Art of the Day Design for the poster and cover for The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe Édouard Manet  (French, Paris 1832–1883 Paris) Author: Written by Edgar Allan Poe (American, Boston, Massachusetts 1809–1849 Baltimore, Maryland) Translator: Translated by Stéphane Mallarmé (French, 1842–1898) Date: 1875 Medium: Transfer lithograph on simili-parchment Dimensions: sheet: 12 3/4 x 11 1/4 in. (32.4 x 28.6 cm) (irregular) Classification: Prints Credit Line: Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1924 Accession Number: 24.30.27(6) Photo via the Met.  Published in 1845 by Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven was more than rhymed stanza or macabre form by the writer and poet. How else could one be upon the brink of madness of love and repeat "nevermore" with such finality? This beautiful work of art was found via The Met, which has a great story. A lithograph, or print was made by the now famous Manet for the French translation of Poe's Raven , by Stéphane Mallar...

A letter can be a symbol of memories. A scent of cologne or perfume hinted on text from the writer to pass to the reader. In some cases, it's a piece of vital information that must be delivered as a means of communication. Enter the tale of John Boston, a slave in Maryland. The year was 1862. The month, January. The Civil War in full action with the beginning of the year authorizing President Lincoln to launch extensive and aggressive action towards the Confederacy. General McClellan later ignored this order, the President grew impatient and by April of the same year the battle of Shiloh was born. While the Civil War created a new type of modern weaponry (such as repeaters and submarines) the telegraph, war photographs, and most importantly letters were a means of communication-especially to slaves whom were often punished for knowing how to read or learning to read and didn't have access to modern technologies.  A letter alone could not be reliable, but could probably be in...

Praised by Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hyperion is the unfinished work of John Keats that begun in 1818  pictured as the original manuscript of Keats handwriting below. This poem then began to evolve as a the preface to Endymion but was abandoned in the year of 1820. Its contents are full of allegory between Olympians and Titans, and the fall with the sorrow that accompanies it thereafter when the Olympians were defeated. The epic is a tale of the gods; Hyperion of the sun, Apollo of both the sun and the gift of poetry. The mythological nature gives its verse mysticism and even gods are knocked off their throne and given lesser or human qualities "...gray haired Saturn quiet as a stone" so one can relate to them, and invoke the feeling of powerlessness.  Keats never wanted Hyperion to be published at all; in his 1820 volume of collected works, Keats inserted the following statement:   '[I]t was printed at [the publisher's] request, and contrary to the wish of the ...

In this tiny pinky finger The smallest of all, holds the greatest of fates. So I'm told. Funny how the little finger is used. Its digits fragile in comparison. The oddly notion that it has the most strength. Somehow, it grasps a little red piece of string, fiery in all it's glory. A cord designed to withstand seasons and the tides of time. Somehow, it's straight and tangled. A beautiful web of loops and holes filled with destinations and environments. Times I have kissed you. Will kiss you. Wont kiss you. Places knitted in Fabrics of dimension and the magnificence seconds, piled high To the brim of clockmakers and cartographers. I pull, you follow. You stretch, I fill in the gaps. we twist and turn, bend and run, swoop and stand still, fall and lift up Miles away and up close, in dreams and conscious awake All of that movement, yet it still does not break. And did it not even come close to undone? Never. Didn't we Become one entangled in skin an...

I don't remember his scent. I only remember fresh musk and dew sweat hidden in his sudden fragrance. How skin meets beyond pheromones and mutual attraction fire and desire and the chain to cause his reaction. A smile. gleaming white teeth filled with shiny pearl possibilities of tickling my spine in the nape of my neck brings the thrill to me. i begin to remember. remember his smooth walk of gliding asphalt and what I call swag. Smoke bellowing from his lips cigarettes of menthol in a wisp of his drag. and his talk. the way he would command his voice in clear octaves, bounce several degrees and be a lyrical gift go deeper, deeper still into jazzy voices and sweet hellos hidden goodbyes and empty cries. he was mine. I was his and I don't remember his scent. Don't remember his birthday which to pop out a cake suit-less anniversary marking a date full of love excess his favorite food he often devoured his special spot that gave me ...