Portrait of a Young Girl

When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.

– William Butler Yeats; To A Young Girl

As spring dawns youth decries

time’s nefarious plans

Arrogance paves way for obliteration

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Macro photography without a macro lens

I’m no photographer; a novice, really. But getting close – REAL CLOSE – to the subject has always fascinated me. Close enough to be able to photograph a single thread, to see what really your eyes’ little whirlpools look like. Of course there was a brief period during high school when I took a fixation to check everything out under a microscope. Being a Biology student I had ready access to everything I needed. I’m sure I managed to create slides of everything I could lay my hands on, but my favorite will always be blood. My blood. But I digress.

I discovered that macro photography is possible even without a Macro lens, and decided to give it a shot. Since the fixation continues, I’ll upload more pictures from time to time. For now, enjoy a view of my brother’s eye. I understand it’s mediocre at best, but I suppose for an amateur and first-timer, it would do.

And another one…

Rainbows in the Sky

She will remember how every evening
her father helped her paint, while
Mumma prepared her favorite dishes

Just as her father remembers her exuberant
voice, returning from school
with yet another prized drawing.

Unable even to see her precious face,
he lamented the darkness in his life.

It was Rainbows in the Sky
they always or never drew together.

(Initially posted on Kreation)

The Locked Door

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern

– Wiliam Blake; The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

 

Life-long misers left their Summer Gold
behind a beguiling locked door
while starved metaphysical mules stared.

Platform Conversations

Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense

– Conversation; Elizabeth Bishop

Your sylvan Gods won’t surmise

What puerile minds devised

A concert on each vernal freckle

Of sun and shadows

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

– Summer Sun; Robert Louis Stevenson

Wonder how long the rapture will last

How long young Sol its spell will cast

At crossroads, we await consequences.