Category: Photography

Threads

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date May 16, 2003

I’m in the process of moving my poem/photograph pairs to Paths: The Book of Colors, replacing the existing content. I really like the design and layout of the pages, and didn’t want the effort to go to waste. I believe that the design and the name are appropriate fits for my continuing explorations in matching poems to photographs.

Also, I wanted to recommend an excellent article on weblogging. Best I’ve read. Doc doesn’t care for it.

Finally, Allan is taking what could be a long break to focus on his writing and photography. His decision is an excellent one, and I wish for him fun adventures, as well as success with his new efforts. But I’m going to miss him.

Update: Doc clarified that he liked some aspects of the article, didn’t like others, and also pointed out another post on same.

Photography

Different cloud perspective

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date May 15, 2003

Where’s the poetry? Where’s the poems?

Sorry, but tonight you’ll have to settle for photos only or photos with words from yours truly. I’m too tired to look for poems.

And color tonight. I’m in a color photo mood tonight.

Photography

A star is born

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date May 15, 2003

I talked with this little girl and her mother, showed them where the baby ducks were. However, when I tried to take a photo of them both, looking at the ducks, the little girl was more interested in the camera than the ducks.

However, I think it worked out okay, for my first ‘real’ kid shot. You can barely make the mother duck out, though, on the rock in the far left. All six of her little babies were tucked underneath her, little duck tails pointing out.

Photography

Ahhhh Factor Test 2

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date May 15, 2003

Photography Writing

Mirror

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date May 13, 2003

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful —
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath, “Mirror”