tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36209377506972143682024-02-19T06:22:29.261-05:00Christine Boyka KlugePoetry - Prose Poetry - Short Fiction - ArtChristinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.comBlogger231125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-31029556385793619242013-05-13T16:29:00.001-04:002013-05-13T17:23:06.357-04:00Poetry and Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmThKA1a_RCMLNiRZ5gWz73J89YsXOwpdfxW5JeU4njuP60dTlX89z44Pi2xhbZhyphenhyphenWCJWNbhpAPUsw_2n9knpp2zAfRXFz8qOK7mmteznMfFUMG4nN7s-21hRX8WuQz_l2TcYkInsdMEqk/s1600/House+Doll+%232+5_23_09+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmThKA1a_RCMLNiRZ5gWz73J89YsXOwpdfxW5JeU4njuP60dTlX89z44Pi2xhbZhyphenhyphenWCJWNbhpAPUsw_2n9knpp2zAfRXFz8qOK7mmteznMfFUMG4nN7s-21hRX8WuQz_l2TcYkInsdMEqk/s1600/House+Doll+%232+5_23_09+1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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POETRY AND HOME<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“Multitude, solitude:
identical terms and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude
is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd.”</i></div>
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<i>--Charles Baudelaire,</i> from "Crowds<i>" </i>in<i> Paris Spleen</i></div>
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When I moved, after living for decades in one house, one of
the first things I did was create a bedroom like a seaside sanctuary in shades
of green and blue and sand. This is my
serene thinking place, with late afternoon’s gold light streaming through the
rippling, grey-green curtains. Next, I liberated
my poetry books from their boxes and relocated them to alphabetical places of
honor on shelves in my room and the connecting hallway. I needed their silent wisdom, their beauty,
their bright light and deep shadows to surround me. They flicker alive as each day’s changing
light passes over them.</div>
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This morning, as I drift barefoot past the shelves, I stop
and draw in close to my books. I breathe
them in, as if I can inhale those many words, rich with meaning and messages. I notice how they stand side by side,
companionable, leaning against each other as if whispering. I touch some of their spines in welcome,
admiring their titles. Some titles are
poems in themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I feel compelled to get up from my desk and pull Charles
Simic’s books from the shelf. I carry
them back with me, and here they are, sitting on my lap. His masterpiece titles: “Dime Store Alchemy,”
“The Monster Loves His Labyrinth,” “My Noiseless Entourage,” “Night Picnic,” “The
Voice at 3:00 A.M.,” “The World Doesn’t End.”
So few words creating such big worlds. These titles speak to each other, and to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a little electric zap, I realize that my entire
community of poetry books creates “found poetry” with their wealth of striking
titles. Titles brought together by
alphabetical chance create haiku-like poems of their own. In twin, triplet, and even quadruplet assemblages,
the accidental poems arrive. Here is Joy
Harjo’s “A Map to the Next World,” adjacent to Jennifer Michael Hecht’s “The
Next Ancient World.” Thrillingly, “On
Love” by Edward Hirsch stands shoulder to shoulder with “The Lives of the Heart”
(Jane Hirshfield), which is next to “Lives of Water” (John Hoppenthaler), which
is next to “What the Living Do” (Marie Howe).
And – wonderful – René Char’s “This Smoke That Carried Us” connects with
Ye Chun’s “Travel Over Water.” Some matches
are eerily comical: Beckian Fritz Goldberg’s “Never Be the Horse” rubs
shoulders with “Circling the Tortilla Dragon” by Ray Gonzalez. All the magical correspondences turn into
inspiration and personal connection. (And
uplifting play.) That same zap crackles
when my eye, hungry for poetry’s odd juxtapositions, forms the bridge that
links book to book. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I love those serendipitous interconnections. Early-early this morning, I was reading at
random from two books, Baudelaire’s “Paris Spleen” and “The Selected Works of
Tomas Tranströmer.” I like to meander
inside a varying landscape, sampling surprise vistas as I wander book to book. I like to inhabit other poets’ eyes and minds
and hearts. Baudelaire’s quote above
seems so fitting. And here are lines, seemingly
meant for me, from Tranströmer’s poem, “Baltics”: “Foghorn blasting every other
minute. His eyes reading straight into
