Metaphor and Analogy - **In Title or Description**
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It started with a very simple butternut squash soup
But soon I became a beast with a feast
Potato pancakes across secret handshakes
Thai pumpkin curry in a big hurry
Tourlou right through you
Each hour I did devour
But it didn’t stop there...
Still unsatisfied, I started gulping down the air
The streets and the power lines glare
The clouds then the sky was bare.
Once you start eating, you forget to care.
Not a morsel did I share.
But when everything was gone, I couldn’t revert
Loneliness was my just desert.
**All poems and photos are copyrighted**
I still have a few images from my trip to Lake Tyrell in November 2021.
I did post one of this old grader that sits several kilometers out from the shore of Lake Tyrell. It has been stranded there for almost 30 years, slowly rustling away.
"Rust Never Sleeps" is of course the title from Neil Young's Classic album Some consider the term to be a metaphor for artistic vitality. E.g. by staying the same, one is vulnerable to the corrosive effects of aging and obsolescence.
That works for me.
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 ;-)
Forth Road Bridge 13 Dec 2015
The FRB is shrouded in all kinds of things - fog, political smokescreens, uncertainty, to name but a few.
Hopefully the bridge really will open again on 04 January 2016. I feel most sorry for the cancer patients having to travel miles extra for daily treatment in Edinburgh.
Please see my other photos of Edinburgh & the Lothians at www.jamespdeans.co.uk/p399603778
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**
I have no idea what that title means...but it came to me when looking at this photo and I liked the sound of it. I am sure it means something...
Aha...I understand my own title now..
nowhere to hide when you want to. (I think)...
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!
My metaphor range is strange as angles
You get tangled, twist inside affections
Channels repeat, complete, can't compete
Check the hour texture, mind adventure
Exploit the point into tracks, to devour
My intellects proceed, with diesel power
RIP Keith Flint
part of my new album UNDERWATER :
www.flickr.com/photos/-writingtree-/albums/72157713608321206
as a light metaphor for the virus
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?
Waterfalls are my favorite metaphors. Each and every one of them effortlessly recounts one or the other little fragment of mine… my thoughts, moods, and/or emotions. Some, like melancholia, flow year-round; others are seasonal, like tears. Some are bright and mighty; others are tender and lucent in grey dark light. Some roar, sing, or whistle; others listen. Some guard secrets; others spill them. Some remain strangers; others become friends even before I get to know their name. Some flutter like my soul-songs; others, like the one above, are my incomplete poems.
“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
I can’t help it, I love to snap gate or stile. Surrounded with all this beauty and rough manmade wooden construction catches my eye every time. It’s got to be physiology, but what, the mind boggles. An invitation to pastures new, a transition, a way through a life barrier. Who knows, all I know, next time my travels encounters one, more often or not I’ll get the camera out. I wouldn’t care after slogging up to this one I didn’t pass through it, something told me to stay on this side of the wall, may be that’s the metaphor I should ponder.
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.
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!
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)
This image is from 2 photostitched images:
Lens: Olympus 14-150mm F/4-F/5.6
Focal Length: 150mm
Aperture: F/8
Shutter Speed: 1/400 second
ISO: 1600
With the dark clouds over the oil refineries, this picture could be a metaphor for our future with fossil fuels, which were great at one time, but which hopefully are ready disappear into the sunset!
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.
Partie bien étoilée de la mer caraïbe
ma vie est la métaphore et la table
des voyages couronnés de femmes aux fruits d'or.
Le corail bleu d'une île éclaire mon parcours
la vie avance avec le Sud qui m'écartèle
un Nord est mon masque et mon pupitre d'émeraude.
A chacun de mes départs sans retour la joie de vivre m'a fait un courant marin
capable de guider de nuit mes passions d'homme.
Dessiné dans le tronc d'un arbre à pain
à chaque naufrage un grand voilier
me trouve la voie navigable et le sel ami.
Dans chaque pas en terre étrangère
de nouvelles racines prolongent le chemin qui vient du pays natal.
L'acre écume de l'exil à l'esprit
le métier à métisser les choses de la vie
résiste bien aux assauts du tigre en moi.
Culbuté par la grosse houle du siècle
au feuillage musicien des mots je lave
mon époque à l'eau de ma tendresse du soir.
René Depestre
Je vous conseille aussi la version chantée par Arthur H dans l'album L'or noir !