Metaphor and Analogy - **In Title or Description**
View allAll Photos Tagged Metaphors
signalling a new direction
For some time now I've struggled to keep up with flickr...
I try to think of ways to be generous and reciprocal
and also meet my own needs to be more playful...
to have more time and energy for making images
and also for making lucid comments ;-)
For now I'm going to try being more flexible...
embrace a little more imperfection :-)
I'll still respond to comments
(this connection brings me happiness )
and I'll enjoy visiting those who leave them :-)
But I'll be more free about timing...
and not respond to every fave.
Tho I'll try to recognise loyal and wordless fave givers
I am, after all, often one myself.
Not an easy change to make.
But something has to give.
So here's to generosity and freedom.
Meet you
at the intersection ;-)
No one remembered to put in their original teeth
at the plant nursing home
so they can’t tell the nurses and aides
to turn off Fox news
and they wither like they’ve been
left for an eternity to suffer
for all their long lost sins.
**All poems and photos are copyrighted**
~ The sky is often used as a metaphor
And I suppose that's because it's so big and expansive
When a long strand of cloud sits just above the horizon
Leaving a strip of clear blue beneath it
It becomes the panorama
It'll turn your head three hundred and sixty degrees,
And the same line follows you round if the land is sufficiently flat
Really, nothing can be compared to it
I am not an acrobat…
I cannot perform these tricks for you
Losing all my balance…
Falling from a wire meant for you ~
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© Copyright by Floriana Thor 2013-2015
We can express our feelings regarding the world around us either by poetic or by descriptive means. I prefer to express myself metaphorically. Let me stress: metaphorically, not symbolically. A symbol contains within itself a definite meaning, certain intellectual formula, while metaphor is an image. An image possessing the same distinguishing features as the world it represents. An image — as opposed to a symbol — is indefinite in meaning. One cannot speak of the infinite world by applying tools that are definite and finite. We can analyse the formula that constitutes a symbol, while metaphor is a being-within-itself, it's a monomial. It falls apart at any attempt of touching it.
― Andrei Tarkovsky
A child’s toy and an old bench....childhood and old age.... A visual metaphor? Or maybe just a little boy who got called to lunch and left his trike on the sidewalk!
Unless there is the iPhone icon, all photos were taken with a Nikon or more recently, with a Sony Mirrorless. I ioften import the images to a 12.9 inch iPad for editing.
Snow shrouds the Capitol, an apt metaphor for the ongoing shutdown … but the city looked gorgeous on this snowy day.
At a time of a historic pandemic and racial discord/violence, major league baseball seems to reflect the times. Even as the virus may be waning, the different sides (the teams and the players) cannot agree yet on what's fair compensation for a shortened season. As a baseball fan who loves the idea of the USA...and it's the first country started as an idea if you think about it....I hope the sides can come together. Maybe the stitching's just gotten too loose and we can tighten them up a bit?
“I'm tired, boss. Tired of bein' on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain. Tired of not ever having me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we's coming from or going to, or why. Mostly I'm tired of people being ugly to each other. I'm tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world every day. There's too much of it. It's like pieces of glass in my head all the time. Can you understand?”
John Coffey, “The Green Mile” by Stephen King
Location: Blade Runner Sim
(SNM) Sadly No More
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moon, you
-Gregory Richard Barden-
you ...
are my moon
(whisper me, coolly)
wan and pale as porcelain
milky moll - `china doll ...
dancing the sky like a Ginza geisha
stars tickling your toes
prettily petulant, and perfectly ...
imperfect
my moon ...
(whisper me, wondrous)
warm ... lemon drop on my tongue
teasing me to your fire
feral fool ...
I, the unwary prey - the Mandarin moth
charmed by your glisten
listen - do my wings flutter ...
or my heart?
moon ...
(whisper my name)
round and radiant - red as a cranberry
tart, sweet, luscious-lipped
dipped fruit, forbidden ...
peek-a-boo clouds of mixing emotions
stormy weather sighs
soft flesh pressed to softer ...
your kiss
my moon ...
(whispering madness)
beryl blue sadness and distant as dreams
obscured by brume and illusion
erotic suffusion ...
you pull on my blood like tidal bore
gibbous or gone
your glow is my utter apogee ...
affectation, pure
you ...
are my moon
(whisper your wishes)
I am magic, bathed in your pearly enchantments
face turned, or commanding my heavens
you are ever true ...
hues and moods in multitudes
all meant to melt me
to drip like honeyed passion ...
when you ...
whisper.
