succession
The days will begin to flow slowly, and stronger than before
Will I be tormented by importunate yearning,
By the agonizing dream of the happiness of days in May.

And then someday spring again will call
And raise the living world out of its fetters.
But the hour will strike. I shall be no more among the living,
I shall meet, like everyone, my fated turn.
And then what?—Where, at the winged hour of death,
Will my soul, heeding its command, soundlessly soar?
No answer! Be silent, my restless mind,
You cannot guess what eternity holds for us.
But like all of nature, drawn by our thirst to live,
We call to you and wait, beautiful Spring!
The joys of earth are so near to us, so familiar—
The yawning maw of the grave so dark! ~ PYOTR LLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

Spring is late this year but on a good note, it gave me a chance to pick my favorite flower...LILIES OF THE VALLEY and I was ☘️ to find this painting "Lady of Shallott" by Waterhouse.

Grace and Karson

                    Grace

July 1st, 2005 ~ Feb 27th, 2019

              

Grace and Karson photographed by M

“And it is exceedingly short, his galloping life. Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also. It is almost a failure of will, a failure of love, to let them grow old—or so it feels. We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we cannot give. •”


Mary Oliver, Dog Songs

 

Above photos by M