his love letters make my heart fumble.
but it's his sonnets that hypnotize me into oblivion.
he has inspired me to start my own wildflower collection.
"Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever- or else swoon to death."
I've been looking through all your blog posts and your film photos are just lovely! Beautiful pics!
ReplyDeleteSorry to leave this here, but I couldn't find your email address... I would LOVE to include you in my "For the Love of Film" series on my blog. Basically it's a feature on your work, and I post some of my fav photos from your site and ask you a few interview style questions via email. It'd be great if you could participate! Here's a few examples if you'd like to take a look, you can contact me at dzitella(at)gmail(dot)com...
http://daniellamarieblog.blogspot.com/search/label/For%20the%20Love%20of%20Film*
Thanks!
there's magic in here.
ReplyDeleteI will absolutely email you, Daniella. thank you :)
ReplyDeleteSome of the poetry that inspires mostly everything I do is the work of David Berman and Zachary Schomburgh.
ReplyDeleteNew York, New York
By David Berman
A second New York is being built
a little west of the old one.
Why another, no one asks,
just built it, and they do.
The city is still closed off
to all but the work crews
who claim it's a perfect mirror image.
Truthfully, each man works on the replica
of the apartment building he lives in,
adding new touches,
like cologne dispensers, rock gardens,
and doorknobs marked for the grand hotels.
Improvements here and there, done secretly
and off the books. None of the supervisors
notice or mind. Everyone's in a wonderful mood,
joking, taking walks through the still streets
that the single reporter allowed inside has described as
"unleavened with reminders of the old city's complicated past,
but giving off some blue perfume from the early years on earth."
The men grow to love the peaceful town.
It becomes more difficult to return home at night,
which sets the wives to worrying.
The yellow soups are cold, the sunsets quick.
The men take long breaks on the fire escapes,
waving across the quiet spaces to other workers
meditating on their perches.
Until one day...
The sky fills with charred clouds.
Toolbelts rattle in the rising wind.
Something is wrong.
A foreman stands in the avenue
pointing binoculars at the massive gray mark
moving towards us in the eastern sky.
Several voices, What, What is it?
Pigeons, he yells through the wind.
how completely lovely. It makes me very happy when people recommend bits of literature to me. thank you, Rachel!
ReplyDeletei have just discovered your blog and it is so so wonderful.
ReplyDeletethose last four lines nearly made me swoon to death. thanks for sharing them.
ReplyDeleteOh, I ADORE Keats. He has inspired me is so many ways, both with my photography and my writing. I read his words all last summer, and now that spring is near, I find myself remembering lines from La Belle Dame Sans Marci (having memorized plenty of his poems).
ReplyDeleteI like this little series you did, I did one as well, dedicated to Ode to a Nightingale. (:
I love the way u taking pictures!!
ReplyDelete--
www.maja.musznicka.com