Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 27, 2025

You're likely to be familiar with "American Gothic" but have you seen the other interesting paintings that Grant Wood (1891-1941) made? Or heard of the ice wagons?


Grant Wood, Death on Ridge Road, 1935

As automobiles became more prevalent in the 1930s, so did car accidents. Ridge Road outside of Stone City was notoriously dangerous. The scene here closely resembles Jay Sigmund’s accident while traveling to visit Wood at the Stone City Arts Colony in 1933. 

the car Sigmund was travelling in, driven by his son, was clipped by a truck and rolled twice. Sigmund’s writing hand was badly damaged and his index finger was amputated.

Shortly after his car wreck, Sigmund penned the poem Death Rides a Rubber-Shod Horse.


In 1934, Wood was hired as the head of Iowa’s Works Progress Administration (WPA)





For the state of Iowa, Grant Wood was the director, and he developed a team of artists who he felt were best qualified to paint the murals for Iowa State. He hired Christian Petersen, not to work on the library murals, but to carry out the commission Petersen had already obtained from President Hughes.

The PWAP lasted only a little over four months and employed only about 30 Iowa artists. Each artist was paid about $25 a week and most of them did not work for the entire life of the Project. Most of the artists who produced work for Iowa State did, however, maintain their PWAP employment over the four months. A few of them even continued working after their funding was guaranteed, so sincere was their zeal to complete the art they had started.

Wood borrowed his theme for When Tillage Begins, Other Arts Follow from a speech on agriculture delivered by Daniel Webster in 1840 at the State House in Boston. 

Webster said, "When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers therefore are the founders of human civilization." 

Wood had planned to create 17 mural panels for the library, but only 12 were completed. The panels were devoted to agriculture, mechanics and home economics.



In 1932, Wood helped establish the summer activity, Stone City Arts Colony

Inspired by prominent artist colonies in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Woodstock, New York, they leased 10 acres of idyllic Iowa farmland.

Archives of American Art called it a place where artists could “study together, work together, and play together.” Many colony residents lived in old ice wagons, some of which they painted with as much care as was given to any canvas.

It lasted only two summers due to financial challenges. 

The tuition and room and board collected from students fell far short of paying the colony’s outstanding bills, and the colony ended its 1933 session in debt by almost $1,500.65 Ultimately, with the help of a grant from the Carnegie Corporation—a grant originally meant for the colony’s purchase of the Green estate in 1933—and the personal wealth of one of Wood’s friends, John C. Reid, the debts were eventually settled a year later.

This is Grant Wood, putting the finishing touches on his ice wagon painting, the scene includes mountains, streams, deer, and an Indian standing on one summit peering into the distance 

Wood was no stranger to living like a gypsy, because he'd left he family farm at age 10, and had been a soldier in the Army in WW1. 






To proclaim its discovery of a troop of artists camped out on an Iowa hillside in the summer of 1932, the Christian Science Monitor focused on the colony’s housing challenges

 Indeed, housing for the hundred or so colony participants was in short supply in the tiny village. The bulk of the colony was located near the crest of a hill overlooking the village as it straddles the Wapsipinicon River. 

There the colonists planted their artistic flag on the former estate owned by nineteenth-century quarrying mogul John Aloysius Green. The sturdy stone buildings Green left behind—an ice house, barn, water tower, and, most elaborate of all, the “Green mansion” itself—served as a combination of studio, gallery, and instructional and living space. 

In the large Green mansion, female colonists roomed on the second floor, while male colonists bunked upstairs in the attic. The men who did not fit in the attic or could not afford the rooming costs pitched camp nearby in tents, or— as its most famous resident, Grant Wood, did—in old ice wagons hauled from Cedar Rapids to serve as temporary shelter.

Grant Wood, the Iowa-born artist who just two years earlier had made a name for himself with his now famous work, American Gothic, was the faculty director in 1932 and lived in one of ten ice wagons high above the village.

Helping to shape the Christian Science Monitor’s portrayal of the encampment as a gypsy caravan, Wood painted the outside of his wagon with a sweeping pastoral landscape in what would become his familiar style—fantastical scenes of sensually curving hillsides and farmscapes done in sharp, clearly defined lines. The other ice wagon residents followed suit







https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/abs/10.1086/quarbullarchamer.3.4.1556810?journalCode=quarbullarchamer

FYI, Wood posed his sister and his Cedar Rapids dentist as the dour-faced figures in American Gothic

Friday, December 02, 2022

It's unusual for me to find poetry about car related stuff, but today I came across this

There’s a little old fellow and he has a little paintpot,
 And a paucity of brushes is something that he ain’t got,
 And when he sees a road sign, the road sign he betters,
 And expresses of himself by eliminating letters.

