One of my photos with poetry, almost every day.

Black and White and … Blue


Occasionally we come across something in nature that inspires us. I was riveted by this bird. It’s body carved into lush organic line. The dramatic black and white coloring. But more importantly, its eyes that seem so full of compassion—so rare in a bird. All set against a beautiful blue ocean. Some days it doesn’t have to be about poetry. It just needs to be thick and rich and visceral. Something that takes us back to the primal thing inside us that needs beauty to make the world meaningful.

Black and White and … Blue

Occasionally we come across something in nature that inspires us. I was riveted by this bird. It’s body carved into lush organic line. The dramatic black and white coloring. But more importantly, its eyes that seem so full of compassion—so rare in a bird. All set against a beautiful blue ocean. Some days it doesn’t have to be about poetry. It just needs to be thick and rich and visceral. Something that takes us back to the primal thing inside us that needs beauty to make the world meaningful.

lynnlangmade:

"Black Swan"
[one of my favorite poems of all time]
Black on flat water past jonquil lawns Riding, the black swan draws A private chaos warbling in its wake, Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor That calls the child with white ideas of swans Nearer to that green lake Where every paradox means wonder.
Although the black neck arches not unlike A question mark on the lake, The swan outlaws all easy questioning: A thing in its self, equivocal, foreknown, Like pain, or women singing as we wake; And the swan song it sings Is the huge silence of the swan.
Illusion: the black swan knows how to break Through expectation, beak Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image, And move across our lives, if the lake is life, And by the gentlest turning of its neck Transform, in time, time’s damage; To less than a black plume, time’s grief.
Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter Sorrow’s lost secret center Where, like a May fete, separate tragedies Are wound in ribbons round the pole to share A hollowness, a marrow of pure winter That does not change but is Always brilliant ice and air.
Always the black swan moves on the lake. Always The moment comes to gaze As the tall emblem pivots and rides out To the opposite side, always. The blond child on The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays Now in bliss, now in doubt. His lips move: I love the black swan.
— James Merrill

Want to express my heartfelt appreciation to the folks at Lux Lit for reblogging this self-portrait. Thank you my friends :)

lynnlangmade:

"Black Swan"

[one of my favorite poems of all time]

Black on flat water past jonquil lawns
Riding, the black swan draws
A private chaos warbling in its wake,
Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor
That calls the child with white ideas of swans
Nearer to that green lake
Where every paradox means wonder.

Although the black neck arches not unlike
A question mark on the lake,
The swan outlaws all easy questioning:
A thing in its self, equivocal, foreknown,
Like pain, or women singing as we wake;
And the swan song it sings
Is the huge silence of the swan.

Illusion: the black swan knows how to break
Through expectation, beak
Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image,
And move across our lives, if the lake is life,
And by the gentlest turning of its neck
Transform, in time, time’s damage;
To less than a black plume, time’s grief.

Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter
Sorrow’s lost secret center
Where, like a May fete, separate tragedies
Are wound in ribbons round the pole to share
A hollowness, a marrow of pure winter
That does not change but is
Always brilliant ice and air.

Always the black swan moves on the lake. Always
The moment comes to gaze
As the tall emblem pivots and rides out
To the opposite side, always. The blond child on
The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays
Now in bliss, now in doubt.
His lips move: I love the black swan.

— James Merrill

Want to express my heartfelt appreciation to the folks at Lux Lit for reblogging this self-portrait. Thank you my friends :)

(via luxlit)

lensblr-network:

"summer rain"
what a thing is summer rain
fat voluptuous dropsbursting on the dusty pavementbouncing off blades of grass.
the smell …of the world’s dirt runningthick and remorseful down the drain
—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014
by Lynn Langmade  (lynnlangmade.tumblr.com)

Just want to thank Lensblr for reblogging this photo-poem :) I really appreciate it..

lensblr-network:

"summer rain"

what a thing is summer rain

fat voluptuous drops
bursting on the dusty pavement
bouncing off blades of grass.

the smell …
of the world’s dirt running
thick and remorseful down the drain

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014


Just want to thank Lensblr for reblogging this photo-poem :) I really appreciate it..

The Jade Sandwich

[summer fun with his cousins]

The Jade Sandwich

[summer fun with his cousins]

A Gibbon deep in thought in late afternoon sunlight :)

A Gibbon deep in thought in late afternoon sunlight :)

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.”
                               —Steve Jobs

This photo was taken in Yosemite in January of 2013—a time when I learned exactly how strong I was. I don’t know. There are just days when I wish I could give someone courage. Today is one of those days.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.”

                               —Steve Jobs

This photo was taken in Yosemite in January of 2013—a time when I learned exactly how strong I was. I don’t know. There are just days when I wish I could give someone courage. Today is one of those days.

"purple blush"

I looked up todayand there you werea sun in my sky—softwarmradiant—full of such tendernessas all things are that sustain life
I blushed quietly,into a colorwithout a name
a color half way betweena sigh and a smilethat was mixedand meltingfrom your warmth
—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014.

"purple blush"

I looked up today
and there you were
a sun in my sky—
soft
warm
radiant—
full of such tenderness
as all things are that sustain life

I blushed quietly,
into a color
without a name

a color half way between
a sigh and a smile
that was mixed
and melting
from your warmth

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014.


