18 July 1817: The Death of Jane Austen, a Guest Post by Kyra Kramer | ReginaJeffers’s Blog

Kyra Kramer recently shared this post on Austen Authors. It speaks so poignantly of the loss of Jane Austen that I thought it appropriate to share here with you on the 200th Anniversary of Jane Aus…

Source: 18 July 1817: The Death of Jane Austen, a Guest Post by Kyra Kramer | ReginaJeffers’s Blog

James Van Der Zee: Life and Death in Harlem | A R T L▼R K

On the 29th of June 1886, the largely self-taught African-American photographer James Van Der Zee was born in Lenox, Massachusetts. He became the leading photographer of the Harlem Renaissance, als…

Source: James Van Der Zee: Life and Death in Harlem | A R T L▼R K

First Night Design | Carpe Diem: Let me die a youngman’s death by Roger McGough #Reost

FROM THE ARCHIVE 8th April 2013

The Liverpool poet Roger McGough never ceases to enthrall me. I was reminded of this marvellous poem by a friend who posted it on Facebook yesterday.  McGough makes you smile and always makes trenc…

Source: Carpe Diem: Let me die a youngman’s death by Roger McGough | First Night Design

First Night Design | #CoverMakeOver Week 7 — What Dreams May Come

#photorehabcovermakeover Week 6 What Dreams May Come
Original & vintage art © First Night Design [www.firstnightdesign.wordpress.com]

‘Chris Neilson dies to find himself in a heaven more amazing than he could have ever dreamed of. There is one thing missing: his wife. After he dies, his wife, Annie killed herself and went to hell. Chris decides to risk eternity in hades for the small chance that he will be able to bring her back to heaven.’ IMdb

When Julie Powell announced this week’s challenge, I thought the film, What Dreams May Come (1998) with Robin Williams, was not one I’d seen. The original cover gave me no clue and even the details Julie gave about the movie winning the Academy Award for Best Visual Effects, the Art Directors Guild Award for Excellence in Production Design and a nomination for the Academy Award for Best Art Direction didn’t conjure up the story. Only when I looked at IMdb did I realise that we saw it on television a few weeks ago and rather enjoyed it. IMdb’s blurb makes it sound too ethereal for my taste but in fact, it’s a film that makes you think about life, death and love in ways you might not have previously. And the landscapes are luscious.

I have used a design I’m still creating as the backdrop in a bid to show the landscapes of the film. The title font and strap line is in Seravek ExtraLight while the star’s name is in Goudy Medieval Regular – perhaps a little too Gothic but I was running out of time.

Click here for instructions if you would like to take part in future challenges.

Take care and keep laughing!

The Funeral Coach: 1855 | Mrs Daffodil Digresses

A vintage ghost story for your delectation.

Originally posted on Mrs Daffodil Digresses.

“1855, March 28.—The following story was told me by Lady S., who heard it from Mr. M., a gentleman of considerable note, and one not at all given to romancing:—

“Mr. M., a well-known lawyer, went to stay with Mr.T., in the county of ___. In the course of their first evening together, Mr. M. learned that, among his host’s neighbours, was an old friend of his own, for whom he had great regard; but of whom he had lost sight since college days. The next morning Mr. M asked the gentleman of the house if he would forgive him if he walked over to see his old friend; adding a request that if he were asked to dinner, he might be allowed to accept the invitation.

“On being assured that he might do whatever was most agreeable to himself, he went to make his call—not on foot, as he had proposed, but in his friend’s dog-cart. As he anticipated, the gentleman he went to see insisted on his staying to dinner. He consented, and sent the groom back with the dog-cart, with a message to his master to say that, as it would be a fine moonlight night, he should prefer walking home. After having passed a very agreeable day with the old fellow-collegian, he bade him good-bye; and, fortified with a couple of cigars, sallied forth on his return. On his way he had to pass through the pleasant town of ___, and on coming to the church in the main street, he leaned against the iron railings of the churchyard while he struck a match and lighted his second cigar. At that moment the church clock began to strike. As he had left his watch behind him, and did not feel certain whether it were ten o’clock or eleven, he stayed to count, and to his amazement found it twelve. He was about to hurry on, and make up for lost time, when his curiosity was pricked, and the stillness of the night broken, by the sound of carriage wheels on the road, moving at a snail’s pace, and coming up the side street directly facing the spot where he was standing. The carriage proved to be a mourning-coach, which, on turning at right angles out of the street in which Mr. M. first saw it, pulled up at the door of a large red brick house. Not being used to see mourning-coaches out at such an unusual hour, and wondering to see this one returning at such a funereal pace, he thought he would stay and observe what happened. The instant the coach drew up at the house, the carriage door opened, then the street door, and then a tall man, deadly pale, in a suit of sables, descended the…

via The Funeral Coach: 1855 | Mrs Daffodil Digresses.

First Night Design | Marc Zakharovich Chagall (1887 – 1985)

Marc Chagall’s painting of his parents [Wikipedia]

The Belarussian-Russian-French artist Marc Chagall died on this day in 1985.

Marc Chagall in Paris, 1921 [Wikipedia]

“If I create from the heart, nearly everything works; if from the head, almost nothing.”  Good Reads

“What a genius, that Picasso. It is a pity he doesn’t paint.” Good Reads

Take care and keep laughing!

Carpe Diem: Let me die a youngman’s death by Roger McGough

Youngman’s Death @ First Night Design

The Liverpool poet Roger McGough never ceases to enthrall me. I was reminded of this marvellous poem by a friend who posted it on Facebook yesterday.  McGough makes you smile and always makes trenchant points on whichever subject he writes about.

When I was in my thirties, I went back into education to do a Humanities degree. I did not complete the course, partly because I became ill and partly because I started resenting the way literature was being examined.  The pulling apart of sentences to build or deduce meaning began to ruin my native enjoyment.  I did not want to finish the degree and, like a then neighbour of mine, find I had no desire to pick up another work of fiction or book of poetry.  This neighbour had studied History at Oxford and in the fifteen or so years since, had read perhaps one history book.

That is not to decry what such study can do. I learned a great deal and was introduced to writers I had never considered reading such as Doris Lessing and the poet Grace Nichols.

In the meantime, I urge you to read what you will into Let me die a youngman’s death.  And whatever you think or feel about what he is saying is every bit as valuable and ‘right’ and ‘true’ as the pontificating of any literary critic. McGough, in a recent article in The Daily Telegraph recalls how he became hooked on poetry during a Physics lesson at his Catholic school: ‘To hell with this, let’s have some poetry,’ Brother Ryan said, and he’d close his eyes and recite a poem in Gaelic. I was transfixed because it was poetry out of context, rather than, ‘Turn to page 156 and tell me what the poet means at line 17.’

Let me die a youngman’s death by Roger McGough

Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death

Take care and keep laughing!

Related articles

• Roger McGough on discovering poetry, his mother’s influence and envying The Beatles (telegraph.co.uk)