 Thus THROUGH ROAD
 Becomes ROUGH ROAD
 And CURVES DANGEROUS
 Is transformed to CURVES ANGER US

But the old fellow feels a slight dissatisfaction
 With the uninspiring process of pure subtraction.
 The evidence would indicate he’s taken as his mission
The improvement of the road signs by the process of addition.

RIGHT EAST BOUND TUNNEL

Is elaborated to

FRIGHTENED BEASTS ABOUND IN TUNNEL

it goes on, this is only about 1/2 of it, but it's the best part

Monday, March 14, 2022

2nd Lt Mitchener was captured as a POW after a bombing raid in Germany during World War II; he was subsequently sent to Stalag Luft III, and kept a diary/scrapbook. It survived and was scanned into the Tennessee State Library & Archives


In July 1941, Hardy A. Mitchener, Jr. enlisted in the Air Force 

Second Lieutenant Mitchener, navigator for a B-17G of 351st Bombardment Group, stationed in Polebrook, England, was shot down and captured on May 30, 1944, after a bombing mission in Oschersleben, Germany, and sent to Stalag Luft III shortly thereafter.  

During his stay at this POW camp in Sagan, Germany, known principally for the famous "Great Escape" that took place in March 1944, Mitchener kept a diary of his experiences.


Stalag Luft III was run by the German Luftwaffe, thus allowing for at least a modicum of respect between the prisoners and captors, although conditions were by no means comfortable. It was certainly preferable to imprisonment under the SS, however. Stalag Luft III is located in present-day Zagan, Poland, but at the time, it was a remote part of German territory and called Sagan. 




Kriege means prisoners










The region was rich in coal but rather cold and barren during the wintertime. Known as Silesia, the soil was also notoriously sandy, which made escape via underground digging difficult. Despite the unforgiving geography, a number of British airmen were able to mastermind the famous "Great Escape" in March 1944.









I bet no history class in America is showing this to students... real no shit day to day WW2 POW life. 
I love everything about this, it's real history, a soldiers life, art, poetry, and scrapbook of WW2 experience


Mitchener grew up in Nashville in the Inglewood area and graduated from Isaac Litton High School in 1936. While in high school, he was voted "Wittiest Boy" and "Friendliest Boy," according to his senior yearbook, "The Littonian." He attended Vanderbilt University for a year and was a member of Sigma Nu fraternity. He returned home from the war without physical injury but died at an early age from cancer. He was only 38. 

Many details about his life upon his return home have been difficult to uncover, but he is known to have married Estelle Wadell in 1948. They had no children. Mitchener had one sister, Margaret. It is likely that his diary was in her possession in 1993 when she died; the diary was acquired by TSLA in 1994. 

Mitchener died 1957 at St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville and is buried at Spring Hill Cemetery in Nashville, Tennessee.



This is only the 3rd POW book I've ever come across, the 1st was an incredible book about cars, that the British prisoners made similar to how a magazine would talk about cars and events.  https://justacarguy.blogspot.com/2016/03/the-most-amazing-thing-i-saw-today-book.html and in that link you'll see why I had to buy a copy, as they are in print, on Amazon. Also, that's where I posted about the other book that was found in a used book store

I jusdt remembered, there is one other, and that is the amazing diary / sketchbook of George Rarey. I got myself one copy from the tips from cool readers, for Christmas. They can be purchased on Amazon, for about 100 dollars https://justacarguy.blogspot.com/2015/02/i-had-not-known-p-47s-had-nose-art-too.html 

Now, if this post of a POW scrapbook don't make your day, I don't know what will. 