 “A Warm Place” or “Illum Tangendo” [“Touching Him”]

"breathless"


like the bridgeyou traveled overyou were breathless
lungs openever expanding
flying throughyour own wings
flying pastlost dreams
—-you crashedinto howling clouds
that sobbed
sobbed for you
hovering
just above the thing you callyour body
falling
to the ground

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade, Copyright August 2014.

"breathless"

like the bridge
you traveled over
you were breathless

lungs open
ever expanding

flying through
your own wings

flying past
lost dreams

—-you crashed
into howling clouds

that sobbed

sobbed for you

hovering

just above the thing you call
your body

falling

to the ground

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade, Copyright August 2014.

I’ve always had a thing with frogs, and I wrote my Master’s Thesis on Emily Dickinson. Why not put them together and see if there’s chemistry?
#260
I’m Nobody! Who are you?Are you — Nobody — too?Then there’s a pair of us!Don’t tell! they’d advertise —you know!
How dreary — to be — Somebody!How public — like a Frog —To tell one’s name — the livelong June —To an admiring Bog!
—Emily Dickinson

I’ve always had a thing with frogs, and I wrote my Master’s Thesis on Emily Dickinson. Why not put them together and see if there’s chemistry?

#260

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you — Nobody — too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise —you know!

How dreary — to be — Somebody!
How public — like a Frog —
To tell one’s name — the livelong June —
To an admiring Bog!

—Emily Dickinson

"Black Swan"
[one of my favorite poems of all time]
Black on flat water past jonquil lawns Riding, the black swan draws A private chaos warbling in its wake, Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor That calls the child with white ideas of swans Nearer to that green lake Where every paradox means wonder.

Although the black neck arches not unlike A question mark on the lake, The swan outlaws all easy questioning: A thing in its self, equivocal, foreknown, Like pain, or women singing as we wake; And the swan song it sings Is the huge silence of the swan.

Illusion: the black swan knows how to break Through expectation, beak Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image, And move across our lives, if the lake is life, And by the gentlest turning of its neck Transform, in time, time’s damage; To less than a black plume, time’s grief.

Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter Sorrow’s lost secret center Where, like a May fete, separate tragedies Are wound in ribbons round the pole to share A hollowness, a marrow of pure winter That does not change but is Always brilliant ice and air.
Always the black swan moves on the lake. Always The moment comes to gaze As the tall emblem pivots and rides out To the opposite side, always. The blond child on The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays Now in bliss, now in doubt. His lips move: I love the black swan.
— James Merrill

"Black Swan"

[one of my favorite poems of all time]

Black on flat water past jonquil lawns
Riding, the black swan draws
A private chaos warbling in its wake,
Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor
That calls the child with white ideas of swans
Nearer to that green lake
Where every paradox means wonder.

Although the black neck arches not unlike
A question mark on the lake,
The swan outlaws all easy questioning:
A thing in its self, equivocal, foreknown,
Like pain, or women singing as we wake;
And the swan song it sings
Is the huge silence of the swan.

Illusion: the black swan knows how to break
Through expectation, beak
Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image,
And move across our lives, if the lake is life,
And by the gentlest turning of its neck
Transform, in time, time’s damage;
To less than a black plume, time’s grief.

Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter
Sorrow’s lost secret center
Where, like a May fete, separate tragedies
Are wound in ribbons round the pole to share
A hollowness, a marrow of pure winter
That does not change but is
Always brilliant ice and air.

Always the black swan moves on the lake. Always
The moment comes to gaze
As the tall emblem pivots and rides out
To the opposite side, always. The blond child on
The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays
Now in bliss, now in doubt.
His lips move: I love the black swan.

— James Merrill

"summer rain"


what a thing is summer rain
fat voluptuous dropsbursting on the dusty pavementbouncing off blades of grass.
 the  smell  …of the world’s dirt runningthick and remorseful down the drain

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014

"summer rain"

what a thing is summer rain

fat voluptuous drops
bursting on the dusty pavement
bouncing off blades of grass.

 the  smell 
of the world’s dirt running
thick and remorseful down the drain

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014

"touch"


when there was time enoughthe sun camedrifting into the center of everything—clothing half the world in darkness
causing treesand the small sweet thingsto move toward the light
a movement that looked like survivalbut was actually a dance
 a way of remembering—always—what it felt like to touchthe sun

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014.

"touch"

when there was time enough
the sun came
drifting into the center of everything—
clothing half the world in darkness

causing trees
and the small sweet things
to move toward the light

a movement that looked like survival
but was actually a dance

 a way of remembering
—always—
what it felt like to touch
the sun

—photo and poem by Lynn Langmade. Copyright August 2014.


Aquele momento em que uma imagem fala mais do que mil palavras.

um…this photo is like a zombie that just won’t stay dead. really annoying to see it being co-opted by religious nuts…sigh

Aquele momento em que uma imagem fala mais do que mil palavras.

um…this photo is like a zombie that just won’t stay dead. really annoying to see it being co-opted by religious nuts…sigh

(Source: lynnlangmade, via menterosa)

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