Thursday, September 10, 2009

Apple Tree & Asian Pear Tree, impressionist paintings Jan Blencowe

copyright 2009, Jan Blencowe, Connecticut, USA
Apple Tree
acrylic on panel, 6x8, unframed
view this painting in a frame on my website

copyright 2009, Jan Blencowe, Connecticut, USA
Asian Pear Tree
acrylic on panel, unframed
see this painting in a frame on my website

Lyman's Orchard has been a tradition in Connecticut since 1741 and my family has enjoyed picking apples, pears, blueberries, peaches, strawberries, pumpkins and more there, for nearly 20 years. Great events like the strawberry and peach festivals, the corn maze and the Apple Barrel store with delicious fudge and bakery items makes it a special place.

Both of these colorful September paintings depict part of the orchards at Lyman's. These two are particular favorties of mine as they seem to capture the colors of the season perfectly.

All through this summer and now into the last days of ther season we have had an owl in the neighborhood. It is a great horned owl, I know by his call. I am always thrilled to hear him and will sit out on my deck late in the evening, 10 or 11 o'clock to hear him.

Today I have found a poem to share with you about both an archard and an owl...Enjoy!

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids -
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder -
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.

Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear -

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream -
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its house of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

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