Years came and years went

 

Years came and years went

We were born again

But though many eons passed away

We couldn't comprehend

Until one day the sun burnt out

And we became stardust

When the dust collided

Another world was born

This world formed an ocean

And the ocean formed a soup

From this primordial soup of life

Came a terrible coup

We kept on quarreling every day

Till there was little left

It never dawned on us

We were just atoms at best

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) was an American Poet. At the time of his death Longfellow was regarded both at home and abroad as the greatest American poet. His reputation in England rivaled that of Tennyson. His translations from German, Italian and Scandinavian had much the directness and sincerity of his own verse, and attracted many American readers.

When critical taste turned toward a sterner brand of realism, Longfellow’s faults were noticed more than his very solid virtues. He has been called “The poet of the Commonplace,” but he had the gift of illuminating the ordinary and surrounding it with music. The simplicity that endears him to children and many adults often is interpreted as triteness or mediocrity. Nevertheless, Longfellow has earned a permanent place as a skilled lyricist of pure, sweet and gentle tone. Longfellow’s mastery of the ballad form and his proficiency with the sonnet are generally acknowledged.

A tragedy occurred in 1861 that shadowed the remaining years of his life. While his wife was melting sealing wax, a match set fire to her dress and she was burned to death in spite of Longfellow’s efforts to save her. He was seriously burned. Though the poet’s fame continued to grow, the peak of Longfellow’s creative life had passed. His translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy (1867), to which he turned for solace after his wife’s death, was competent but too literal to possess the musical quality Longfellow ordinarily summoned.

At the 50th anniversary of the graduation of his class at Bowdoin, Longfellow read a poem “Morituri Salutamus” (“We Who Are About to Die Salute Thee). After being stricken with dizziness in 1881, he died from an attack of peritonitis on March 24 of the following year. He was buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery.

A poem he wrote was "The Secret of the Sea" and in it the following verses appear.

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,

Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And the singing of the sailors,

And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad

Haunts me oft, and tarries long,

Of the noble Count Arnaldos

And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,

Where the sand as silver shines,

With a soft, monotonous cadence,

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;--

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,

With his hawk upon his hand,

Saw a fair and stately galley,

Steering onward to the land;--

How he heard the ancient helmsman

Chant a song so wild and clear,

That the sailing sea-bird slowly

Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried, with impulse strong,--

'Helmsman! for the love of heaven,

Teach me, too, that wondrous song!'

'Wouldst thou,'--so the helmsman answered,

'Learn the secret of the sea?

Only those who brave its dangers

Comprehend its mystery!'

In each sail that skims the horizon,

In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies;

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

Far far from the Shore

 

Far far from the shore

In a place I don’t want to go

Lies a sunken ship

The ship they called greed

We once sailed to an Isle

Far beyond the Nile

In a ship that made 

Thoughts that were vile

In this Isle

We stopped for a while

They sailed on

For I had seen Dawn

In greed they went

They were my friends

Their mighty needs

They could never reach

Their stars faded

The seas abated

They lost their way 

For their souls I pray

I found me

In the Island of peace

This is all I need

They call it Serendib

INK ENTROPISM

THE INK ENTROPISM MANIFESTO

A Declaration of Chaotic Order and Dream-Built Cities

1. We embrace the line as an act of liberation.

The scribble is not a mistake; it is a pulse. Each mark is an unfiltered trace of consciousness — restless, instinctive, alive. We draw not to imitate the world, but to expose the turbulence beneath it.

2. Cities are dreams we construct from disorder.

Architecture in Ink Entropism is not bound by logic. Domes tilt, towers bend, and bridges multiply like thoughts spiraling in the night. Our structures rise from chaos, proving that meaning can emerge from apparent randomness.

3. We reject clean perfection.

Smoothness is a lie. Precision is a cage. We accept the imperfect, the messy, the unresolved. True expression lives in the fractures, in the trembling lines that reveal the artist’s internal world.

4. The page is a living landscape of the mind.

Ink Entropists do not draw “scenes.” We map emotional territories. Each swirling sky, each crowded building, each impossible horizon is a psychological geography — a portrait of thought in motion.

5. Darkness is part of the vocabulary.

Shadows, voids, heavy cross-hatching, and vortex-like forms are not signs of despair but of depth. We acknowledge the unknown and give it shape. The void is a doorway.

6. Spontaneity is a method, not a flaw.

We begin before we know. We let the hand outrun the mind. Planning is optional; discovery is essential. Ink Entropism values the accident that becomes intentional through existence alone.

7. We celebrate density.

Crowded lines, overlapping forms, visual noise — these are not clutter. They are the texture of reality as it is truly experienced: layered, contradictory, overwhelming, beautiful.

8. Ink is our instrument of truth.

Permanent. Unforgiving. Immediate. Ink forces courage. Every mark declares itself permanently and without apology. This movement stands against the fear of the irreversible.

9. The world is illogical — so is our art.

We reject the tyranny of realism and the false comfort of rational design. Our landscapes follow emotional laws, not physical ones.

10. Above all, we create to reveal what is unseen.

Ink Entropism exposes internal states — thought storms, subconscious architectures, mental noise, silent anxieties, fleeting visions.

We draw the invisible and make it undeniable.

CALL TO ARTISTS

If your hand shakes with restless lines,

if your imagination builds cities no map could contain,

if you sense beauty in the chaotic and meaningful disorder in the accidental —

then you are already one of us.

Ink Entropism is not a style.

It is a way of seeing.

INK ENTROPISM ART

 

Oil pastel on paper

 

Factories at Sunset - Oil pastel on paper

 

Every day of Every Month

 

On the dark days of September

And other days in November

I still thought of better days soon

That will come to me in June

But when old December came

I thought I’ll go insane

For dark dreary days

Had come for me to stay

But then January first was here

I lost all fear

For I just decided to be happy

Every day of every month

The Jungle Path - Oil Pastel on paper

 

The Sea at Night - Abstract

 

The Tree - Oil Pastel on paper