the invisible. / (Did he have the labyrinth in his head?)”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inside my new place, I’m finding my way home. I still live among the conversations of my
community of books: the comforting, the unsettling, the wild and heady and
inspiring. I keep company with so many
geniuses. Together, we have moved
through late winter into spring.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-5703468218128836742012-12-03T09:28:00.000-05:002012-12-03T09:28:05.308-05:00Weather Sampler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF2r1mcdyjJghyU5pcEKD9QOqkOnweM8oU4w8Qvv7EkaUrc4doaF31Nd33Yim45A3rryJc_LSrNIXGGk7B0RSHxT1QmMe4vMd8w6fBLf1SfG6hOeaPlE2FDgyfa_9-tNkLviawy7lXamS/s1600/Ice+Wndshld+Clouds+11_24_12+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF2r1mcdyjJghyU5pcEKD9QOqkOnweM8oU4w8Qvv7EkaUrc4doaF31Nd33Yim45A3rryJc_LSrNIXGGk7B0RSHxT1QmMe4vMd8w6fBLf1SfG6hOeaPlE2FDgyfa_9-tNkLviawy7lXamS/s320/Ice+Wndshld+Clouds+11_24_12+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent">Fascinating weather on the drive home from
Thanksgiving at my daughter's in central NY. I got a sampler of snow, sunshine, hail,
wild wind, majestic clouds in shades from white to black ... and upon my
arrival home, a gorgeous moon with a rainbow ring around it. I stopped along the way
to take this photo of the ice on my windshield.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="userContent">Click on image to enlarge. Photo taken Saturday, 11/24/12. </span></span><span class="userContentSecondary fcg"></span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-14069623149933467152012-10-15T13:00:00.000-04:002012-10-15T13:00:04.971-04:00Five-Leaf Clover<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhUdIY3z8jkZJoxNWo6D3FhCCacW8LjggmepZakEbQWuff0zbJVV7K65XBkEalePaTbdCKqHSQP1Hex2UHQ04Jz3kjQzkfmhrRKg7TK6A6AiABUZ6KSpFFx_y3B08nUiq009j7_R3syWb/s1600/Clover+5-Lf+Past+TAP+10_6_12+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhUdIY3z8jkZJoxNWo6D3FhCCacW8LjggmepZakEbQWuff0zbJVV7K65XBkEalePaTbdCKqHSQP1Hex2UHQ04Jz3kjQzkfmhrRKg7TK6A6AiABUZ6KSpFFx_y3B08nUiq009j7_R3syWb/s320/Clover+5-Lf+Past+TAP+10_6_12+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>"If you do not expect it, you will not find the unexpected,</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> for it is hard to find and difficult."</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>-- Heraclitus</b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lucky five-leaf clover, found 10/6/12. Click on image to enlarge.</span></div>
Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-7161437093818849432012-09-27T11:56:00.000-04:002012-09-27T11:57:45.544-04:00Eye of the Anemone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLSaD13oHbgyQRaRB4MYlAVdUFOIBrsbfSuUqZWTSljOytZUYqUcVXFPzykDPh3omXrqliOUD7XmRrt2PDRfSLuKarIwdb0SfcJ_Xms4LU969lyNSTMPJRvqQNM0_HpgfwGkYcZvMDjIP/s1600/Anemone+Eye+9_27_12+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLSaD13oHbgyQRaRB4MYlAVdUFOIBrsbfSuUqZWTSljOytZUYqUcVXFPzykDPh3omXrqliOUD7XmRrt2PDRfSLuKarIwdb0SfcJ_Xms4LU969lyNSTMPJRvqQNM0_HpgfwGkYcZvMDjIP/s320/Anemone+Eye+9_27_12+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;">"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;">-- Marcel Proust </span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The eye of the anemone, this morning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo taken 9/27/12. Anemone from my self-serve bouquet</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> from Battenfeld's in Red Hook, NY.</span></div>
Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-81705893536774597992012-08-27T11:51:00.000-04:002012-09-27T11:45:17.502-04:00Interior Clouds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVv9T0gC6wdV8xWkHdtJg7QirkjWR16ALS3TaSq-qmqx8jdm6iLmBZiToefpCHJIzvDZSnkLBY3zZcU9on6DpUlAwsT8RfMJTT78REHmO1CCqt1cMptBcjuiGbukcFGSEsGt8_J_Sho51i/s1600/Cloud+Window+Dream+8_3_12++1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVv9T0gC6wdV8xWkHdtJg7QirkjWR16ALS3TaSq-qmqx8jdm6iLmBZiToefpCHJIzvDZSnkLBY3zZcU9on6DpUlAwsT8RfMJTT78REHmO1CCqt1cMptBcjuiGbukcFGSEsGt8_J_Sho51i/s320/Cloud+Window+Dream+8_3_12++1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>"They who dream by day are cognizant of many things</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i> which escape those
who dream only by night."</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>-- Edgar Allan Poe, from "Eleonora"</b></div>
<br />
My
