Sunrise, sunset

It's not quite a surprise that sunsets are beautiful; but it is surprising that there is such hot contention the world over about who has the most beautiful ones. It's like this: everyone thinks their own child is the most amazing, most gorgeous creature to ever live. Well, the same goes for native sunsets. When you live in a place, you grow partial to its sunsets -- and you come to love them beyond all measure. Here are some (we think) lovely ones from our corner of the world; we dare you to send us yours! Much more bloggery about sunsets, including famous quotes! at blog.amynelsonhahn.info

How it is

No one supposes
to take it seriously
but a sunset is as punishing
sometimes as the deaths of a thousand
long-lost loves -- it nearly kills you.
One wishes it had -- but then,
in the miracle of a glance,
at the suppurated pigments, one cannot
well describe, not being an artist but a scribe
by trade, it vanquishes
all, and then from thence
every knot and bough beneath them darkens
to their hindering trade; they are
ashamed to lurk under the grander
tapestry above, as one might be,
humbled and yet so amazed --
never thinking one could be
so completely
amazed.
Copyright (c) 2012 Amy Nelson Hahn

view with images 71450, 72450, 73450,74450, 75450, and 76450 from photos.amynelsonhahn.info or visit blog.amynelsonhahn.info

All a-glow

Who doesn't find a little joy in the beauty and scent of the mock orange in bloom this time of year, in the midst of June? Such a perfect wedding flower, so appropriate for the lightness and breathlessness of the season. It's just the time of year to celebrate the most effervescent of scents and surroundings -- so look for these tender blossoms wherever they grow, and on blog.amynelsonhahn.info...

Summer, abundant

If it had been snow,
the drifts of white, tumbling
from these branches should
have raised a shiver, even
on this mild mid-June morning,
but no -- instead they are warm
and scent of citrus and honey;
they fairly glow as they quiver
their ways to the ground below,
nothing troubling them, still pure,
nothing less for having left
the safety of their former home.
They almost, almost seem to rise --
just briefly -- a breath of erstwhile wind
goes by, never quite
for sure.
Copyright (c) 2012 Amy Nelson Hahn

view with images 3463, 3465, 3472, 3474, 3466, and 3467 from photos.amynelsonhahn.info or visit blog.amynelsonhahn.info

What love is like

"my love is like a red, red rose..." Who hasn't read or heard those immortal lines by Scottish poet Robert Burns? But what does his poem tell us about the nature of metaphor, and even about the use of roses in literature? What does it tell us about permanence and temporality? Consider these ideas and view some lovely photos of fresh roses from the garden, at blog.amynelsonhahn.info

Simplicity and posterity

How often do we simulate
or dissipate the various
semblances of our casual misnomers
for the grandest of our sentiments?
A simple rose takes on
the aegis and mantle of
all plethora meaning love,
meaning longing, meaning
softness we recall yet cannot
precisely recollect -- it has
escaped us, just as
the languid rose, in her dubious
beauty, eludes posterity:
her skirts around her crumble,
color falling from her cheek
as lastly she bids adieu.
Copyright (c) 2012 Amy Nelson Hahn

view with images 3462, 3461, 3460, and 3459 from photos.amynelsonhahn.info or visit blog.amynelsonhahn.info

Paint it black

We often wonder why the color black is associated with death and funerals, the grim beyond -- but why not color? Is black really the ultimate presence of color? To understand this symbolic relationship to art and custom better, we have to look to our traditions and we have to look outside of our everyday experiences. More thoughts on the nature of black, in words and images, at blog.amynelsonhahn.info

Lofty

Return in blackness,
return like the void
to this pinnacle space,
contriving nothing but a heart's regret,
nothing but a desolation's joy.
Portents, portents --
emanating mystery sounds;
return to the damage you have wrought.
No one hears your cackles,
so far from shore;
no one fancies your broodings,
but I have an eye for such things
as these and the lofty as you
live sequestered in my careworn thought.
Divide in blackness, part,
assemble like old maids
in this canopied place,
concealing nothing but a heart's hollow,
nothing but a devastation's foil.
Copyright (c) 2012 Amy Nelson Hahn

view with images P41501165, P41501175, P41501185, P41501195, and P41501205  from photos.amynelsonhahn.info or visit blog.amynelsonhahn.info