liz, we are all disastrous to one another, aren't we? and we are all salvation, too. this is the danger of truly living. i think of one of my favorite poems, Waking This Morning by Muriel Rukeyser:
Waking this morning, a violent woman in the violent day Laughing. Past the line of memory along the long body of your life in which move childhood, youth, your lifetime of touch, eyes, lips, chest, belly, sex, legs, to the waves of the sheet. I look past the little plant on the city windowsill to the tall flowers bookshaped, crushed together in greed, the river flashing flowing corroded, the intricate harbor and the sea, the wars, the moon, the planets, all who people space in the sun visible invisible. African violets in the light breathing, in a breathing universe. I want strong peace, and delight, the wild good. I want to make my touch poems: to find my morning, to find you entire alive moving among the anti-touch people.
I say across the waves of the air to you: today once more I will try to be non-violent one more day this morning, waking the world away in the violent day.
ollie, thank you. it was a moment.
thanks, tom. i'm so often surprised by how little we are. (and too, by how much.)
yes, peter, i thought so, too. i thought, melancholy and pain, but there is joy also. always there is joy.
I like both pictures, with the same technique of sfumato photo (I just made it up) for my as intangible and boundless and one as the other. but the important thing is the peace that the two faces off. Saludos
Intangible of a beautiful disaster.
ReplyDeleteskills - you sure can pull out and pull off and key image of life
ReplyDeletetwo very intimate photos...you pull off muted detail very well
ReplyDeletegives off a sadness, like cold...excellent photo.
ReplyDeleteliz, we are all disastrous to one another, aren't we? and we are all salvation, too. this is the danger of truly living. i think of one of my favorite poems, Waking This Morning by Muriel Rukeyser:
ReplyDeleteWaking this morning,
a violent woman in the violent day
Laughing.
Past the line of memory
along the long body of your life
in which move childhood, youth, your lifetime of touch,
eyes, lips, chest, belly, sex, legs, to the waves of the sheet.
I look past the little plant
on the city windowsill
to the tall flowers bookshaped, crushed together in greed,
the river flashing flowing corroded,
the intricate harbor and the sea, the wars, the moon, the planets,
all who people space
in the sun visible invisible.
African violets in the light
breathing, in a breathing universe. I want strong peace, and delight,
the wild good.
I want to make my touch poems:
to find my morning, to find you entire
alive moving among the anti-touch people.
I say across the waves of the air to you:
today once more
I will try to be non-violent
one more day
this morning, waking the world away
in the violent day.
ollie, thank you. it was a moment.
thanks, tom. i'm so often surprised by how little we are. (and too, by how much.)
yes, peter, i thought so, too. i thought, melancholy and pain, but there is joy also. always there is joy.
xo
erin
I like both pictures, with the same technique of sfumato photo (I just made it up) for my as intangible and boundless and one as the other. but the important thing is the peace that the two faces off.
ReplyDeleteSaludos
Beautiful! Both of them.....
ReplyDelete