An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.
[Translated by Harry Behn]
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Fallen flowers
Always arouse stronger emotions
Than the attached ones;
Mortals that we are,
constantly falling and being trampled upon,
We identify with them far better
Than the attached ones.
Fallen flowers
Always arouse stronger emotions
Than the attached ones;
They tug at our heart strings,
Shaking us out of our stupor,
Gently reminding us
That end is inevitable, not too far.
ﾠ
However, it all began earlier. This connection between photographic images and poetry dates back to the 19th century, almost simultaneously with the emergence of photography. In the beginning, photography tended to be documentary and illustrative, replacing engravings, so that it was possible to have a poem and an image together.
In the 20th century, avant-garde and surrealist schools gave a new dimension to this dialogue between photography and literature.
This marriage works best when poetry is not a caption and photography is not an illustration, but when both provide reflections and new interpretations. I tried. I hope I succeeded.
