Dramatic Storm Clouds In the Desert at Sunset (Tanuri Ridge) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
— W. B. Yeats
What’s the connection between the photo and the Yeats poem? None, other than they are both dramatic. — kenne
Cabin In The Woods (Mt. Lemmon) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
I wish I could escape to that cabin in the woods, Where the trees have a face like no other. And those trees play songs, with the breeze sweeping through their branches. I wish I could hear their songs. Not just hear, but to actively listen Because they fill their chords with notes of love. I want their tunes to brush my ear and their leaves to gently cover me from above. The leaves that don’t crunch or wither or die. The leaves are full of ever-increasing life. When the fallen leaves have touched my skin Chills cover my flesh and shoot me with a sensation. I have been touched by this gracious life.
Drawn within its midst Are signs that could be comprehended The same signs I thought I could interpret These signs seem to be nothing They could mean something Still in these unknown dreams
It’s snippet visions of flashback Clicking like the camera’s shutter Blindsided by the flash Surrounded by a support swarm of bees Hope and dream maybe it’s own fantasy
Could be the dreams that I thought of The dreams that I could have wished A dream that could be a tell-all tale This dream could be just a fantasy Maybe a fate of its own destiny If I could only get its true impact
This interpretation could be crossroads A crossroad that could answer it all It could free me or imprison me Could be the downfall or success Maybe an ending with sorrow or joy Might be answered in my next lifeline
Clouds Above the Santa Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
This is the second time I have posted, I wandered lonely as a Cloud, on this blog, the first time was September 21, 2013. This image caused me to post this beautiful Wordsworth poem again.
I wandered lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils; Beside the Lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:— A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the shew to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils.
Rio de Janeiro Favela (2001) — Abstract Art by kenne
In the Favelas
‘Slum tourism’ sneered a moralising friend.
I thought of this as our small group trekked through alleys, deep in the favelas, climbed interminable steep small stairs, gazed curiously at faces that stared back indifferently.
Their world, ruled by drug lords, Crime bosses, poverty and need … How do these people of Rocinha, see us, the dilettante tourists, stepping carefully on broken ground? Don’t wear your rings or watches! Leave your wallets back at the hotel! Cautiously, we pick our way, cameras snapping at the sight of tangled wires for stolen power, of deep canals that take the sewerage to the sea, of grinding cycles of a poverty that no one can escape.
And we who walk among them, do we have the right to drive away, return to luxury hotels, download our photos for display to friends back home, while shaking heads in wonder that anyone can live like this?
My friend was right, for we have been, to our eternal shame, ‘Slum tourists!’
A Dead Saguaro in the Darkness of a Full Moon — Image by kenne
The Listeners
Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,’ he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Mexican Hat Wildflower (White Mountains, Arizona) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.”
I always wonder what they think the niggers are doing while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists, are containing Russia and defining and re-defining and re-aligning China, nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile, from blowing up that earth which they have already blasphemed into dung: the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful ladies, and their men, nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam, nostalgic for noble causes, aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages— ah—! Uncas shall never leave the reservation, except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store. The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked: there is a way around every treaty. We will turn the tides of the restless Caribbean, the sun will rise, and set on our hotel balconies as we see fit. The natives will have nothing to complain about, indeed, they will begin to be grateful, will be better off than ever before. They will learn to defer gratification and save up for things, like we do.
Oh, yes. They will. We have only to make an offer they cannot refuse.
RT @celestialsGaia: You climb my mountains
U go through my valleys
Ur grips are strong
Ur touch soft
The hands that roam
The eyes that sp… 14 hours ago
