do you think - on some level - the poppy finds itself as well in our gaze, or are all things supremely grounded in nature such that they need no reflection?
as much as our consciousness allows us to see, it creates our blinders as well. we can only find and name within the limited framework of our own gaze and articulation. we can't begin to imagine what the poppy knows or does not know.i'm not sure if this poem speaks to your question, but certainly her body of work does, but upon opening pattiann rogers's book Song of the World Becoming i am reminded of your question. perhaps the poem brushes up against the robes of the answer."A Very Common Field"What is it about this grassy fieldthat’s so familiar to me? Somethingwith the beings, the form of the place?It’s not within the foxtail, not withinthe brome, not within oat grass or red cloveror yellow vetch or the lot of them as onemotion in the wind. It’s not the morningor even of the morning, or of the invisiblecrickets, one near, one away, still soundingin the damp after dawn.What is it so resonant and recognized here?A sense like nostalgia, like manner,like a state felt but not remembered?It isn’t the center of the purple cornfloweror its rayed and fluted edges, not the slowrise of the land or the few scattered treesleft in the fallow orchard, not the stone path,not the grains and bristles of stems and seeds,each oblivious in its own business,but something impossible without these.It’s more than the increasing depthof the day and the blue of its height,more than the half-body of the lizardturned upside down on the path, tornand transfigured during the night, morethan the bells beginning their lesson in the background.It’s not a voice, not a message,but something like a lingering,a reluctance to abandon, a bidingso constantly present that I can neverisolate it from the disorderly crowspassing over or from the sun movingas wind down through the brief firesof moisture on the blades of timothyand sage, never separate it from the scentof fields drying and warm, neverisolate it from my own awareness.It is something that makes possible,that occasions without causing, somethingI can never extricate to name, nevername to know, never know to imitate.xoerin
minimalistisk og flott !
minimalist, dirk, BUT yet containing so much, perhaps even more than any colour photograph might. this paradox staggers me.xoerin
I so get this. Yes to being found. I try to photograph my roses, passionflowers, dinner-plate hibiscus...wildflowers, but the camera can't capture their 'otherness' no more than my words can. These petals seems to want to sing with joy. :-) xo"The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks." ~Tennessee Williams
williams's quote is such a profound recognition of the fragility and yet power of life! thank you for that, marion:)and doesn't our otherness reside alongside the otherness of everything else? aren't we made of the same mystical life force?xoerin
"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))