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A clump of wild timothy sways languidly along a rural road in the moments before an ominous thunderstorm storm strikes. I’m always in search of borders and boundaries when out with the camera. I love photographing them, and even more standing astride them. This is one of my many odd behavioral traits that defy rational explanation. As a result, attempts to discuss them often sound irrational (if not downright ridiculous). With that risk in mind, I’ll just say I think at some level, boundary lines represent unseen (yet highly palpable) energy fields. That includes boundaries both real and liminal. It relates to creating photos based upon a reaction to how scenes or situations make me feel.
Back in the moment on the old farm road, I’m already pretty charged up about the storm. It’s what brought me to this spot in the first place. And for my money, it’s one of the best visual and emotional boundaries imaginable, standing right along the leading edge of an intense storm. And on the edge of an expansive farm field which creates a visual effect of multiple boundaries within a single frame. In this case newly mown hay casting a wonderfully warm color contrast against the cool, dark sky. And as I walk along, I stumble upon the timothy grass. The stalks look delicate and tranquil as they gently sway in response to the breeze. Their presence made even more prominent by the raging storm looming in the background. It’s one of those scenes that exists only in this moment, and I could think of no better way to illustrate the fury of the storm than to focus on the calm in its path.
Second in a series that uses text as a metaphor for the cacophany of non-stop, inner chatter in our heads.
There are very few moments in our Western lives where we're able to reach quiescence of mind. That incessant commentary of our babbling brains blocks or filters our direct apprehension of things as they are.
These thoughts filter, tint and taint what we're seeing to the degree that it's that interpretation, that 'colouring' that we take as "real". Once we're able to quiet the mind down enough, we see directly how NOT true that "picture" really is.
Three SOOC shots of maple blossoms and houses in the Spring, mirrored twice each, treated with light and colour effects and compiled/composed to fill the frame. Texts of varying sizes, fonts, colours and opacities layered over top. No Pano-Sabotage was used.
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Music Link: "Knee Play 3" - Philip Glass & Robert Wilson, from their opera "Einstein on the Beach".
I chose this music to somewhat represent what's going on in my visual piece, although the Glass/Wilson script is far more organized and orchestrated than the mayhem I'm suggesting.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=86Xuo7USnLI
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© Richard S Warner ( Visionheart ) - 2017. All Rights Reserved. This image is not for use in any form without explicit, express, written permission.
* - See my Galleries featuring some of the best of Flickr's purely Abstract Art at:
On le sait, les métaphores aiment filer
bien plus vite que Halley
comment ne pas les aimer
ma main dans leurs cheveux étoilés
elles me tiennent le cœur
sublime instant d'apesanteur
je veux tomber dans leurs filets charmeurs
filer plus haut, filer plus fort
tomber amoureuse des météores
eux seuls mettront le monde d'accord
et tomber plus loin encore
la tête à la renverse
pleine de mots qui conversent
en tous sens et surtout inverse
filer la soie de leurs nuits
quand la soif me défie
ce verre toujours plein qu'est la vie
These two halves / taken together / are at greater distance / from one another / than if left apart.
Assemblage, wood, metal, paper, paint, size (WxHxD) 50x48x11 cm (based upon objets trouvés) (2015)
In her day-to-day, ahead seems gray, but with her reflexive gaze, creativity comes to life.
I'm just trying my hand at some fine arts photography. Mosquitoes bit me 27 times while taking this picture. She was bit 12 times before we realized that we were being eaten alive. So much anti-itch spray!
Just as a sentinel keeps watch over its domain, trees stand sentinel over the land, their branches reaching towards the sky like outstretched arms, embracing the world around them bridging the earthly and the ethereal.
These silent guardians stand witness to the passage of time, offering shade and shelter to all who seek them.
