Day 85 – Applegate Valley

AValley

But I, Too, Want to be a Poet

But I, too, want to be a poet
to erase from my days
confusion & poverty
fiction & a sharp tongue

To sing again
with the tones of adolescence
demanding vengeance
against my enemies, with words
clear & austere

To end this tumultuous quest
for reasonable solutions
to situations mysterious & sore

To have the height to view
myself as I view others
with lenience & love

To be free of the need
to make a waste of money
when my passion,
first and last,
is for the ecstatic lash
of the poetic line

and no visible recompense

-Fanny Howe

So, the fog finally cleared, only because it is so windy it blew away and so it’s still impossible to do any outdoor photography. I’m not feeling too inspired for the studio either so I started backward through the files and got to November 17 before I found something I liked. A nice scene from the Applegate Valley. There used to be a huge white barn on this site but sometime in the past two years it just vanished. At least they left some of the old farm equipment. I got a couple of new poetry books today so instead of looking for something to fit the photo I just paged through until I found one I liked.

Day 84 – Fog

Fog

Fog

The fog comes 
on little cat feet. 


It sits looking 
over harbor and city 
on silent haunches 
and then moves on.


 -Carl Sandburg

I’ve been cursing the fog lately because it has been keeping everything cold and dark. But when I saw this scene as I was going out to get the mail yesterday I had to go back and get the camera. Of course I had to zoom in to cut out all the buildings and cars but it was the wispyness of the fog in the valley and the colors of the clouds that drew me in. This poem by Carl Sandburg is one of the first ones I was ever introduced to by a teacher in grade school. I have always loved the imagery of the cat sneaking in and looking around. Though our fog tends to stick around for days on end. Happily it finally cleared this afternoon.

 

 

Day 83 – Feather

FeatherRSw

Nostalgia

Remember the 1340s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called “Find the Cow.”
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.

 

Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent, a badly broken code.

 

The 1790s will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.

 

I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.

 

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.
As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.

 

-Bill Collins

 

 

Well, the sun is trying to come out but not having much success. Last I looked the temperature was still in the 30s. So, I finally decided to see what I could come up with in the studio. All summer, on my walks I was picking up feathers. I have quite a collection so tried out one with an old book. Then did some magic in the computer. I googled nostalgia poems and came up with this one which gave me a chuckle and decided to use it even though it is a little longer than I generally prefer.

 

Day 82 – Hydrangea

Hydrangeaw

Seeking Beauty

Cold winds can never freeze, nor thunder sour 
The cup of cheer that Beauty draws for me 
Out of those Azure heavens and this green earth — 
I drink and drink, and thirst the more I see.

To see the dewdrops thrill the blades of grass, 
Makes my whole body shake; for here’s my choice 
Of either sun or shade, and both are green — 
A Chaffinch laughs in his melodious voice.

The banks are stormed by Speedwell, that blue flower 
So like a little heaven with one star out; 
I see an amber lake of buttercups, 
And Hawthorn foams the hedges round about.

The old Oak tree looks now so green and young, 
That even swallows perch awhile and sing: 
This is that time of year, so sweet and warm, 
When bats wait not for stars ere they take wing.

As long as I love Beauty I am young, 
Am young or old as I love more or less; 
When Beauty is not heeded or seems stale, 
My life’s a cheat, let Death end my distress.

-William Henry Davies

I was thinking this morning about how easy it is to find beauty in early autumn and how much harder it is now. But perhaps the challenge makes it all the more worthwhile to keep looking. I had been out in my yard photographing raindrops on things when I noticed my hydrangea, while fading, was still blooming away. I added a couple of textures and some French script to give it a little more interest and came up with an image I just love. Who says you can’t do flower photography in December.

Day 81 – Old Barn

Barnw

Old Barn

There’s an old barn
not far from our house
that’s nearing the end of its days.
Its boards are scoured and scored
its roof sags
and there are yawning holes in its sides.

When it was raised
the neat lines of its frame
stood firm against the sky
and it was clad in clean young boards and paint.

Once workmen, with their laughter, came storing hay,
children played in its loft
and young people experimented there with love.

Once cows and horses sheltered between its walls,
and gave birth there to their young,
mice scurried along its beams,
swallows and owls nested under its eaves
and cats came to prowl and prey.

Now the barn is an empty husk
and the fields from which it gathered its hay
have reverted to scraggly woods and scrub.

-Richard Greene

Well, it looks like this murky weather is hear to stay. I’m planning an escape but my calendar doesn’t clear up until late next week. Still, it looks like they will be having nice weather outside the valley which will continue to be plagued by fog. And I have some new poetry books coming so lots to look forward to. This old barn was from yesterday’s excursion. I discovered it on a backroad not far from my house last winter. I often turn to barns when there are no flowers or birds or leaves to photograph. This one took a few trips through software to give it a more grungy, painterly look. And to add some interest to the flat white sky.

Day 80 – Bare Poplars

Poplars

Desespoir

The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.

-Oscar Wilde

Who knew Oscar Wilde could be so dark. Well, it does fit the picture and the gloominess brought on by persistent fog in the valley. I was inspired this morning by a photographer I follow who blogged about how she loves to photograph the shapes of the trees as autumn fades into winter. So I decided what better way to put the fog to good use and drove out into the orchards to see what I could find. It’s hard to beat bare poplars for drama against the sky but the colors were so flat it seemed to cry out for a black and white treatment.

Day 79 – Fallen Fence

Fencew

No!

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member –
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds –
November!

-Thomas Hood

It wasn’t raining today but it was just gloomy. I kept expecting thing to brighten up but they never did. So I went back to my fallen down fence from yesterday and worked on  it a little more. You wouldn’t guess there is a self storage facility just beyond the next pasture would you? And Farewell to November with 21 one days to go before Autumn officially ends.

Day 78 – Autumn Abstract

Autumn Abstract

Fall Leaves, Fall

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

– Emily Bronte

In keeping with my vow to visit places I have not been before, I took a short field trip to Blue Heron Park in Phoenix this afternoon. The park itself is nothing special but it does afford access to parts of the Bear Creek Greenway I have not seen before. I found some falling down fences and some nice colors and then I got to playing with intentional blurs created by moving the camera at a slow shutter speed. I loved the way this one turned out because it looks like a painting and other than adding a little saturation I did nothing to it. This one I would hang on my wall (and I may) and I have seen much worse art hanging in public places. I went looking for a generic autumn poem today and came to the conclusion I have about run through them all, at least the good ones by known authors. But I had not see this one by Ms. Bronte before so wanted to include it.

Day 77 – House Sparrow

House_sparrow

The Sorrow of Love

The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

-William Butler Yeats

Raining again but I had more good pictures from Ashland Pond yesterday so why not share. I’m not sure if this little guy was trying to get a better look at me or just fluffing his feathers but I was glad to see him dip his head below that little branch that had been obscuring the picture before. And here’s something from Yeats that is not quite so dense as the last one. He’s growing on me.

Day 76 – Spotted Towhee

Towhee

Spotted Towhee

The sweetest of songs

Sung high above the treetops

A towhee’s calling

-Dorcinda Duclos

Finally a break in the rain, not too windy. I decided to make a point of trying to visit places I haven’t been in awhile or have never been to at all. So I grabbed the big lens and headed down to Ashland Pond to see what birds might be about. I thought I might be limited to a few ducks way across the pond. But then this Towhee showed up and wanted to chat. Later some sparrows and a Jay. Nothing exotic but what can you expect this time of year. It was just good to get out for a change.