Tag: nature photography
A Favorite Poem; “Kicking the Leaves”
This is a favorite poem. “Kicking the Leaves” by Donald Hall.
Kicking the leaves, October, as we walk home together
from the game, in Ann Arbor,
on a day the color of soot, rain in the air;
I kick at the leaves of maples,
reds of seventy different shades, yellow
like old paper; and poplar leaves, fragile and pale;
and elm leaves, flags of a doomed race.
I kick at the leaves, making a sound I remember
as the leaves swirl upward from my boot,
and flutter; and I remember
Octobers walking to school in Connecticut,
wearing corduroy knickers that swished
with a sound like leaves; and a Sunday buying
a cup of cider at a roadside stand
on a dirt road in New Hampshire; and kicking the leaves,
autumn 1955 in Massachusetts, knowing
my father would die when the leaves were gone.
from the game, in Ann Arbor,
on a day the color of soot, rain in the air;
I kick at the leaves of maples,
reds of seventy different shades, yellow
like old paper; and poplar leaves, fragile and pale;
and elm leaves, flags of a doomed race.
I kick at the leaves, making a sound I remember
as the leaves swirl upward from my boot,
and flutter; and I remember
Octobers walking to school in Connecticut,
wearing corduroy knickers that swished
with a sound like leaves; and a Sunday buying
a cup of cider at a roadside stand
on a dirt road in New Hampshire; and kicking the leaves,
autumn 1955 in Massachusetts, knowing
my father would die when the leaves were gone.
2
Each fall in New Hampshire, on the farm
where my mother grew up, a girl in the country,
my grandfather and grandmother
finished the autumn work, taking the last vegetables in
from the fields, canning, storing roots and apples
in the cellar under the kitchen. Then my grandfather
raked leaves against the house
as the final chore of autumn.
One November I drove up from college to see them.
We pulled big rakes, as we did when we hayed in summer, pulling the leaves against the granite foundations
around the house, on every side of the house,
and then, to keep them in place, we cut spruce boughs
and laid them across the leaves,
green on red, until the house
was tucked up, ready for snow
that would freeze the leaves in tight, like a stiff skirt.
Then we puffed through the shed door,
taking off boots and overcoats, slapping our hands,
and sat in the kitchen, rocking, and drank
black coffee my grandmother made,
three of us sitting together, silent, in gray November.
where my mother grew up, a girl in the country,
my grandfather and grandmother
finished the autumn work, taking the last vegetables in
from the fields, canning, storing roots and apples
in the cellar under the kitchen. Then my grandfather
raked leaves against the house
as the final chore of autumn.
One November I drove up from college to see them.
We pulled big rakes, as we did when we hayed in summer, pulling the leaves against the granite foundations
around the house, on every side of the house,
and then, to keep them in place, we cut spruce boughs
and laid them across the leaves,
green on red, until the house
was tucked up, ready for snow
that would freeze the leaves in tight, like a stiff skirt.
Then we puffed through the shed door,
taking off boots and overcoats, slapping our hands,
and sat in the kitchen, rocking, and drank
black coffee my grandmother made,
three of us sitting together, silent, in gray November.
3
One Saturday when I was little, before the war,
my father came home at noon from his half day at the office
and wore his Bates sweater, black on red,
with the crossed hockey sticks on it, and raked beside me
in the back yard, and tumbled in the leaves with me,
laughing , and carried me, laughing, my hair full of leaves,
to the kitchen window
where my mother could see us, and smile, and motion
to set me down, afraid I would fall and be hurt.
my father came home at noon from his half day at the office
and wore his Bates sweater, black on red,
with the crossed hockey sticks on it, and raked beside me
in the back yard, and tumbled in the leaves with me,
laughing , and carried me, laughing, my hair full of leaves,
to the kitchen window
where my mother could see us, and smile, and motion
to set me down, afraid I would fall and be hurt.
4
Kicking the leaves today, as we walk home together
from the game, among the crowds of people
with their bright pennants, as many and bright as leaves,
my daughter’s hair is the red-yellow color
of birch leaves, and she is tall like a birch,
growing up, fifteen, growing older; and my son
flamboyant as maple, twenty,
visits from college, and walks ahead of us, his step
springing, impatient to travel
the woods of the earth. Now I watch them
from a pile of leaves beside this clapboard house
in Ann Arbor, across from the school
where they learned to read,
as their shapes grow small with distance, waving,
and I know that I
diminish, not them, as I go first
into the leaves, taking
the way they will follow, Octobers and years from now.
from the game, among the crowds of people
with their bright pennants, as many and bright as leaves,
my daughter’s hair is the red-yellow color
of birch leaves, and she is tall like a birch,
growing up, fifteen, growing older; and my son
flamboyant as maple, twenty,
visits from college, and walks ahead of us, his step
springing, impatient to travel
the woods of the earth. Now I watch them
from a pile of leaves beside this clapboard house
in Ann Arbor, across from the school
where they learned to read,
as their shapes grow small with distance, waving,
and I know that I
diminish, not them, as I go first
into the leaves, taking
the way they will follow, Octobers and years from now.
