Marjorie DakinNew York, New York |
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I was born in Bristol, England on December 5, 1911. With my father (a bookkeeper) and mother and two younger brothers we left for America in 1920 to join an uncle, the only one of my fathers brothers in Hollywood, California. My uncle Frank and his wife Dorothy were both associated with theatre and the studios, as actor and actress of both stage and screen. I am a high school drop out. I worked in the inking and painting department of the cartoon studios. I started with Warner Brothers and later Walt Disney. In my mid thirties I came to New York alone. (I am single). I found work in the dress shops of mid town Manhattan sewing. I also began to paint seriously in water color and oil ( an ambition since childhood to be an artist). Working alone both indoors and out was suggested by a teacher at the Art Students League on 57th Street. It was only recently I became interested in poetry. At one time in the late 1950s, I took a newspaper correspondence course hoping it might help me write essays. I received a certificate graded B. It was on my many trips in the New York area that I took notes of the scene and reasons for future reference. Perhaps that is what is surfacing now. I have been a member of the metropolitan Museum of Art for over 25 years and recently The National Museum of Women in the Art. |
I SayI say!...There here again, those goldendays when our city park faithfully displays the resisting weak and weary green to burnt yellow. I dare say ... it shant last long enough being as refreshing as spring when the yellow forsythia startles thought from the fainting winter. I alone, weary from a waiting watch remember the forsythia as a prelude While the present burnt yellow will all too soon take its bow before the looming almighty red and green of ... celebration. |
Tones of MindOut of the deep rises theresonating tones of a violin drawing long quickening breaths into the blue birdies wings make ripples like water in the deepening blues areas. While the rising tones of a swollen tide resound into a distant shore. The wasted shore gasps the moment of quiet withdrawal when the calling gulls aria's course's the shimmering foam. |
ApplauseWhen the seafell upon the shore like applause, our sand castles washed away, our footprints left no trace, no voice was heard above the sea gulls call Next year you'll build another one and then another year another one When their summers come our footprints will return the most applause heard above the sea gulls call |