Tuesday, February 08, 2022

“In Other Words,” an airman’s drinking song from World War I:


I was fighting a Hun in the heyday of youth,
Or perhaps ’twas a Nieuport or Spad.
I put in a burst at a moderate range
And it didn’t seem too bad.
For he put down his nose in a curious way,
And as I watched, I am happy to say:
Chorus:
He descended with unparalleled rapidity,
His velocity ‘twould beat me to compute.
I speak with unimpeachable veracity,
With evidence complete and absolute.
He suffered from spontaneous combustion
As towards terrestrial sanctuary he dashed,
In other words — he crashed!
I was telling the tale when a message came through
To say ’twas a poor RE8.
The news somewhat dashed me, I rather supposed
I was in for a bit of hate.
The CO approached me. I felt rather weak,
For his face was all mottled, and when he did speak
Chorus:
He strafed me with unmitigated violence,
With wholly reprehensible abuse.
His language in its blasphemous simplicity
Was rather more exotic than abstruse.
He mentioned that the height of his ambition
Was to see your humble servant duly hung.
I returned to Home Establishment next morning,
In other words — I was strung!
As a pilot in France I flew over the lines
And there met an Albatros scout.
It seemed that he saw me, or so I presumed;
His manoeuvres left small room for doubt.
For he sat on my tail without further delay
Of my subsequent actions I think I may say:
Chorus:
My turns approximated to the vertical,
I deemed it most judicious to proceed.
I frequently gyrated on my axis,
And attained colossal atmospheric speed,
I descended with unparalleled momentum,
My propeller’s point of rupture I surpassed,
And performed the most astonishing evolutions,
In other words — * *** ****!
I was testing a Camel on last Friday week
For the purpose of passing her out.
And before fifteen seconds of flight had elapsed
I was filled with a horrible doubt
As to whether intact I should land from my flight.
I half thought I’d crashed — and half thought quite right!
Chorus:
The machine seemed to lack coagulation,
The struts and sockets didn’t rendezvous,
The wings had lost their super-imposition,
Their stagger and their incidental, too!
The fuselage developed undulations,
The circumjacent fabric came unstitched
Instanter was reduction to components,
In other words — she’s pitched!

(From Peter G. Cooksley, Royal Flying Corps 1914-1918, 2007.)
via https://www.futilitycloset.com/2017/09/18/in-a-word-573/

Thursday, January 06, 2022

After being caught driving at 91 mph on the 60 mph A361 North Devon Link road in 2011, filmmaker and traffic legislation activist Martin Cassini presented his case at Barnstaple Magistrates Court in a series of rhymed couplets:

Before you today stands a man in the dock 
To whom this bleak chapter’s a terrible shock

Kind and aware on the road as a rule
 He tripped up that day and transgressed a rule.

The outlandish speed was but a short burst
 On a dual lane stretch to get up there first

To the top of the hill to avoid getting stuck
 Down the single lane stretch by a slow moving truck.

If you averaged my speed over hillock and dale
 You’d find it to be not at all yon the pale

The law’s quick to judge if you’re over the limit
 No praise if you’re under — one sided, innit?

The design of the road is dubious at most
 It’s the link for Pete’s sake from M5 to coast

Why only three lanes? There was good room for four
 The vision was lacking, the carriageway’s poor.

The limit is 60 for one lane downhill
 And 60 — the same — for two lanes uphill

Until this dark day my licence was clean 
Too late for considering what might have been.

They say that speed kills, but throughout these lands
Inappropriate speed kills, or speed in the wrong hands

I wasn’t lacking due care and attention 
Indeed I was using true care and attention

I was watching the road, not checking the speed
Could this be a safer, superior creed.


They fined him £175. “I wanted to challenge one-size-fits-all regulation that ignores the spirit of the law, and at the same time recognise that I had disobeyed the letter,” he told the Daily Mail. But “Now I’m taking greater pains to follow the letter of the law.”

Friday, December 24, 2021

Twas the night before Christmas


Twas the night before Christmas and I was so bored,
There wasn’t a trace of a Chevy or a Ford.

The presents were wrapped and the lights were all lit,
So I figured I’d mess with my Dart for a bit.

I popped the release and I lifted the hood,
When a deep voice behind me said “looks pretty good.”

Well, as you can imagine, I turned mighty quick,
And there, by the workbench, stood good ol’ Saint Nick!

We stood there a bit, not too sure what to say,
Then he said, “don’t suppose that you’d trade for my sleigh?

I said “no way, Santa” and started to grin,
“But if you’ve got the time we could go for a spin!”

His round little mouth, all tied up like a bow,
Turned into a smile and he said “Hey! Let’s go!!”

So as not to disturb all the neighbors in The Retreat ,
We pushed the GTS quietly into the street,

Then, taking our places to roll down the hill,
I turned on the key and I let the clutch spill.

The sound that erupted took him by surprise,
But he liked it a lot, by the look in his eyes.

With Hoosiers a’ crying and side pipes aglow,
We headed to Summit, where the hot rodders go.

