.
Deep in the air the past appears
As unreal as air to the boy
Or the apple of the world
To a girl whose eyes are pale and mild
Her hair is probably not real gold
Only a good imitation of the Greeks’
Like a map of that world of early days
Where woman lives on a scarlet cloud
While man in colorless blunt noon
Splashes up at the blue variables
That pass by on an airplane of words
Into the sky which distributes gifts of
Rain and light over our lives equally
Infinite gifts we are unable to behold
Sky: photo by Lucy in the Sky, 2008
Rain Clouds: photo by Lucy in the Sky, 2008
9 comments:
The past is sometimes brought along by the breeze in the lonely afternoons and then the raindrops bring us back to the present, though it may be so hard for us to grasp.
Thank you, Tom, for presenting my photos of these southern skies. The first one was taken from my window during a beautiful summer sunset. The second one is not here in San Martín, but in Ñorquinco, up North in the Province of Neuquén. I spent my holidays in an ecological campsite there. A real paradise. The rain refreshed us one afternoon. The shower lasted only half an hour. A little miracle, indeed.
Dear Lucy,
Your photos are windows opening on a world in which the Greeks and I would wish to live. They are gifts to all of us.
"...little miraculous windows," I should have said.
'an airplane of words'
and is it a cargo plane or a passeger plane?
HB,
Wonderful to have you back in these skies.
As to your query:
View of objective bystander or possibly interested observer:
"Cargo--like those old ships that took a few stowaway passengers".
I myself have always hoped the words would turn into live passengers, so perhaps, yes, they are stowaways.
Actually I have not been on a real airplane in something like fifteen years, so limited to paper and electronic flight, what would I know of such things.
my words travel on foot... sometimes they stop... to watch a butterflly fluttering before 'taking off'... that was why i was here.
re "stowaways"-
they would likewise be/ Encountrers of us, when in way alone/ About his fit affaires went any one/ Nor let them cloak themselves in any care/ To do ourselves comfort/
(from George Chapmans' Odyssey, VII 284-88)
Yours in suppliance,
ABH
HB,
That is my form of travel too, though I regret I am not as light upon the earth as you. These flutterings of the wings before takeoff feel familiar... we remember of course that Psyche, to the Greeks, was a woman, but also a butterfly.
Goodly Bow-man,
I stand a while at gaze, having made instant pace
Into the court, where all the Peers I find
And Captains of Phaecia, with cups crown'd
In memory--and finding thee among them,
Noble friend, I lift a cup to thee!
ah... i'd almost forgotten it... yes... and how beautiful!
thanks
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