Friday, January 31, 2014
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
by Sylvia Plath
The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green;
Green, also, the grapes on the green vine
Shading the brickred porch tiles.
The money's run out.
How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters.
Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking.
The sun shines on unripe corn.
Cats play in the stalks.
Retrospect shall not often such penury-
Sun's brass, the moon's steely patinas,
The leaden slag of the world-
But always expose
The scraggy rock spit shielding the town's blue bay
Against which the brunt of outer sea
Beats, is brutal endlessly.
Gull-fouled, a stone hut
Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:
Across the jut of ochreous rock
Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired,
To lick the sea-salt.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
The way we have grown to see 'things' beyond the norm, beneath the surface, the fabric or matrix of a 'so-called society'.
Psychology and visual concepts in the 21st century.
Our experience in an ever-increasing technological age of ourselves and others.
January Features on Flickr
Numb in blindness by Can Dagarslani