window, my interior clouds, my daydream. The camera had fun capturing this one, the image peeking out from reflections. This carried me floating through the mysterious atmosphere to another quote, from an old song I kept listening to on my vacation drive. These lines leaped out to me, and I had to hear them again and again:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>"Somebody could walk into this room</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>And say your life is on fire ...."</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>-- Paul Simon, from "Crazy Love"</b></div>
<br />
Such a fire theme in my life these days. Pondering ... if your life is on fire, what do you save? And what do you leave to the flames as you turn your back? Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-1991391370340143672012-08-02T13:04:00.001-04:002012-08-02T13:13:03.607-04:00Art and Poetry Collaboration: Jan Turner<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPGTm-pBktFoJbXbPquaywhoYCzsTiIPqGOcBw8h0dSIcHGhyQX22LlZU8Qn5jYFf95z37vNsUci9Sp_X_KCPQ2aZEwdDs833v_Bx4oGZtQCm65CZaakd45L4ohacP8zcIxQqU5877eeI/s1600/IMG_7229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPGTm-pBktFoJbXbPquaywhoYCzsTiIPqGOcBw8h0dSIcHGhyQX22LlZU8Qn5jYFf95z37vNsUci9Sp_X_KCPQ2aZEwdDs833v_Bx4oGZtQCm65CZaakd45L4ohacP8zcIxQqU5877eeI/s320/IMG_7229.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}" style="font-weight: normal;">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">Calligrapher
and illuminator Jan Turner of Kent, England, e-mailed me to ask for
permission to use my poem, "Toadstools," for a project. She had found
it in <i>Decomposition: An Anthology of Fungi-Inspired Poetry,</i> edited by
Roehl & Chadwick, from Lost Horse Press. (Yes, I know -- the perfect themed collection for me.) This serendipitous art-poetry intersection/collaboration is one of the thrilling benefits of the Internet. Here's her beautiful finished piece, which includes her "spore print." Thanks, Jan.</span></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-89048225516498684732012-07-13T08:02:00.000-04:002012-07-13T08:06:12.089-04:00More Dragonfly Magic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjU8MKlPV-jpLsgyr7Zcnl76UopEeu83ZGuw5rBCyV5kNp-r8jobn89sZ15MU1lgYaiuCu-Roqq6Cl2TP3WsKCp-QdXpNy8ZFQc6UTOQzDmz5FMBOjD32mobY0h4knews0GWHmthv_7zqP/s1600/Dragonfly+HP+WPRR+7_12_12+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjU8MKlPV-jpLsgyr7Zcnl76UopEeu83ZGuw5rBCyV5kNp-r8jobn89sZ15MU1lgYaiuCu-Roqq6Cl2TP3WsKCp-QdXpNy8ZFQc6UTOQzDmz5FMBOjD32mobY0h4knews0GWHmthv_7zqP/s320/Dragonfly+HP+WPRR+7_12_12+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
My iridescent-winged "Halloween Pennants" are back, right where I knew I'd find them. Every summer, these intricate dragonflies (Celithemis eponina) welcome me into their circle for an afternoon. They always allow me to get astonishingly close. I was surprised there were so many so early. For the two years previous, I took their portraits in August. Yesterday they seemed skittish at first; they kept zipping away. But then we all relaxed into it ... and it was magic.Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-81990840680414471032012-07-04T08:05:00.002-04:002012-07-04T08:05:29.189-04:00Picnic Table Shadows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9avpRJhFjbF3ow9XChyySwGnDqgDVX71y2sUmdbOIfFVPbMQFGYaMAnWlDkgveJCtYtJTCvEwQZDFVYawSd2-8xcnb9Pr4zHj8m6X7pA2a0XJ92ED2v4dubhNumBJHNQpYmLSJ-O2dF5J/s1600/Picnic+Table+Shdws+7_2_12++1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9avpRJhFjbF3ow9XChyySwGnDqgDVX71y2sUmdbOIfFVPbMQFGYaMAnWlDkgveJCtYtJTCvEwQZDFVYawSd2-8xcnb9Pr4zHj8m6X7pA2a0XJ92ED2v4dubhNumBJHNQpYmLSJ-O2dF5J/s320/Picnic+Table+Shdws+7_2_12++1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Happy 4th of July!</span></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-77822702856541115402012-06-11T23:50:00.001-04:002012-06-11T23:50:36.392-04:00Piano Window<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucEpkNM_vxdeVOBdHlVQ_sjqOdovSxvl7H2ufhMWHXJCeM0ikVgKdUYlGMgZY1xLOljDpjEtF8r1L-LQJnkxzunreQFuM_dBBxwJpl4C_JRMru2gIyftDlxfp1F7eU6YhzR2SephGFj20/s1600/Piano+Window+6_7_12+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucEpkNM_vxdeVOBdHlVQ_sjqOdovSxvl7H2ufhMWHXJCeM0ikVgKdUYlGMgZY1xLOljDpjEtF8r1L-LQJnkxzunreQFuM_dBBxwJpl4C_JRMru2gIyftDlxfp1F7eU6YhzR2SephGFj20/s320/Piano+Window+6_7_12+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