5
This year the poems came back, when the leaves fell.
Kicking the leaves, I heard the leaves tell stories,
remembering and therefore looking ahead, and building
the house of dying. I looked up into the maples
and found them, the vowels of bright desire.
I thought they had gone forever
while the bird sang I love you, I love you
and shook its black head
from side to side, and its red eye with no lid,
through years of winter, cold
as the taste of chickenwire, the music of cinderblock.
Kicking the leaves, I heard the leaves tell stories,
remembering and therefore looking ahead, and building
the house of dying. I looked up into the maples
and found them, the vowels of bright desire.
I thought they had gone forever
while the bird sang I love you, I love you
and shook its black head
from side to side, and its red eye with no lid,
through years of winter, cold
as the taste of chickenwire, the music of cinderblock.
6
Kicking the leaves, I uncover the lids of graves.
My grandfather died at seventy-seven., in March
when the sap was running, and I remember my father
twenty years ago,
coughing himself to death at fifty-two in the house
in the suburbs. Oh how we flung
leaves in the air! How they tumbled and fluttered around us,
like slowly cascading water, when we walked together
in Hamden, before the war, when Johnson’s Pond
had not surrendered to houses, the two of us
hand in hand, and in the wet air the smell of leaves
burning:
in six years I will be fifty-two.
My grandfather died at seventy-seven., in March
when the sap was running, and I remember my father
twenty years ago,
coughing himself to death at fifty-two in the house
in the suburbs. Oh how we flung
leaves in the air! How they tumbled and fluttered around us,
like slowly cascading water, when we walked together
in Hamden, before the war, when Johnson’s Pond
had not surrendered to houses, the two of us
hand in hand, and in the wet air the smell of leaves
burning:
in six years I will be fifty-two.
7
Now in fall, I leap and fall
to feel the leaves crush under my body, to feel my body
buoyant in the ocean of leaves, the night of them,
night heaving with death and leaves, rocking like the ocean.
Oh this delicious falling into the arms of leaves,
into the soft laps of leaves!
Face down, I swim into the leaves, feathery,
breathing the acrid odor of maple, swooping
in long glides to the bottom of October —
where the farm lies curled against the winter, and soup steams
its breath of onion and carrot
onto damp curtains and windows; and past the windows
I see the tall bare maple trunks and branches, the oak
with its few brown weathery remnant leaves,
and the spruce trees, holding their green.
Now I leap and fall, exultant, recovering
from death, on account of death, in accord with the dead,
the smell and taste of leaves again,
and the pleasure, the only long pleasure, of taking a place
in the story of leaves.
to feel the leaves crush under my body, to feel my body
buoyant in the ocean of leaves, the night of them,
night heaving with death and leaves, rocking like the ocean.
Oh this delicious falling into the arms of leaves,
into the soft laps of leaves!
Face down, I swim into the leaves, feathery,
breathing the acrid odor of maple, swooping
in long glides to the bottom of October —
where the farm lies curled against the winter, and soup steams
its breath of onion and carrot
onto damp curtains and windows; and past the windows
I see the tall bare maple trunks and branches, the oak
with its few brown weathery remnant leaves,
and the spruce trees, holding their green.
Now I leap and fall, exultant, recovering
from death, on account of death, in accord with the dead,
the smell and taste of leaves again,
and the pleasure, the only long pleasure, of taking a place
in the story of leaves.
Autumn Painting
Follow me. There is a path up ahead. I can see it. I have been here before.
Follow me across the stone bridge. It is beautiful.
Follow me. I have to finish painting.
And then I came home to paint.
