Straying away from the straight path
in search of sumptuous grass,
Me and my friends meander to the mountain top
on a crisp clear sunny day,
The cottony white clouds mirror our soft tufts of wool,
The sea is calm today, unlike us, who are restless;
Raff rests his weary head on Walter,
Sophie and Sara lay down side by side,
While Nero dares to stare at the 'deserter' in defiance...
We don't know where to go, what to do,
And so we wander around,
What if we fall down the ravine?
I am scared and edge back,
Whereas Nero and Terry fearlessly forage for food,
Browny wishes to follow them against my warning,
Most of my friends group together,
What next? Where is our leader?
I don't know, we have no idea,
We're all looking for our lost shepherd to lead us...
...back to safety
Categories:
holman, animal, appreciation, art,
Form: Ekphrasis
William Holman Hunt paints* Jesus at our door**
the Holy Spirit wlll convict to be sure
Categories:
holman, art, christian,
Form: Didactic
William Holman Hunt of PRB
painted scripture Revelation 'three -twenty'
'Light of the World' * to Jesus' flock
listen ..do you hear His gentle knock?
Categories:
holman, art,
Form: Ekphrasis
William Holman Hunt a pre-rphelite
with much detil would cite
An insistent didactic theme
moralistic as well it would seem
Categories:
holman, art, people,
Form: Clerihew
William Holman Hunt
when founding PRB took a punt
Detail upon detail was the key
as in 'Light to the World' was to be
Categories:
holman, art, people,
Form: Clerihew
His name was, in fact, March Holman-
The man who was last head of the clan!
The second husband of Miss Ida Fields;
My stepgrandfather sure as redbird trills!
Both generations called him by one name,
Day is the same from dawn to sunset flame.
Grandparents were Mister and Miss to us-
Quaint backwoods custom had dictated thus.
Mister Holman was completely uneducated,
But in rearing a large brood, participated,
Although he was a hard drinkin' hellion,
And a tough, hard livin' son of a gun!
A mighty eagle with a determined red eye,
Without him everything would've gone awry.
When I was only seven and learning to sew,
He taught me a sewing trick I still know.
Back then, golden days were so very young,
Like the memory of the melody just sung,
And he sure must have been a man of flint,
To have left upon time this huge footprint!
Categories:
holman, courage, grandfather, life, love,
Form: Rhyme
(Victorian artist William Holman Hunt was
both attracted and repelled by his models)
Can we agree that, terrified of sex,
Hunt couldn’t help but hunt it, seek it out?
There doesn’t seem to be a shred of doubt.
He felt his women exercised some hex,
conspiracy throughout the lower decks,
full frontal on his Puritan redoubt!
He hated what he couldn’t live without
(the only punter in the multiplex).
And Annie, Fanny, Edith – on they came,
alluring, curing, reassuring, fey,
and Hunt (who fastened fast on blame and shame)
was racked by guilt and had to run away.
Another mantis, but the same old prey,
(mixed metaphor) Hunt headed for the flame.
Categories:
holman, relationship,
Form: Sonnet
Part 5 -- Si Monumentum Requiris …
Some tattered banners (from the Crimean War?
so who on earth was fighting – and what for?)
That Holman Hunt thing, over on the right,
with Jesus and His lantern – “I’m the Light”:
the Whispering Gallery, up inside the dome:
the opulence: as if a bit of Rome
had landed in gray London: Nelson’s tomb,
designed for Wolsey (were they short of room,
and had to double-up?) This is a place
to marvel at the fearless use of space,
the geometric thrill of pillar, arch and vault
in endless permutations! And the salt
which gives this feast its flavor? There’s no stone
or statue, stele, thanatory throne:
Sir Christopher, with modesty and tact,
declined memorials, but was in fact
the first man to be buried in this ground.
You seek his monument? Just look around!
Categories:
holman, history, , memorial,
Form: Couplet
Resigned to my isolation,
stuck in stasis sure as death
Weary of my solitude
and pained to not be by myself.
I went out to find the crowd
for comfort and, for company.
In each face I saw allowed,
reflections of the prison of me.
Sharp and cutting as a knife,
it did cleave to the bone
each was trapped in his own life.
Even together; all are alone.
I returned to my cell
full of dread and, distress.
Each man creates his own hell;
mine - my lingering loneliness.
Categories:
holman, introspection, life, loss, sad,
Form: Lyric