The window in the piano. There are still so many places in my house that I didn't know existed.Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-42007084223378178572012-04-05T08:46:00.005-04:002012-04-28T16:03:55.671-04:00Easter Bonnet or Thinking Cap?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4nxk8yjkbmho9NWtfxyScY6NeIWNA-3kSilVnyhIPzK2GOLcb0BUOZFqsUb4NvTu-y_0pTmIUMgZGS-JlU60cC1p4Kgfyqs-k1r7X36RyrCK5G_xeygmMj0xV3nU8-ABG351pB9YQ7KP/s1600/Daffodil+Bonnet+Doll+3_25_12+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727898541245911074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4nxk8yjkbmho9NWtfxyScY6NeIWNA-3kSilVnyhIPzK2GOLcb0BUOZFqsUb4NvTu-y_0pTmIUMgZGS-JlU60cC1p4Kgfyqs-k1r7X36RyrCK5G_xeygmMj0xV3nU8-ABG351pB9YQ7KP/s400/Daffodil+Bonnet+Doll+3_25_12+1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a>Easter bonnet or thinking cap? Daffodoll decked out in her organic finery.<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;">"There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself." -- Hermann Hesse</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Hmmmm ... well, it could be reused as a graduation cap ...<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">Photo taken 3/25/12. Click on image to enlarge.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-45865807109710438342012-03-25T11:50:00.010-04:002012-04-28T16:06:32.889-04:00Those Barriers<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdytCFkGSwpXZf43wg5vr17kTJK0ciK076ujae-FheOsl2TEqZq2IhLtELI-MVrs1TosCdmyabIIhFzUM69IFYJ5bNIvFgxFv9jLadiYOeygbm_uUJRMFOT0aHqe_RmD6M4Ss66st-EGw/s1600/Grate+WPRR+3_23_12+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723862894593099058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdytCFkGSwpXZf43wg5vr17kTJK0ciK076ujae-FheOsl2TEqZq2IhLtELI-MVrs1TosCdmyabIIhFzUM69IFYJ5bNIvFgxFv9jLadiYOeygbm_uUJRMFOT0aHqe_RmD6M4Ss66st-EGw/s400/Grate+WPRR+3_23_12+1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Your task is not to seek for love,<br />but merely to seek and find<br />all the barriers within yourself<br />that you have built against it." -- Rumi</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Official spring is here, and with the unexpected summer-like warmth, the world has opened to us again, inviting us in, calling us outdoors. The heart throws wide its own doors and windows to the new scents and budding surprises. That hibernating part of us, curled in darkest dreaming, wants to stretch, to reach out and bask in the sunlight. To obey the invitation of birds, brook and breeze. To unfurl.<br /><br />I took the photo on the 23rd. When I got up the next morning, I discovered my writer friend's Facebook post linking to </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/" style="font-weight: bold;">Brain Pickings</a>, with this quote as the opening. (Thank you </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="http://deborahbatterman.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">Deborah Batterman</a>!) Another invitation, another unfurling. Perfect.</span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-4115640582448988472012-02-01T10:36:00.005-05:002012-02-02T19:27:42.996-05:00Head Filled with Light<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpERU5j5yqeOVaYVpi7Ff6Lp4mJZdu2S_qPoNLZla6WC3dMlXSZdVbufWw3z_COcVP8dPlnvK6Oubl_hL5_yMK0gFN8NJcMdPJtgePXp8u-TDibkie6-FA1oVj7MvN1ogZnn82qALPtZgC/s1600/Vases+Blue+Reflec+1_20_12+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpERU5j5yqeOVaYVpi7Ff6Lp4mJZdu2S_qPoNLZla6WC3dMlXSZdVbufWw3z_COcVP8dPlnvK6Oubl_hL5_yMK0gFN8NJcMdPJtgePXp8u-TDibkie6-FA1oVj7MvN1ogZnn82qALPtZgC/s400/Vases+Blue+Reflec+1_20_12+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704192135493014018" border="0" /></a>I press my eye to another lens in invitation and fill my head with morning. The three vases dance with reflections, tossing sparks like confetti. On the wall, a miniature aurora borealis ripples. I touch the silent waves as if to test their depth. They skitter over my skin, painting my hand blue. The angle of sunlight changes, clouds arrive, and I lose my hold. My will no longer bends the muted light.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;">The three blue vases were a birthday gift from Thea. (Thanks and love!) The photo was taken 1/20/12. Click on image to enlarge.</span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-48489193356387831122011-12-31T18:42:00.004-05:002011-12-31T18:54:09.381-05:00Last Day of the Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcM50pECK2akFnPqpLbAdo8jB4RkKjTNJcvb1Llga-4hGaC7D1Ars8SB-RHJHfdX1iju0rBybeWWwKxxUxIEuRO2n-UnUXNFjfCr5KveC5oaxcEUVU_UJAzv2o8yjGV9JVkcMTmV8OH0-A/s1600/Moss+Lichens+WPRR+12_31_11+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcM50pECK2akFnPqpLbAdo8jB4RkKjTNJcvb1Llga-4hGaC7D1Ars8SB-RHJHfdX1iju0rBybeWWwKxxUxIEuRO2n-UnUXNFjfCr5KveC5oaxcEUVU_UJAzv2o8yjGV9JVkcMTmV8OH0-A/s400/Moss+Lichens+WPRR+12_31_11+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692442394328587970" border="0" /></a>The perfect last day of the year activity: a long, long walk at the reservation with a friend. It turned into a positively balmy, blue sky afternoon, so we wandered until dusk. Along the way, my camera was drawn to this rock wall decorated like a work of art with moss and lichens. What a great way to say farewell to 2011 and get ready to say hello to 2012. Happy New Year!