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04/13/2006 02:50:08 PM · #751 |
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04/13/2006 09:22:49 PM · #752 |
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04/13/2006 10:35:16 PM · #753 |
Posthumous and Bear, both poems are beautiful. Glad to see this thread up and running again.
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04/13/2006 10:49:45 PM · #754 |
Here's one if someone cares to create a poem. I shot a friends wedding last weekend. She would love having a poem to go with a photo.
Thanks :)
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04/13/2006 10:57:57 PM · #755 |
Originally posted by Faye Pekas:
Here's one if someone cares to create a poem. I shot a friends wedding last weekend. She would love having a poem to go with a photo.
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The Kiss
Ah, some folks purse their wedding kiss
as dry as old lace in the sun,
but you, my friends, went all-out there;
you freed the kiss and let it run!
My wish for you (it's all I wish)
is that you hold such joy forever;
that all your days end with a kiss
like this, in bright or stormy weather!
Robt. Ward
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04/14/2006 12:22:18 AM · #756 |
I love it!! Thanks Bear, you done good :) They will love it I'm sure.
Originally posted by Bear_Music:
Originally posted by Faye Pekas:
Here's one if someone cares to create a poem. I shot a friends wedding last weekend. She would love having a poem to go with a photo.
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The Kiss
Ah, some folks purse their wedding kiss
as dry as old lace in the sun,
but you, my friends, went all-out there;
you freed the kiss and let it run!
My wish for you (it's all I wish)
is that you hold such joy forever;
that all your days end with a kiss
like this, in bright or stormy weather!
Robt. Ward |
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04/14/2006 09:54:27 AM · #757 |
| give us your tired, your poor, your huddled pictures yearning to breathe free... |
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04/14/2006 09:56:29 AM · #758 |
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04/14/2006 10:16:36 AM · #759 |
Originally posted by Konador:
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Self
I am lost in thought.
I have become thought.
The hand on my mouth
has become my mouth.
My words hold my head
in place. My head
has become an idea.
God is an idea
of self
lost to itself,
a sea in a single eye.
God, the size of an eye,
is all I see
and in this corner I see
that I am trapped
in self. I am rapt.
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04/19/2006 02:18:06 PM · #760 |
Keeping Threads Alive:
Although I write poetry, I find it difficult to do with my own photos.
I invite any and all poets or short fiction writers to tackle this one:
(and I hope people will post some more photos) |
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04/19/2006 03:21:19 PM · #761 |
Keeping Love Alive
Alfred:
Margaret, Margaret, wait a while
beneath the maple tree,
the buds are just now blossoming
a newfound pageantry,
and soon you will be shaded
from the ever bright’ning sun,
as comfortably you’re waiting
for your blue-eyed one.
Margaret:
Alfred, Alfred, I have waited,
waited as the buds burst forth,
I watched their every petal fall,
and the leaves’ discourse.
I watched a leaf impatient
turn sere and fall to earth.
But I can wait no longer.
I fear that I am cursed.
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04/19/2006 03:42:20 PM · #762 |
| Woo-woo! Lord Byron, is that you? ;-) Lovely! Thank you! |
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04/19/2006 03:58:02 PM · #763 |
I would love to see a spring poem to go along with this one...any tacklers? I plan to give this photo to my dads,soon to be, new wife as a wedding gift.
edit to add photo...blonde moments are bad for me today
edit again to add: any of my photos are up to have a poem added if anyone sees something they can/want to use
Message edited by author 2006-04-19 16:00:36.
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04/19/2006 04:40:54 PM · #764 |
Hey, this is cool stuff goin' on in this thread. I'd love a poem for this one! |
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04/19/2006 10:29:36 PM · #765 |
Dance of the Butterfly
The beat, the step, the elements of dance
are not available to you,
but you shuffle, you slide, you arc wide
into rhythms of blue.
April has begun to strike her tune,
overloud, pounding bass
and shrieking horns. From the wings
you enter, a moment of grace.
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04/19/2006 10:29:39 PM · #766 |
Dance of the butterfly
Spring blooms wistful white
for fragile dancers.
Overcome your trepidation.
Love in vernal syncopation
wafts the answers
to the mysteries of flight. |
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04/19/2006 10:40:21 PM · #767 |
Siesta
I am happy to be rags,
a patchwork man, a tatter
tittering in sleep.
I am dream-soaring,
jazz snoring solos
to the company I keep.
I failed geometry,
I won't bisect a square,
I don't care for math.
I am asymptotic
to the city, gritty
on the grid, ace of wrath.
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04/19/2006 10:56:36 PM · #768 |
Solitary Vista
What more do I need than an arm to shield me,
shield me from the brick?
What more do I want than the sun to shine,
warming me to the quick?
November, she left me, left me alone,
left me alone to grieve.
