At the request of my blogger friends, Northern Narratives and Chronicles of Illusions, here are a couple more shots of the viking church from the ol’ shoe box. If I could only go back there now and take a series! But this is all I have. Enjoy!
Archive for October, 2012
Posted in photography, Weekly Photo Challenge, tagged Beverly Hills Cop, Eddie Murphy, graveyard, Norway, Paris, photography, Vikings, Weekly Photo Challenge: Foreign on October 28, 2012| 13 Comments »
This week’s topic is a relative, subjective term, “Foreign.” Because all the bloggers who participate in this challenge are from different countries, what represents “foreign” to some is not “foreign” to others. For some reason this topic made me focus on foreign language, which for me represents languages other than English.
I had to go to my photo albums to find photos of places other than North America; it has been many years since I have traveled to continents other than my own. You can tell how old this photo is by what movie is playing! This was taken during a trip to Paris in the 1980’s.
The second photo I chose is from a trip to Norway, also in the 1980’s. It shows a Viking church with gravestones in Norwegian.
Jake has a great topic this week, but I didn’t have much time to take advantage of it. I had company visiting from out of state. I did have to go into the city to pick them up, so here is a shot of one section of the Boston skyline taken from the car window.
And this is a shot of the street near where I picked them up. The horse is outside of a PF Chang’s restaurant…seems kind of crazy to see a horse in the city. 🙂
The topic for this week’s challenge is silhouette. I chose a couple of old pictures.
Though my grandmother died years ago, we are still going through boxes of papers and photos. My mother recently found this photo of me and my cat Misty, which I had given to my grandmother. I took the photo when I was in my early 20’s as an assignment for a class, using my trusty Pentax K1000 and a timer with a sheet hung up on the wall behind me (that’s about as amateur as you can get). I had developed it myself, and it shows my inexperience: it has a few brown spots from my carelessness with the developing chemicals, and it was also cut crookedly. Despite its flaws, I was happy to have it. I recently put it in a frame and put it on a table in my home; the imperfections only make it a little more precious.
Looking at it now, I realize it is my own modified version of the photo of Billy Joel from the inside sleeve of The Stranger album. (I liked that photo so much I drew my own version in charcoal for an art class.) The photo on the sleeve was a great example of a silhouette.
When I was a child I loved rocks; an abandoned gravel pit was my playground. When my father cleaned out the garage, he found bag after bag of my treasures. I still have a few on display in my home today.
I supposed that is why rocks have figured in a lot of my poems over the years, beginning with this very simple poem, written in my youth about a crush.
You love rocks —
Aspire to be one.
I love rocks too,
but you don’t seem
in my collection.
In my twenties, I took part in a poetry workshop, during which I wrote and shared a long poem entitled “Nothing to do with Hesse.” I dug it out and reread it as I worked on this post, thinking that it seems so stilted as I read it now, but at the time it impressed another young woman in the workshop, though I didn’t know it. Months later a woman approached me on the train and said, “You’re the one that wrote that poem about Hesse…what a great poem that was!” One of those memorable moments in an ordinary life. This excerpt is where the rocks come in:
A little girl
spent hours alone,
cracking and collecting stones,
exploring the backyard gravel pit
as her private planet…But
that has nothing to do with him.
(Again about an unrequited attraction…my favorite topic in my youth.) It was when I wrote this poem the other day that it occurred to me that I was often writing about rocks, and that they seem to be an important symbol for me.
Sometimes I wonder if I am salvageable.
When there is nothing left
but my rock of a heart,
The only way to know
if there is anything worthwhile inside
is to hurl it against another rock —
or smash it
with a hammer —
only then might the plain gray shale
reveal its story,
old as the earth,
the sediment of years
in multi-colored layers;
only then might it become someone’s treasured
it could be the same,
through and through,
a dull disappointment tossed away,
ground to unknowable