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Nothing is improbable until it moves into the past tense."<br /> -- George Ade</span><br /></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-89283256784274869212011-12-07T12:50:00.004-05:002011-12-07T12:56:09.650-05:00Piece by Piece<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5O2ysZ3pGWraf4D6ewq7lW2VTzCHkvKLO9B7O7aKIY36UH-Nt66tWqXTtIE67aZSQka3A7XxYOx_olekc00m2doPM1Vo2rXwpRVal1a-eamx5zGCx9PURe6fjNsJ3yusbJtc3O_lGC5_z/s1600/Swamp+Lichens+WPRR+12_2_11+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5O2ysZ3pGWraf4D6ewq7lW2VTzCHkvKLO9B7O7aKIY36UH-Nt66tWqXTtIE67aZSQka3A7XxYOx_olekc00m2doPM1Vo2rXwpRVal1a-eamx5zGCx9PURe6fjNsJ3yusbJtc3O_lGC5_z/s400/Swamp+Lichens+WPRR+12_2_11+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683445581854838354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Piece by piece I seem</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">to re-enter the world."</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Adrienne Rich, from </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Necessities of Life</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The photo was taken 12/2/11 at Ward Pound Ridge Reservation. Click on image to enlarge.</span><br /></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-3402438026917571622011-10-07T22:33:00.004-04:002011-10-07T22:52:33.069-04:00Slowing Down Time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDqYZA2a6AnCrTV6cRVcPg8yyev-fjpsNqEBH0OsjHXdoH2pub9VsDBM2cEN3loqUXhcGgc2jd8gKlCa0_LLFdeXJro0U9jzcFSBqJbfJBT4N9_Hs58Deut0FdV97IeWH0nZvSaeLcdHg/s1600/Milkweed+Seeds+Aglow+10_7_11++1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDqYZA2a6AnCrTV6cRVcPg8yyev-fjpsNqEBH0OsjHXdoH2pub9VsDBM2cEN3loqUXhcGgc2jd8gKlCa0_LLFdeXJro0U9jzcFSBqJbfJBT4N9_Hs58Deut0FdV97IeWH0nZvSaeLcdHg/s400/Milkweed+Seeds+Aglow+10_7_11++1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660944506214610450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" ft="{"type":3}">My current project: slowing down time. Today: successful. These milkweed seeds caught the afternoon sun in the most beautiful way. Watching them escape in the breeze changed time from linear to billowy.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner -- and then to thinking!"</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- William Hazlitt (1778-1830)</span><br /><br />He also wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Horus non numero nisi serenas</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> is the motto of a sundial near Venice. There is a softness and a harmony in the words and in the thought unparalleled." -- William Hazlitt</span><br /><br />("I count only the hours that are serene.")<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The photo was taken this afternoon at Ward Pound Ridge Reservation in Cross River, New York.</span><br /></span></span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-91834076195722085672011-09-30T09:27:00.005-04:002011-09-30T09:59:39.784-04:00Tenderness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc4t2dwCWeh34jRQzLw_iOVHR8Iu9ZIjTPAwQznX3VdUaNZR2iAGNrAECmn9sDya4mQb1-909DsjYvR4_LKcvJivng-Sv_6bF-spAP8TEpVL4j7kuml2G0n0f7NIraJLJSo8bljZLJxk8/s1600/Monkey+Butterfly1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc4t2dwCWeh34jRQzLw_iOVHR8Iu9ZIjTPAwQznX3VdUaNZR2iAGNrAECmn9sDya4mQb1-909DsjYvR4_LKcvJivng-Sv_6bF-spAP8TEpVL4j7kuml2G0n0f7NIraJLJSo8bljZLJxk8/s400/Monkey+Butterfly1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658144225360909426" border="0" /></a>Thank you to Will Nixon, who invited me to be a guest blogger on his Hudson Valley Poetry Blog. I'm not sure exactly what Will anticipated, or actually wanted, but this is what I felt like writing about: <a href="http://willnixon.com/tenderness-by-christine-boyka-kluge">Tenderness.</a> In poetry. Here's how my essay begins:<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://willnixon.com/tenderness-by-christine-boyka-kluge">Tenderness</a><br /><br /><i style="font-weight: bold;">"I want to feel my life</i><span style="font-weight: bold;">. That unbidden line keeps circulating through my mind these days, reminding me to pay attention, to be open, to let the world in. To say yes. Toward that end, poetry widens and deepens what I feel. It colors and enriches my existence, joins me to humanity. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">One of the ways a poem awakens the heart is through revealing our human tenderness. In a fabulous piece by Stan Rice, "Monkey Hill," there is a gift of a line: "Over and over the egg of tenderness will break in our hearts." That kills me.... " </span> (Simply click on the "Tenderness" link to leap to Will's blog and finish reading the essay.)<br /><br />Scrolling through my photos for an image to accompany the piece, I came across this picture. By contrast, the essay is serious, but somehow this bit of over-the-top visual silliness works in tandem. Look, apparently I'm incapable of keeping my camera away from my mother-daughter monkeys, one of my favorite gifts, from my dear CSJ, who knew I needed them.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Click on image to enlarge.</span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-11474377008796920162011-09-18T23:19:00.005-04:002011-09-18T23:28:01.924-04:00Fate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipidUKcyIJGtztH8R-5hKi-yBndMrnZDwnsY0UJruOKSUrJLveyr7KhDI68QnEoxpRy49NlxoIR5x4p1xQTzeh5jEfPgfe-YdDZ7M1QOv7LS3y7bQUbbycLbSkuvbzJL76MKIKfaec-dM4/s1600/Green+Veins+1+Rbk+11++1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipidUKcyIJGtztH8R-5hKi-yBndMrnZDwnsY0UJruOKSUrJLveyr7KhDI68QnEoxpRy49NlxoIR5x4p1xQTzeh5jEfPgfe-YdDZ7M1QOv7LS3y7bQUbbycLbSkuvbzJL76MKIKfaec-dM4/s400/Green+Veins+1+Rbk+11++1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653905376883580786" border="0" /></a><span class="messageBody" ft="{"type":3}"><div id="id_4e76b300de6145c24605928" class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">Here is a passage from a book that beckoned to me to pick it up the other morning, to let my finger (like a dowser's divining rod!) find a meaningful passage. It was an "aha!"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">People have already had to rethink so many concepts of motion; and they will also gradually come to realize that what we call fate does not come into us from the outside, but emerges from us. It is only because so many </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> people have not absorbed and transformed their fates while they were living in them that they have not realized what was emerging from them; it was so alien to them that, in their confusion and fear, they thought it must have entered them at the very moment they became aware of it, for they swore they had never before found anything like that inside them. Just as people for a long time had a wrong idea about the sun's motion, they are even now wrong about the motion of what is to come. The future stands still, dear Mr. Kappus, but we move in infinite space.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Rainer Maria Rilke, from <span style="font-style: italic;">Letters to a Young Poet</span>, tr. by Stephen Mitchell</span><br /><br />Just love Rilke's way of thinking.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The photo of the leaf was taken 8/30/11.</span><br /></span></div></span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-11018272207892141352011-08-26T12:03:00.006-04:002011-08-26T12:21:48.492-04:00Swallowing a Cloud<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2dgvJEkKolQJvXdTA5o1fFsqjFV-7__IO7Uz-aA1C9wPDBTJn3kaxo-Rj-pDImy9fk2lv_Q6Sol0_lv2Py-AJ7Lmckc058H0R7mSfq4hWPCPLasjQzKZjINnfjXUhg95lgVjeCuC8e95/s1600/Bindweed+WPRR+8_24_11+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2dgvJEkKolQJvXdTA5o1fFsqjFV-7__IO7Uz-aA1C9wPDBTJn3kaxo-Rj-pDImy9fk2lv_Q6Sol0_lv2Py-AJ7Lmckc058H0R7mSfq4hWPCPLasjQzKZjINnfjXUhg95lgVjeCuC8e95/s400/Bindweed+WPRR+8_24_11+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645196399208251810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">White porcelain cup:</span>
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">bindweed swallowing a cloud</span>
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The eye brims with light</span>
<br /></div>
<br />The middle line arrived when I turned back to look more closely at the bindweed and noticed the cloud disappearing "into" the flower. Wednesday's line was joined by two others this morning, two days later. A gift. I don't generally use formal structures or rules in writing poetry; my pieces tend to evolve, creating (summoning) their own shapes. However, the haiku-like form's simplicity seemed to suit the snapshot's capture of an expansive August moment.