I lie like a shadow, crumpled in place
with far too much air to breathe. |
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04/20/2006 05:56:10 AM · #769 |
Originally posted by tryals15:
Hey, this is cool stuff goin' on in this thread. I'd love a poem for this one! |
Wow, great stuff guys! I've updated the photographer's comments accordingly! =] |
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04/20/2006 06:28:24 AM · #770 |
Originally posted by posthumous:
Dance of the Butterfly
The beat, the step, the elements of dance
are not available to you,
but you shuffle, you slide, you arc wide
into rhythms of blue.
April has begun to strike her tune,
overloud, pounding bass
and shrieking horns. From the wings
you enter, a moment of grace. |
Originally posted by meanwhile:
Dance of the butterfly
Spring blooms wistful white
for fragile dancers.
Overcome your trepidation.
Love in vernal syncopation
wafts the answers
to the mysteries of flight. |
WoW guys...thanks :o) both of those are GREAT!!
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04/20/2006 07:30:34 AM · #771 |
Nice work happening here, indeed! And who knows, it may even inspire me :-) My words tend to run in cycles, though; I'm not much good at "write-on-demand" unless somethign really resonates with me.
Robt.
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04/20/2006 03:29:37 PM · #772 |
| Well, you could always post an old poem and see if it finds itself a pic... :) |
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04/20/2006 03:36:03 PM · #773 |
Originally posted by meanwile:
Well, you could always post an old poem and see if it finds itself a pic... :) |
I actually did that, way earlier, to no avail whatsoever. Surprised me, even depressed me a little. I sort of naively hoped that since I'd worked so hard poeming pics, someone would happily seek out a pic of their own to match my poem :-)
R.
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04/21/2006 06:49:50 PM · #774 |
Originally posted by Bear_Music:
Anyone have a picture that works for this poem? I've never quite pulled one off myself: |
Man, that's a doozy, some distant relative of a hemi-sestina? Lovely, certainly, but a tough poem to fit into one picture. So I broke it into 3, one of which belongs to Posthumous.
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Poem in the Broken Seasons
The piney watchers watch.
A ripple takes the pond,
wakes waters that lie still
deeper than eye can reach,
as deep as light can sift.
A tree breaks from its leaves.
Nothing that lives, but grieves...
In silence, June retreats:
heat of summer in air,
heat of air on all
the watchers in the trees.
The pond is still once more.
In passage of the year
I shall learn how to please...
The essence of the pond
is air: is to float free,
circling entranced
amidst the broken leaves.
I feel a ripple rise
in my slow body now,
and yet I have not moved
silent through the trees
or stillness of the air,
except to touch the pond.
What place is there to turn?
What hope of breaking free
from circle of the year,
except it turns with me?
The dreaming pond, the air,
trees, watchers even, all
are body of changing love,
encircled in the year.
My voice, my heart, are mute.
The deaf ear hears, but love,
love cries for ways to speak...
Muted in kind, the trees
whisper, remark their days
in passages of quiet and of voice.
Body discovers pond.
Ripple is all.
The season is love. Bright air
sings through the watching trees...
— Robt. Ward |
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04/24/2006 03:44:49 PM · #775 |
I would love it if someone could come up with a picture that would go with any one of these poems...
Sandy
You touched me everywhere. Harshly.
You surrounded me and as the sea
approached you sparkled and smoothed.
Slowly, feet first, I fell into you.
You were hot with sun, a sudden oven.
The ocean tempted me with coming
cool water, frozen joy, the noise,
but you laid out the only choice,
my carpet, color faded, delirium
of tiny strands, the coral and the carrion,
the endless kiss of your carelessness,
the heatstroke candor of your breast,
and when you dried, the following day,
and stung my eyes, I washed you away.
bee dance
jill finds a flower
in her body
she runs
in the field of that flower
without disturbing
1000s of moths
asleep
the sun has dropped down
ladders
jill has a hand for every footprint
she builds a compass
pointing everywhere
she calls it her bee dance
always thinking of other
until thought
freezes
mid-stroke of wing
&
jill
simply
flowers
Bird
(people tell me this is a "difficult" poem but it seems plenty visual to me so maybe you'll have luck finding the right image(s) for it?)
Bird, there is no instance of your flight,
no room beside the cloud in your big eye.
You broke the blue glass, asked me to play
with no lines inside the sharp sky.
Bird, your wings churned my desire to butter,
stuck me in the makings of your motion.
I remain at the bottom of a nothing
your feathery devices grip to make you rise.
No water can wash you from these surfaces,
no wave from any depth of me can reach
the flat forever ricochet of sight,
the edges of your life, like crystal dreams
that overtook reality and thought
and left behind kaleidoscopic lights.
Message edited by author 2006-04-24 15:51:38.
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