And Santa’s grin widened, approaching his ears,
With every up shift, as I went through the gears.

Then he yelled “can’t recall when I’ve felt so alive!”
So I backed off the gas and said “you wanna drive?”

Ol’ Santa was stunned when I gave him the keys,
When he walked past the headlights he shook at the knees!

Then the 440 exploded with that great exhaust sound!
Santa let out the clutch and the tires shook the ground!

Power shift into second, again into third!
I sat there just watching, at loss for a word,

Then I heard him exclaim as we blasted into fourth and out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all………..what a great night!!!”

Friday, August 20, 2021

a poem from before 1928, from a poet you've never heard of, but will probably be impressed with his award winning work ... he even found a rhyme for oranges.

Along the country roads there grow
Willow trees and Texaco,
Mobiloils and marigold, 
and other fruits of men and mould

Oh, how my town-tried heart desires
to know the peace of Kelly tires
to hear the robin in the grass
Sing "Socony", as I pass!

Some day I shall fly the rut
and build a small, bucolic hut,
Trim a hedge and hop a stile, 
Walk my Camel for a mile, 
Milk a mid-Victorian cow
Eventually, but not now. 

Samuel Hoffenstein


Samuel "Sam" Hoffenstein (October 8, 1890 - October 6, 1947) was a screenwriter and a musical composer. 
Born in Russia, he emigrated to the United States and began a career in New York City as a newspaper writer and in the entertainment business.
In 1931 he moved to Los Angeles, where he lived for the rest of his life and where he wrote the scripts for over thirty movies.
 These movies included Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1931) for which he was nominated for an Academy Award, The Miracle Man (1932), Phantom of the Opera (1943), The Wizard of Oz (1939), and Laura (1944)

Laura was a 4 star elegant film noir, that managed to encompass the darkest sides of its players in a sophisticated setting as a hired detective (Dana Andrews) comes on the scene to investigate a young woman's murder. Laura (Gene Tierney), believed to be the victim, reappears and becomes a suspect.

Laura was relegated to the B-picture unit at Fox, where the producer Otto Preminger and the writer Jay Dratler worked on the script. Preminger got supervisor Bryan Foy's permission to hire Hoffenstein and Reinhardt to work on it. The revised script moved the picture up to A status, and Zanuck took over the supervision. 

The new treatment told the story from two viewpoints. Hoffenstein practically created the character of Waldo Lydecker, the acid-tongued columnist whose narration guides the first half of the picture. The second half was told from the viewpoint of the detective, who falls in love with Laura's portrait, a haunting image of her mystery. 

The scene in which the detective dozes in a chair and suddenly the woman in the portrait appears before him is one of the most poetic images in movie history.  

The movie Laura inspired aa Escondido husband and wife to name their daughter Laura, who I met in 1996, and she was amazing. You'd easily mistake her for a young Valerie Bertinelli. I believe she told me she was 1/2 Irish and 1/2 Japanese, but she was probably the most perfect woman I'd met, and she was the type of outgoing young woman tv shows revolve around. And one day she fell asleep in my arms on the beach. 

Anyway, I ran across Sam's poetry book, and it's a lot of fun. In its day, it was quickly known as a classic, and favored by Dorothy Parker and H. L. Mencken.

Friday, December 25, 2020

The Night Before Christmas (thanks Mike!)

T’was the night before Christmas
And all through the garages
Not a motorcycle was rumbling,
Except for Santa Claus's.
The leather was hung in the closet with care
In hopes that nice weather soon would be there.
Our bikes were all nestled snug under their covers
With visions of blacktop and burning up rubber.
With Momma in her bandana and I in my skull cap
We had just settled down for a long winters nap.
When out on the lawn, arose such a rumble
I sprang from the bed and I started to grumble.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a pack of motorcycles, with riders in gear,
With one old rider so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be a biker named Nick.
He was dressed in red Leather, from his head to his foot
And his clothes were all tarnished with bugs and road soot,
A bundle of chrome he had flung on his back.
Down the chimney he came, carrying a big red sack.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work
As he filled all the bike boots, then turned with a jerk,
And laying a finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his bike, to his team gave a sign
As they all cracked their throttles and got into a line,
Now Honda, Now Harley, Now Triumph and Indian
On Spidey, On Suzuki, On Yamaha and Victory.
But I heard him exclaim as he roared out of sight
Keep the rubber side down and have a good ride.
Merry Christmas to All!!