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ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE, by Walt Whitman
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
A découvert soudain, l'horizon éclairci
Quand au détour des rues ses pas feutrés l'énoncent,
Libre enfin de s'assoir et rester aux aguets
Le félin apparait et domine les lieux.
°VolDeNuit°
Qu'est-ce que la poésie ? Une pensée dans une image.
[Johann Wolfgang von Goethe]
What is poetry ? A thought in an image.
Inari -Lapland - June 2008
You can visit my photo blog here : objectifregarder.blogspot.fr
and my Facebook page : www.facebook.com/pages/Objectif-Regarder/118029341548052
It is written on the arched sky; it looks out from every star. It is the Poetry of Nature;
it is that which uplifts the spirit within us. John Ruskin
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I dont do photos ,,
dont blog
I tell stories of pain..
as it touches man
like the waves of the sea ..
without pain man
would never be free
pain is the essence
of humanity
the fruits of
our family tree ..
to be or not to be..
darkness at dawn
that gave birth to
my street poetry ,,
I Want to Start out the Day in the Mountains...
feeling a cool breeze across my face
with the sun shining and shadows cast
with the rustle of leaves from each passing breeze
with a symphony of birds waking in their roost
I want to start out the day and then journey forth.
Another work of short poetry or prose to complement the image captured this late morning around the Vivian Park with the peaks and ridges of Timpanogos off in the distance. While there was a bright afternoon sunlight that day, I was able find a good enough exposure in Manual mode to bring out the much of the colors present across the mountainside.
Ένα ξερό δαφνόφυλλο την ώρα αυτή θα πέσει,
το πρόσχημα του βίου σου και θ'απογυμνωθείς.
Με δέντρο δίχως φύλλωμα θα παρομοιωθείς,
που το χειμώνα απάντησε στου δρόμου εκεί τη μέση.
Κ.Καρυωτάκης.
right now
this very day
left floating
in whatever way
it wants to
this exact
and necessary
moment
at the summit
of the well
a cry
rose-colored
for the hand
that casts it down
a little act
of Christian love.
--P. Picasso
6th grade poetry project - we had to write poetry in various forms, illustrate them and then bind them into a book. I thought I'd post these for posterity. I was 10 when I wrote them!
Articulate
The house talked with the tree
At a still moment and for
No particular reason.
Their common language did
Not use words, and their mouths
Kept shut all the time.
oil transfer drawing monoprint
DM, 2023
I was getting to my sunset location when I saw this view being filled by the golden light. It was a crazy scene with kids running around madly, water streaks everywhere and music playing in the background. Once again, I pre-visualised my shot and waited patiently for the elements to isolate and come together.
i love poetry. i really do. i especially love old poetry. the only problem is i have no idea what it means. it's just beautiful to read out loud. i have this one poetry book (which is featured in this picture) and i read it to my mom in the car. we laugh so hard because it's either really awkward or pretty much nonsense.
i love it.
Love never truly dies
it sometimes fails
to thrive in virgin
ground of innocence
Its cold gray caliche
slowly pierced by wet
and eroded over time
Love evolves and then
what once was loathing
fueling hate subsides
as rocky soil recedes
Into thick clay and is
replaced by thoughts
well worth remembering
Love inspires it pulls
forth ancient smiles
invoked by all which
languished long ago
Ardent pungent scents
providing promise of
a perfect feast
Love lingers in our souls
beyond the heart and
conciousness, it slowly
seeks the light of years
but rises forth to seek
that which might be touched
and coaxes forth silent voice
Love never truly dies
despite the pain
and moments lost
the sweet essence
survives to coax
its magic voice to
call the spirit to arise
(DeHoll (c) 2008)
Sushi, poetry, hands, prickly backrests, nervous silences, and parallel universes just waiting on the other side of those puddles.
Fine, maybe not in this world, but perhaps in the next one over.
This day still makes me smile.
Edit: 4/29/11
Because no one reads these anyways and I need to get it out:
The photographer and the poet, what an unexpected pair, everyone tends to say.
This picture was from the day that we went on our second date and confessions came spilling out in that flooded playground. I wasn't sure what was to follow from that day--hell, I still don't know what's going to happen to us next--but since then, I've been so incredibly content and I have him to thank for that. Because of him, there have been so many more smiles, so many more tears (just from imagining the inevitable parting), so much more feeling and color to the world. Photos have been more inspired, colors have been coming out right for once, and I'm so satisfied with everything.
Today, the air around us was charged with something electric, crackling energy swirling around. Lips fit together for the first time, hearts raced in time. Afterwards, the world kept turning, clocks continued to tick, exactly the same as before--how is that possible when we are so changed? Yet, we're exactly the same as before. Nothing's changed. Funny how that works.
I find myself thinking back to that moment far too much now, forgetting to breathe and smiling like a fool every time I remember.
Someone had carved the poem "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer on a board and attached it to a giant fir in Cliff Gilker Park in Roberts Creek BC. I always enjoyed reading it whenever I walked through the park and here it is for this stand of poplar near Georgian Bay in Ontario.
TREES
by: Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Gallery - www.flickr.com/photos/56116103@N05/galleries/721576253316...
Don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without explicit permission.
© Barbara Dickie. All rights reserved.
This was once called instant poetry where passers by called scribble poetry on a blackboard. Eventually they chose Kirsty Dunn's poem to display permanently. The mural has also changed over time.
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Intrepid 4x5 mk3
Schneider-Kreuznach Super-Angulon 5.6/90mm
Fomapan 100 9x12cm
Spur AcurolN 1+50
Epson Perfektion V700 Photo
Silverfast9
ON1
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
From Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, In Memoriam:27, 1850:
Looking Close... on Friday! Theme: In a bottle
I have not particiapted in this group for quite a while as I've just not had the time or head space for it. Things have calmed down a little so hopefully I'll be able to participate more again.
Last year I discovered a Poetry Pharmacy in London and purchased a prescription bottle for each of my 3 children for their stockings (not mentioning the C word yet!). Inside each little pill is a poetry extract. You can choose the theme of the bottle of pills. Such a lovely idea, If you're interested take a look here.
I really appreciate all your comments and favourites.
deep rooted pain, probable, appropriate
not proportionate
this parable, slow blood-letting
of blossomed friendship going
a ghosting
once was dynamic digital dialogue
now short sharp snippets of words
then we opened outwards into infinity
response
reform
reduced
repose
ravished
this slow sudden ghosting of friendship lost
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Trying To Understand - teresabcoelho.blogspot.gr/?view=snapshot</a
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Twitter twitter.com/teresabcoelho1