I love words. I put pen to paper (look them up under fossil in the dictionary) as soon as I had cogent thoughts and feelings to express, and I have called myself a writer ever since. I see so many photography blogs, as lovely as they are, and this big nerd is screaming inside about all the writing they are missing out on doing. There is nothing so beautiful to me as an tongue trippingly intricate lyric or an intimate pearl of a poem. Poetry was one of my first mediums; the most simple way for me to say the things that, in reality, I simply could not.
I am not always the bright and happy shining singing ginger one might think I am–more to the point, I can be a regular Polly Pissy-Pants. We all have our deep flaws; these unattractive jags in our veneer we only show to the people we are the closest to; who we know love us enough to abide them. There is a bit of an inherent paradox there, of course; the ones we love the best sometimes (sometimes often) get the very worst of us.
The following poem by WB Yeats has been in my head all week, though it’s always been a favorite of mine, the middle stanza specifically.
When You Are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,/And nodding by the fire, take down this book,/And slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once,/ and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,/And loved your beauty with love false or true,/But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,/And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,/ Murmur, a little sadly how (Read more...)