A Garden Needs Weeding
Yellow Tiger Swallowtail
Ruby-throated Hummingbird
In my garden
I am
Weeding
I know not the names of the weeds
They surround my plants
I do know my back and leg muscles
Will ache the next day
I am on my knees
Two hours on my knees
I think this is a form of prayer
Man On Knees Weeding
There is
The smell of basil
The smell of tomatoes
The smell of mint
Parsley
Thyme
Oregano
This all happened
On Saturday, late morning
Cloudy and breezy
I am filling a pail with weeds
My heart fills with Joy
I sing a new song
“You will be like a well-watered garden,
Like a spring whose waters never fail”
My hands are full of weeds
The garden grows more beautiful
This is why I worked
In the garden, to see
Myself weeding, letting go
Letting God direct me
This is a story about love
This is a story about growth
This is a story about beauty
Stay a bit longer
Listen
To wings of the butterfly flapping
The wings of the hummingbird whirling
Do you hear
Do you see
This all happened
On Saturday
On Sunday I rested
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
God’s Tiny Flying Ballerinas
Thursday morning
A hummingbird
At the feeder
I imagine
It is God’s
Tiny flying ballerina
Dancing from feeder to flower
The garden of zinnias
Pink and yellow and red and orange
I must hurry
To photograph
The tiny ballerina
The tiny dancer
Moves so quickly
Here then gone
Not like the swallowtail
Spending all morning
In the garden
At the purple butterfly bush
And hovering at a zinnia
Gifts this morning
Beauty
I wait
In the garden
To see
To contemplate
New ways
To extend my voice
And bring beauty to the world
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
A Pick Me Up Video
Video Of Butterflies In My Garden
Out My Window on a Saturday Morning
“Who’s the most beautiful in the Land?”
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
Good Advice; Your Words Matter
Here’s some great advice from my friend, Jennifer Dukes Lee:
“Here’s a little secret for writers: The way to write authentically is to pay attention to your regular life.
“I have written three books, one Bible study, and thousands of blog posts. But it took me a while to get in touch with The Regular.
“When I took that one simple step, everything about my writing changed.
“It’s like this: we can look around at our regular life and see it as quotidian and boring. That’s true whether you live on a cul-de-sac in Denver, or a farm in northwest Iowa. We hesitate to share from our own experiences and places because we’re afraid others won’t relate. Then, we water it down with generalities, and the life gets sucked out.
“But when I began to OWN my particular stories and places, an interesting paradox revealed itself — my regular life was what made my story both unique AND universally understood. Because when I explored my REGULAR life, all of the worries, fears, emotions, dreams, boredom, doubts, pain, anger, apathy, joy, and hope began to emerge from it.
“This is how you find your magic. You begin in the place where your bare feet roam, under the sky that domes over your head. Start with Place. Start with Home. Start with Regular. Start with your own weird thoughts, fumblings, and ponderings that emerge in your grocery store, church, back yard, bathroom, hospital, counselor’s office, cemetery, school gymnasium. Excavate the feelings underneath the places. The excavating ALWAYS starts when you put the spade under the dirt directly in front of you. Then, you’ll discover whatever it is that makes your story YOURS.
“As a writer, this is your ultimate strength. Write the stories only you can write. That’s how you find your style.”
This reminds me of a poem by Mary Oliver:
Praying
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
The path
Is a doorway
Follow me
To wonder
In fourth grade
We learn
Words matter
Susan and I
Bridges Together volunteers
In class
We read and write
Talk and laugh
Create art and friendships
Student Sabina whispers to me
“Susan is so beautiful”
Indeed she is
Inside and out
Her idea
To bring to class
Bushels of apples
For the students
And teachers and volunteers
Student Eva asks me
“May I have another apple?”
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
About October
I began the month with great expectations. Read the Bible daily. Practice yoga daily. Write daily. This I didn’t accomplish.
But Susan and I did begin a new season of volunteering in the Bridges Together Program .
Here are two of our students–4th graders.
I made some delicious food.
Here is a meatloaf with mushroom gravy.
Blueberry Scones.
Cranberry-Walnut Scones.
A Berry Galette.
Fig Chutney, which was so good served with chicken and oven-roasted Gen Tso’s cauliflower.
And since we have both fighting colds this past week, chicken soup.
Susan made a wonderful white chocolate cake. YUM!
One night we went out for dinner at 99 Restaurant and I had a sweet potato crusted haddock. I tried to replicate it at home with cod. Not as good, but still special.
Our garden continued to bring us great joy.
As did our Freddy. And Susan continued to sponsor the Nepali children in soccer.
I also had the opportunity to photograph my friend Beth and her family. I photographed her family last winter and I photographed her wedding a number of years ago.
And my friend Hajer.
And here is your humble author and friend. A self-portrait with my better half from October 3. She is my rock and inspiration. She is helping me get through some medical issues; this week I am having the first of two or three operations to remove kidney stones. Earlier in the month I thought I might have one as I have had them before; my back hurt and there was some blood in my urine. A CT Scan and Cystoscopy this month revealed two large stones and numerous small ones.
The long and short of all this is I AM reading the Bible, practicing yoga, praying, writing every day for now on. Thank You Susan for your continued inspiration. I love you. Keep smiling.
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
Welcome October
I love October!