<br />
<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-36286818400931130502011-08-10T21:26:00.003-04:002011-08-10T21:48:43.004-04:00This Evening's Enchantment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4J6momRpBvWqC9ySHIE8y9tk7tV4KKVAYscFPkgzUeDmKEDw5GWoNKtVdMEdTRWvnaxszUjHqTBy97Srb3TYmq4iwjYWDKuVkRuMr99EMwNirP_5Aqygeday_UgRAq9BjsAlQg3NF8Lv/s1600/Dragonfly+Halloween+Pennant+8_10_11+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4J6momRpBvWqC9ySHIE8y9tk7tV4KKVAYscFPkgzUeDmKEDw5GWoNKtVdMEdTRWvnaxszUjHqTBy97Srb3TYmq4iwjYWDKuVkRuMr99EMwNirP_5Aqygeday_UgRAq9BjsAlQg3NF8Lv/s400/Dragonfly+Halloween+Pennant+8_10_11+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639403918778941266" border="0" /></a>Magnificent evening walk at the reservation. I wondered if the particular dragonflies I love would be out, and there they were ... magic. It was like an enchantment observing them in all their glittering glory. As before, they invited my camera in, right up close. It was breezy, but they cling like little pennants to the plants. In fact, that's what they are named: Halloween Pennant, Celithemis eponina.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">How invisibly</span>
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">it changes color</span>
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">in this world,</span>
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the flower</span>
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">of the human heart.</span>
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-- Komachi</span>
<br />
<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-23392142054916185592011-05-13T23:26:00.004-04:002011-05-13T23:35:00.143-04:00Solitude<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUojrzD6qz96R53lVroVVMMxdEpfjGYIkqQ4x52jH_pX6SLn0co4-nnwy535rsti8fZln_CyWbYT5XlBsTKE2Fk5HKnQHG8awo6ly3b7sXdWXE31b8yN1pv48PQUlpsMvq1VAYD5nU4rXi/s1600/Peanut+Solitude1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUojrzD6qz96R53lVroVVMMxdEpfjGYIkqQ4x52jH_pX6SLn0co4-nnwy535rsti8fZln_CyWbYT5XlBsTKE2Fk5HKnQHG8awo6ly3b7sXdWXE31b8yN1pv48PQUlpsMvq1VAYD5nU4rXi/s400/Peanut+Solitude1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606408348002442530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">"To dare to live alone is the rarest courage; since there are many who had rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field, than their own hearts in their closet."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">--Charles Caleb Colton</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Charles Dickens</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Yes, just love these words. I'm back.<br /></div></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-88495842221700018392011-03-29T07:55:00.009-04:002011-03-29T08:34:48.301-04:00A Small Serving of Spring Darkness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fwrfle-3eAgTYyjBWa1twWYwJ8k2iG_T3CYqfUBtQxUoo69ZeOyAIh64OkJYrHMJnRHmVGgEJVm8nFd57AjPtW7cULV6xGicAazFyMRzywlMO8dQXE4MnE-zb08YJc3aPQ-ZldTg_9Dm/s1600/Vines1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fwrfle-3eAgTYyjBWa1twWYwJ8k2iG_T3CYqfUBtQxUoo69ZeOyAIh64OkJYrHMJnRHmVGgEJVm8nFd57AjPtW7cULV6xGicAazFyMRzywlMO8dQXE4MnE-zb08YJc3aPQ-ZldTg_9Dm/s400/Vines1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589469960423886018" border="0" /></a>As an antidote to this brilliant (but cold) spring sunlight, here's a small serving of poetic darkness. The editor of <a href="http://www.ralphmag.org"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">RALPH: The Review of Arts, Literature, Philosophy and the Humanities</span></a> asked to reprint "Arms of the Snake," a piece of mine that first appeared in <span style="font-style: italic;">Blackbird: an online journal of literature and the arts</span>. This is a poem that arrived unbidden, a duende-fueled surprise, even to me. Read on:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.ralphmag.org/GL/snake.html">Arms of the Snake</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Click on photo to enlarge image.</span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-74803058238234586382011-03-16T11:43:00.005-04:002011-03-16T12:16:26.523-04:00Skeletal Ice<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHlAdwrCLslv1h4CEgb1Vl02cmj1fDP2FxCV1uj_TfG4n7Vr6awXZPfzKzQsDKZ40FO_aSOM2eglZj2PmteafwalPs5SiY4nHzjOiAGJMUI_snRnzCleXOeYHW8XAGxW8IrOWn_Mf8u1p/s1600/Ice+WPRR+2_26_11+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHlAdwrCLslv1h4CEgb1Vl02cmj1fDP2FxCV1uj_TfG4n7Vr6awXZPfzKzQsDKZ40FO_aSOM2eglZj2PmteafwalPs5SiY4nHzjOiAGJMUI_snRnzCleXOeYHW8XAGxW8IrOWn_Mf8u1p/s400/Ice+WPRR+2_26_11+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584704143361681794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Soul should stand in Awe --</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Emily Dickinson</span><br /></div><br />Delicate claws, skeletons, spiderwebs, daggers and ripples of ice. I suffered a wet sock and shoe getting this picture -- twice -- but it was worth it. This was the most beautiful, intricate ice I have ever seen, a gift formed by the crazy weather at the end of February. Now we are on the cusp of spring; even the last gritty rinds of snow have been washed away by the rain. The world is dripping, thawing. Things are about to happen.