
Shot with Sony a6000.
I can feel it sitting there
In the deep, dark pit of me
My story…or maybe stories
Trying to claw themselves free.
I push them down and down
And still they struggle to get out
Free from the darkness
That has trapped them so long
They fight up and out
Into the light for the first time
A few wobbly steps later
They stand tall, breathe, and live.
Look closely enough at something
It disappears
In its place, formless
A void of what was
What might have been
Look closely enough at something
Stay blind
To the beautiful forms
All around
Step back and look
Listen and see
Be surprised by all that is
Present
Amazing accidents in Life to be found
Shot with a Sony a6000.
Shot with my Sony a6000.
As to some lovely temple, tenantless
Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass,
Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass
Grown up between the stones, yet from excess
Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness,
The worshipper returns, and those who pass
Marvel him crying on a name that was, –
So is it now with me in my distress.
Your body was a temple to Delight;
Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled,
Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move;
Here might I hope to find you day or night,
And here I come to look for you, my love,
Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead.
The fragrance of you
In my mind inescapable.
The wind carries you to me,
Lavenders in the breeze.
In an instant transported
Back against your chest
Arms wrapped around
The last time I truly felt
Contentment in who I am.
Left alone, no more lavender,
The dark doubts creep in
Whispering their words once more
You should not be.
But I am.
And I will continue to be
Because one day, once again,
The wind will bring you
Back to me.
There are some people, when passed on the street, for whom a single glance seems to be an insult; the photograph then becomes a superinsult, the ultimate insult.
This would define the stature, the physique (and the myth) of the street photographer, the reporter: a bruiser, a brute, someone who can stand up to the insult hurled back at him, heavy and awkward, blind, desensitized.
– Hervé Guibert, Ghost Image