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers,” wrote L.M. Montgomery in Anne of Green Gables.
Me, too!!!
Picture-perfect evidence of God’s majesty surround us.
Magnificent autumn leaves invite us to see the beauty that envelops us.
At Mittineague Park, the park down the street from where we live.
Or at Blair Lake on the outskirts of the Berkshires.
Of course, there are all those pumpkins!
Sometimes, we receive a surprise snow storm in October.
October light helps me create beautiful portraits, too.
Here are a few dinner and deserts I have made in October (Lentil Soup, Beef Stew, Butternut Squash with Scallops, North African Meatballs, Apple Pie and Cherry Cobler):
Yes, my friends, I made pasta and pizza, too. And fish–like these Panko Coconut Crusted Scallops:
October brings cooler nights; sweater and sweatshirt weather (Pictured here yours truly and my beloved wife, Susan.).
Our dog, Freddy, a mini-labradoodle loves playing amongst the autumn leaves.
A few final thoughts. One of my favorite poems, “Kicking Leaves,” by Donald Hall begins:
Kicking the leaves, October, as we walk home together
from the game, in Ann Arbor,
on a day the color of soot, rain in the air;
I kick at the leaves of maples,
reds of seventy different shades, yellows
like old paper; and poplar leaves, fragile and pale;
and elm leaves, flags of a doomed race.
I kick at the leaves, making a sound I remember
as the leaves swirl upward from my boot,
and flutter; and I remember
Octobers walking to school in Connecticut,
wearing corduroy trousers that swished
with a sound like leaves; and a Sunday buying
a cup of cider at a roadside stand
on a dirt road in New Hampshire………
One last thought. Music. A favorite album/CD of ours is “When October Goes, Autumn Love Songs.” Music by Christine Lavin, John Gorka, Patty Larkin, Cheryl Wheeler and others. You can get your copy here.
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
The Last Day of Summer
Today, Sunday, September 22, is the last day of summer. I am not sorry to say goodbye to summer. Oh, there were many great times. The time Susan, Freddy and I went to Art in the Orchard.
And a trip to Lost Acres Vineyard and Lost Acres Orchard last week for the town’s annual Farm Day. Afterwards (We really made a day of it!) we stopped at Black Rabbit Farm for a beer and food for dinner.
Susan and Freddy at Lost Acres Vineyard.
The field at Black Rabbit Farm. We let Freddy off leash and he had such a blast running around as we enjoyed out beer.
The garden looked beautiful throughout the summer, especially the zinnias, but my tomato and eggplant harvest was a great disappointment.
Early in the summer the clematis plants on the arbor brought great beauty and joy to us.
One of my favorite butterfly photos (It is so hard to choose a favorite! I photographed them every day—even today!) is this one from July:
A highlight, for me, was practicing yoga every morning near the arbor.
Of course, Freddy brings us great joy every day. He’s such a good boy!
One day when I was playing catch with Freddy with a small black ball and it rolled through the garden. It took me a long time to find it and as I was looking for it I found a butterfly I had never seen before, a Black and Blue Swallowtail, I believe. I wondered, for a brief second or two, if the black ball had magically turned into a butterfly.
Susan made many delicious deserts, like this Berry Cake:
Some of my food favorites from the summer include Cucumber Gazpacho, Tomato Soup, Grilled Scallops with White Beans and Spinach, and Shrimp and Rice:
I was thankful to be asked to photograph a mom, Bana, and her baby, Rosey, every month for 12 months.
Here is a photo from July that I just love because it illustrates the beauty Susan and I have created in our home. Plus, it shows two of my favorite photos.
Probably the highlight of our summer was winning the Western Mass News / Big Y Backyard BBQ. Susan had been trying and trying and trying to win and one Friday night we got a phone call from a reporter and he said “Susan, you just won the Backyard BBQ.” We invited 20+ plus people over—neighbors and friends. We had such a wonderful time and the people from Big Y and Western Mass News were awesome! Big Y supplied the food and did the cooking!
And now I give thanks for the times Susan and I spend in our backyard enjoying a glass of wine or cocktail before dinner.
There were a number of family get-togethers, too. A visit from our son and his girlfriend, a BBQ at our niece and nephews house (I always enjoy the opportunity to photograph their daughter, Lauren), and our grandson’s 4th birthday party!
I would be remiss not to say something about Susan. My wife. My best friend. My guide. My inspiration. Every day I give thanks that she is in my life. She is an amazing person.
I believe I am making the world a better place with beautiful photography. If you are looking for beautiful portrait, nature, or documentary photography, or someone you know is looking for photography that helps to create a more artful and beautiful life, please contact me.
Bruce Barone 