My Kid Could Paint That

Even though Eugene Delacroix is one of the most renowned painters in the world of art history, Medea (Louvre) would not be considered his best work by most people. However, I am in love with the painting. It might sound twisted, but one of the main reasons why I love this painting is because of its extremely messed up back story.

The women in the painting is Medea, who madly fell in love with a guy named Jason. And by mad, I mean pretty insane. Her father did not approve of their love and therefore decided to chase after the run-away couple using his ship. To slow slow down her father, Medea dismembered her brother and threw his body parts on an island knowing that her father would stop to pick up his son's pieces to give him a proper burial. Now, do you mean what I mean by crazy?

But hold on, there's more.

After getting rid of the father, Medea and Jason ran to an island, but shortly after their arrival, Jason became engaged to the princess of the island. Abandoning the girl who just killed her brother to be with you? Not the best idea Jason, not the best idea. Medea, filled with jealousy and hatred, gave the princess a crown and a gown as "wedding presents," but here's the twist, they were poisoned. The new princess died. To complete her ultimate revenge, Medea killed Jason's twins (also her own) right in front of him. Crazy.

Many of Delacroix's paintings appear chaotic and heroic. Medea (Louvre) at first glance does not seem so chaotic for the fact that there's only three people drawn on the canvas, but that I find interesting is the picture outside of it. I imagine Jason chasing Medea down with an army of troops thinking it was the last of her -- only to witness the brutal death of his own sons. The beauties behind tragic and chaos are unspeakable. Medea (Louvre) depicted a powerful scene of a mother killing her own sons, but at the same time you can also feel her despair, her anger, and her agony as a murderer and a victim of love.

When I am Dead, My Dearest

By CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

Sir, I am not a bird of prey:

a Lady does not seize the day.

I trust that brief Time will unfold

our youth, before he makes us old.

How could we two write lines of rhyme

were we not fond of numbered Time

and grateful to the vast and sweet

trials his days will make us meet?

The Grave's not just the body's curse;

no skeleton can pen a verse!

So while this numbered World we see,

let's sweeten Time with poetry,

and Time, in turn, may sweeten Love

and give us time our love to prove.

You've praised my eyes, forehead, breast;

you've all our lives to praise the rest.

- 1997

Editor's Note: Students were asked to pair a poem and painting with no explanation of the connection.

Beasts Bounding Through Time
By CHARLES BUKOWSKI

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints

Hemingway testing his shotgun

Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine

the impossibility of being human

Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief

Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town

the impossibility of being human

Burroughs killing his wife with a gun

Mailer stabbing his

the impossibility of being human

Maupassant going mad in a rowboat

Dostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shot

Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller

the impossibility

Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato

Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun

Lorca murdered in the road by Spanish troops

the impossibility

Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench

Chatterton drinking rat poison

Shakespeare a plagiarist

Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness

the impossibility the impossibility

Nietzsche gone totally mad

the impossibility of being human

all too human

this breathing

in and out

out and in

these punks

these cowards

these champions

these mad dogs of glory

moving this little bit of light toward us

impossibly. 

Editor's Note: Students were asked to pair a poem and painting with no explanation of the connection. 

Editor's Note: Students were asked to pair a poem and painting with no explanation of the connection.
 

Editor's Note: Students were asked to pair a poem and painting with no explanation of the connection.

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

   Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, 

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery, 

   Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain; 

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face, 

   Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 

And think that I may never live to trace 

   Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; 

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, 

   That I shall never look upon thee more, 

Never have relish in the faery power 

   Of unreflecting love—then on the shore 

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Editor's Note: Students were asked to pair a poem and painting with no explanation of the connection. 

Ode to Nightingale

John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 

         But being too happy in thine happiness,— 

                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees 

                        In some melodious plot 

         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 

                Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! 

O for a beaker full of the warm South, 

         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 

                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 

                        And purple-stained mouth; 

         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

                And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

         What thou among the leaves hast never known, 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 

                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 

                        And leaden-eyed despairs, 

         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 

Already with thee! tender is the night, 

         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 

                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 

                        But here there is no light, 

         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 

                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

         Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 

         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 

                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 

                        And mid-May's eldest child, 

         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 

         I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

         To take into the air my quiet breath; 

                Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 

         To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 

                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 

                        In such an ecstasy! 

         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— 

                   To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

         No hungry generations tread thee down; 

The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

         In ancient days by emperor and clown: 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 

                She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 

                        The same that oft-times hath 

         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

         To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 

         Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 

                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 

                        In the next valley-glades: 

         Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Editor's Note: Students were asked to pair a poem and painting with no explanation of the connection.