Pretty much a slight rotation 1 degree (updated: minor crop on the top) and that’s it. Waiting for the right light and clouds to get a decent shot through a lobby. Thanks for looking.
The images don’t necessarily stand on their own, so I hope this inspires folks to go and use their imaginations at the link.
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For some reason, I’m drawn to these guys and whenever I get a chance, I try for a decent shot.
More of a publicity shot.
All in-camera. Just a sunset reflection in a curved yacht-window.
Addition: No, I don’t own a yacht. I don’t really know anyone who owns a yacht. I’m neither pro- nor anti- yacht ownership.
Not necessarily interesting enough for an abstract nor for a regular photo. But, it’s new territory for me, and thus, might be an area of exploration.
Thanks for stopping by, and to everyone that has. I use the blog to communicate ideas and how I’m making sense of the world, but rarely do I respond directly to user interests and demands.
I’ve got a busy regular life. I’m grateful to have any kind of audience at all over these years.
Thank you for looking, and I wish you the best.
For Eleanor Boylan Talking With God
God has a brown voice,
as soft and full as beer.
Eleanor, who is more beautiful than my mother,
is standing in her kitchen talking
and I am breathing in my cigarettes like poison.
She stands in her lemon-colored sun dress
motioning to God with her wet hands
glossy from the washing of egg plates.
She tells him! She tells him like a drunk
who doesn’t need to see to talk.
It’s casual but friendly.
God is as close as the ceiling.
Though no one can ever know,
I don’t think he has a face.
He had a face when I was six and a half.
Now he is large, covering up the sky
like a great resting jellyfish.
When I was eight I thought the dead people
stayed up there like blimps.
Now my chair is as hard as a scarecrow
and outside the summer flies sing like a choir.
Eleanor, before he leaves tell him
Oh Eleanor, Eleanor,
tell him before death uses you up.
**The confessional and often psychiatric despair of many mid-20th century poets can grow tiresome; solipsistic and gauche much of this subject matter can be. It can also fuel some pretty good poems.
Here’s a mildly creepy photo I took, which brought the poem to mind: