BurningbirdTonight, something different. Two postings, with a photo in each. Both photos of the same bridge, taken at the same time, but from slightly different perspectives. One is black & white, the other in color.
Each photograph is paired with a poem with completely different subjects: one is about catching a fish, the other traveling the open road. However, each poem reflects a single moment in time and a revelation.
No secrets tonight.
Or are there?
Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul.Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.Alice Walker, “Expect Nothing”
Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no language; or we know
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
but for her it is running in black smoke.
The cluster of cells in her swelling
like porridge boiling, and bursting,
like grapes, we think. Or we think of
explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
All around us the trees
and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
so green and at this time
of the year healthy.
We would like to call something
out to her. Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.Margaret Atwood, “The Rest”
I started pairing my photographs with poems I found on the Internet as a way of playing with the mood of the photograph, and to discover new poems and new poets. It is fast becoming a favorite hobby, and is very effective at relieving stress, anger, and sadness. (Which is why I found myself spending a lot of time with it the last few weeks.)
I’ll look at a photograph and write down my first impressions of it: what it means to me, why I like it or not, and what I was trying to say with it when I took it. From this, I’ll gather select keywords and use these to search for a poem at a site, such as Plagiarist or the Academy of American Poets. I’ll wander about through the results until finding the poem that best connects.
For instance, the Margaret Atwood poem was, fortuitously, in the list that resulted when I searched for the keywords for the photo of the fence. Since I had recently been exposed to her work, hers was one of the first I read, and it felt right for the picture.
When searching for poems for my second photograph, below, another Atwood poem appeared, which clearly demonstrates something. When I find out what it is, I’ll let you know. Regardless, I fell in love with this poem and it was the perfect one for the photograph.
Now, if people ask, “What does the photograph mean?”, I can answer, “Read the poem”. If they ask, “What does the poem mean?”, I’ll answer, “Look at the photograph.” I no longer have to explain myself, and can hold my inner thoughts secret, in plain view.
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my headand walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fearI would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing inI would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.Margaret Atwood, “Variation on the Word Sleep”
Archived with comments at Wayback Machine
There were a thousand things I could have done today,
but all I did was sit at my window and watch
the storms move past.
Instead of doing my laundry
I watched the wind rip the blossoms
from the tree across the road
forcing it into full green.
Instead of cleaning house or reading a book
I stood out on the deck to better see,
forgetting to close the door behind me,
getting everything very wet.
If I closed the window and turned my back
I could have finished my taxes, or written about war and injustice
but all I did was look at the sky
and listen to the thunder.
I was working at my computer when I noticed a black cloud in the direction of the apartment complex office. I could hear the sirens of a lot of fire vehicles. So I grabbed my camera and headed in the direction of the smoke.
The fire was not in the office but the Dobb’s auto place, in the strip mall at the corner of Laclede’s Landing and Watson, about 2 blocks from my home. The tires in the back had caught fire, which was burning hot enough to endanger the surrounding area. They closed off Laclede just by my apartment.
There were onlookers in the strip mall lot and people across the street, but I noticed a bunch of journalists in the lot near the auto store. So I joined them. What the hey, I have an online publication – sort of.
Three helicopters monitored the fire, and all the networks were represented, though I noticed Fox News was too late. Several print publication folks, too. Engine companies from at least three communities were present: Brentwood, Kirkland, and St. Louis. I counted at least 4 ladder trucks, 3 aid cars, and several other assorted fire and police. Three firepeople were overcome by the heat and fumes at one point, and came outside, sat on the cement for a bit. No problem though, just a hot day and burning tires – bad combination. Hack, hack. I know.
Right now the fire’s under control but the TV cable’s out and there’s a thick nasty cloud of smoke over everything. It’s enough to choke you. Choke me. Zoe is very unhappy about all the noise and fuss.
Here’s some pics.
P.S. Air quality sucks wormy green apples at the moment. Hack, hack. But, it was a lot of fun playing journalist. I could get used to this.
