Day 360 – It’s Not Always a Bad Thing

It’s Not Always a Bad Thing

Day 360

Bright Cap and Streamers by James Joyce

Bright cap and streamers,
He sings in the hollow:
Come follow, come follow,
All you that love.
Leave dreams to the dreamers
That will not after,
That song and laughter
Do nothing move.

With ribbons streaming
He sings the bolder;
In troop at his shoulder
The wild bees hum.
And the time of dreaming
Dreams is over — –
As lover to lover,
Sweetheart, I come.

•••
A bit blown out, but sometimes it just works.  I went with a more traditional light in the second shot….
•••

It Doesn’t Look too Bad

Day 351 – It is Really Blue!

It is Really Blue!

Day 351

’Twas na her bonie blue e’e by Robert Burns

’TWAS na her bonie blue e’e was my ruin,
Fair tho’ she be, that was ne’er my undoin’;
’Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind us,
’Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kindness:
’Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kindness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me,
But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever:
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Chloris, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest!
And thou’rt the angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter:
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

Day 347 – This One is Mine

This One is Mine

Day 347

Scent of Irises by David Herbert Lawrence

A faint, sickening scent of irises
Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table
A fine proud spike of purple irises
Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable
To see the class’s lifted and bended faces
Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable.

I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless
Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast you
With fire on your cheeks and your brow and your chin as you dipped
Your face in the marigold bunch, to touch and contrast you,
Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks,
Dissolved on the golden sorcery you should not outlast.

You amid the bog-end’s yellow incantation,
You sitting in the cowslips of the meadow above,
Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs,
Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love;
You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent,
You with your face all rich, like the sheen of a dove.

You are always asking, do I remember, remember
The butter-cup bog-end where the flowers rose up
And kindled you over deep with a cast of gold?
You ask again, do the healing days close up
The open darkness which then drew us in,
The dark which then drank up our brimming cup.

You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night
Burnt like a sacrifice; you invisible;
Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you!
—And yes, thank God, it still is possible
The healing days shall close the darkness up
Wherein we fainted like a smoke or dew.

Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God,
The fire of night is gone, and your face is ash
Indistinguishable on the grey, chill day;
The night had burst us out, at last the good
Dark fire burns on untroubled, without clash
Of you upon the dead leaves saying me Yea.

Day 345 – Sugar Beer

The glass is scattered on Harrison Street and I almost passed it by; it is a good thing I look up, down and all around before I move on.

Today’s post brought to you by the folks over at Sugar Beer:

The Lost Drink by Andrew Barton Paterson

I had spent the night in the watch-house —
My head was the size of three —
So I went and asked the chemist
To fix up a drink for me;
And he brewed it from various bottles
With soda and plenty of ice,
With something that smelt like lemon,
And something that seemed like spice.
It fell on my parching palate
Like the dew on a sunbaked plain,
And my system began to flourish
Like the grass in the soft spring rain;
It wandered throughout my being,
Suffusing my soul with rest,
And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid
That life had a new-found zest.I have been on the razzle-dazzle
Full many a time since then
But I never could get the chemist
To brew me that drink again.
He says he’s forgotten the notion —
‘Twas only by chance it came —
He’s tried me with various liquids
But oh! they are not the same.

We have sought, but we sought it vainly,
That one lost drink divine;
We have sampled his various bottles,
But somehow they don’t combine:
Yet I know when I cross the River
And stand on the Golden Shore
I shall meet with an angel chemist
To brew me that drink once more.

•••
Perfect weather, a nice breeze, an hour or so on my hands in my camera’s favorite little town.  And I was left with 6 photos I really liked and since I am THISCLOSE to being finished with my 365, I decided not to limit myself to one photo choice per day.  Sugar Beer was actually not my favorite, but I liked the idea of giving this post the title Sugar Beer, so there you go.  I think Little Beard is the one I like the best, and oh!  You could smell the fragrance all of the way down the street as it wafted along with the breeze.

At the corner of Morton Street, the scent drifts on the breeze, the colors glow and I am in love.

They will shoot at anything, won’t they?

Closed for a long time, this place is starting to fade.
Allis Chalmers tractor, bright – it caught my eye in an instant as it graced a storefront.

Say Ahhh…