I love the picture affixed to this essay. I feel like it’s a picture of place I once was, that I remember vividly, even though… I wasn’t ever there, and my memories seem made up. Many of you will (correctly) think I’m crazy for reacting this way, but some of you, a special few, will know the feeling I’m describing.
Blogging: bringing the disenfranchised together, one weirdo at a time.
I frequently start with photos as inspiration for posts; I purchase almost all the images I use from Dreamstime.com. This particular photo is by a photographer named Kevin Eaves. He’s from the UK.
I mostly write poetry; it turns out, there’s a word for poetry inspired by painting or photography or other arts, it’s called ekphrastic poetry, and the process itself is called ekphrasis.
I know you come to this blog primarily to learn obscure Greek terms for things, so I oblige.
She wasn’t awake yet, so
I dressed and left to take a walk,
Looking at her, a lambent miracle,
Still asleep in the old farm bed —
The type of terrain was
Strange to me; I come from
Flat beach country, where
Hills are few, and snow is
The air was cold and bracing, and
I could see my own breath in steam
What a night it had been
What a surprise all that was
What beautiful country it was, as
The early morning light hazed gray
Over the winter landscape
And it wasn’t even love, it was
Just the joy of knowing
Love might be
Love is its own excuse, of course: we love because we love to love.
That I love this photograph is an oddity, perhaps, but it is a fact: I love this picture.