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The photo was taken 2/26/11. Click on image to enlarge.</span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-43703879917003548562011-02-19T14:13:00.004-05:002011-02-19T14:29:34.190-05:00Simian Awe<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJ5dBYfW5GOiUo0mgn8o13_z75TpJErZ9DHK99dCsObEq7YR_g2bRc9gW9X2GUnrNmzPj2yi5EByBYDWwZbYp2Q0VwxKQKjUOa-zk9qZiJsWBn9AJlCnGjx2QHldIdX_psCyIyu3eVfek/s1600/Monkey+Awe+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJ5dBYfW5GOiUo0mgn8o13_z75TpJErZ9DHK99dCsObEq7YR_g2bRc9gW9X2GUnrNmzPj2yi5EByBYDWwZbYp2Q0VwxKQKjUOa-zk9qZiJsWBn9AJlCnGjx2QHldIdX_psCyIyu3eVfek/s400/Monkey+Awe+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575481283248342082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nonsense is an assertion of man's spiritual freedom</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">in spite of all the oppressions of circumstance.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Aldous Huxley</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Humor is just another defense against the universe.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Mel Brooks</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I agree. I believe in what I refer to as "the dark and twisted little laugh." It saves me from the shadows every time.<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Click on image to enlarge. The photo was taken 2/16/11.</span><br /></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-87133465891660654752011-02-15T23:26:00.005-05:002011-02-16T20:32:42.952-05:00Monkey Love Tulip<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbB7oebX5xbBUOgBl8vSyQf1hk4Csi_ciuXYIouI-UG1OmtcSTNPLfWla6wqjfCDGTRh6yjrAUlgyoZmVmW2wINSGygjUtara34xktiZICrhIDehYhQ5lfU_SaBETq_qiaCJChl2jZaIQ/s1600/Monkey+Love+Tulip+2_15_11+++1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbB7oebX5xbBUOgBl8vSyQf1hk4Csi_ciuXYIouI-UG1OmtcSTNPLfWla6wqjfCDGTRh6yjrAUlgyoZmVmW2wINSGygjUtara34xktiZICrhIDehYhQ5lfU_SaBETq_qiaCJChl2jZaIQ/s400/Monkey+Love+Tulip+2_15_11+++1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574139149854578578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Monkey love tulip. Spring. Soon. Really.</span><br /></div><br />The monkey also has a baby. The baby is its own kind of wonderful. (Beware, I'm sure other photos will follow.) The attached antique shop price tag was highly entertaining: "Celluloid monkeys AS IS -- wind up not workin, hole in baby's face." You can't wait to see that baby, now can you?<br /><br />The photograph was taken this afternoon at my house. Thanks, Cindy S-J for the fabulous birthday monkey and baby. You knew I could no way, no how live without them. Simian bliss.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Simply click on photo to enlarge image.</span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3620937750697214368.post-30027149742478214472011-02-09T09:43:00.005-05:002011-02-09T10:25:01.042-05:00Magic Skylight<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvW-RRqUDuX8Rcw41D79G_f-Sm1xw7imnd238QvIuFPR_WpVh5GJEgtyC6X4bGInTblP3fYyVmiBw2syDe6kpLCrUPwfckWm7FeNkx3kimLa9Zl-U8kKmiPn6zJCd1GI3KOTXVV03OhaYZ/s1600/Skylight+Thaw+2_6_11+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvW-RRqUDuX8Rcw41D79G_f-Sm1xw7imnd238QvIuFPR_WpVh5GJEgtyC6X4bGInTblP3fYyVmiBw2syDe6kpLCrUPwfckWm7FeNkx3kimLa9Zl-U8kKmiPn6zJCd1GI3KOTXVV03OhaYZ/s400/Skylight+Thaw+2_6_11+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571700781428577042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">I say one must be a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">seer</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, make oneself a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">seer</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">. The poet makes himself a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">seer</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> by an immense, long, deliberate </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">derangement</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> of all the senses.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-- Arthur Rimbaud, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Letter to Paul Demeny</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> [May 15, 1871]</span><br /><br />This is my magic skylight, sharing its own odd perspective on the world through its frame of thawing ice. When you look up through it, it toys with your orientation in space. I like that dizzy sensation, the momentary vision of the world as a new and thrilling place. In one of its earlier incarnations, fully covered with layers of ice, the skylight allowed enough light through to become a three-dimensional Mark Rothko painting. This morning its frame has melted and cracked, leaving the naked trees looming like crackled varnish, patterns backlit by February sun. I praise its kaleidoscope eye.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The photograph was taken 2/6/11.</span>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11019640015329956061noreply@blogger.com8