Farmland abuts one of the local cemeteries. Each year the crops are rotated between soybean and feed corn. This is the corn year. It's just plain eerie to me seeing cornstalks this close to a burial ground. It was one thing back in June when the little green sprigs seemed harmless enough. But now they are taller than me, and parched, bleached, dead and dry, awaiting harvest. Between now and then, they rustle in the slightest breeze, and sway about. The effect is somewhere between theatrical and primordial terror. I slide up and down the scale depending on my mood, time of day, and the overall feel of the atmosphere. On balance, my imagination tends to tip me over to the dark side more often than not. When that happens, visuals such as this tend to result. Strong reinforcement of the feeling that I'm being observed by blind, but all-seeing eyes.
I'm very fortunate to live in a rural area with easy access to woodlands, meadows, streams, ridge lines, valleys, and crop fields. I derive a great deal of energy and mental stimulation by entering into these spaces. I used to think it was the result of the oxygen released by plants. But it's much more than that. The visuals are quite often stunning, and motivate my creative mind. However I feel the same energy even if I take no photos at all. For me it's all about being immersed into scenes such as this, both literally and emotionally.
Walking through this meadow filled with dead and withered leaves filled me with a sense of life and vitality. Don't ask me to explain the dichotomy. It just is. There's simply as much (or even more) energy here now as there was months ago when this was all lush and green.
Monday Music Mania
#HMMM
Cálice
Chico Buarque e Milton Nascimento - Cálice (Ao Vivo, 1978)
www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBhi5QH3NiY
"Cálice," composed in 1973 by Chico Buarque and Gilberto Gil, is a seminal Brazilian protest song disguised as a religious hymn to bypass strict military dictatorship censorship. Its title is a pun on cálice (chalice) and cale-se (shut up), serving as a powerful, metaphor-heavy plea against censorship and violence.
With heartfelt and genuine thanks for your kind visit. Have a beautiful day, be well, keep your eyes open, appreciate the beauty surrounding you, enjoy creating, stay safe, and laugh often! ❤️❤️❤️
A small fishing boat cruises by a massive luxury liner in the Inner Passage near Ketchikan. It kind of reminded me of that fable about the elephants and the mice, where the mice free the elephants from the hunter's nets, showing the power of value of small things and big friendships. Although it was hard for me to apply the metaphor here--not sure how the little boat could benefit that giant floating city. Maybe by staying out of its way.
Somewhere along the Inner Passage, Alaska
Diagonal of Diagon Alley
A simple picture of an alley in Athens after sun-down. Most shops were closed.
If it were not for that parked car, i'd like the shot more.
The nice colors, lines, diagonals, lovely light and a guy at the far end walking towards the camera still made it.
Enriched color, added a diagonal blur to take up the Diagon Alley metaphor for this lovely evening in a wonderful city.
Fun slide to this sunday. HSS!
Poor Eunice died in hope. A noble way to be remembered, even if not fully accurate. Guess it depends on what you were hoping for at the time you passed. The cynical side of me wonders if her hope was not to die. Eunice's legacy boils down to the few words carved into the old gravestone. They endure today only through great luck that the stone has not been toppled or shattered. I feel weirdly connected to Eunice at some level. We lived in the same village, although over a century apart. Perhaps she walked her in her day as I do in mine.
Eunice's grave is part of the rich mosaic of this cemetery. I see her name on nearly every visit here. This stone is a constant, but my reaction varies. Sometimes I notice it more than others. Depends on my mindset, the time of day, or the time of year. Sometimes even the direction I am walking or my angle of view influences my thought process. On this foggy morning I was struck by the starkness of the stone amid a damp and misty landscape. The residual leaves of October slowly decomposing in the gaining light of February. Another year passed, and Eunice's dying hope fades ever so slightly.
Autumn fills me with a sense of conclusion. The death of summer marks the end of another year much more profoundly than watching a ball drop on New Year's Eve. The spectacular autumnal hues are simultaneously wonderful and sad. I marvel in their splendor but am saddened to watch them slip away with each passing day. These are things I've always felt at some level. It just seems more intense in recent years as I grow older, and perhaps become more sensitive to such things. Maybe attuned is a better word. My senses are much keener (at times anyway). I notice things I once missed. I appreciate things I once tossed over. Autumn in the cemetery brings on stunning visual metaphors for the passage of life. Generations have passed since this stone was set. Many decades worth of autumn leaves have erupted here, only to be swept away by the cold winds of December. The stone is weathered and the inscription faded. It's got perhaps a few years to go before it topples and cracks. The lifecycle grinds on.