Photo (and Poetry) Blog

I Will Take My Mind Out Of Its Iron Cage and Let It Swim

Fine October

I will cut adrift - I will sit on pavements and drink coffee - I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim - this fine October. 

Virginia Woolf



Shirley Jackson’s  The Haunting of Hill House, one of my favorite books, is a very good read at Halloween. Yep, before the two movies and the new Netflix series, there was actually a book from 1959. A pretty good one too, read it!

Happy Halloween!

After the Storm

Dark Forest by Mihaela Limberea

Yesterday I went for a long walk in the woods behind the house. The storm had robbed them of their gold, leaving behind black skeletons wrapped in a white blanket of fog. The murky ground was strewn with wet leaves, glittering scales in the dark. From time to time, the caw of the crows cut the heavy silence of the woods. In the distance - faint church bells.

I Will Take The Sun In My Mouth

I will take the sun in my mouth

I will take the sun in my mouth

and leap into the ripe air 


with closed eyes

to dash against darkness

E. E. Cummings

In The End There Is Only Darkness

Darkness by Mihaela Limberea

Time takes it all whether you want it to or not, time takes it all. Time bares it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again.

 Stephen King

The Heart of Autumn Must Have Broken Here


The heart of autumn must have broken here, and poured its treasure upon the leaves.

Charlotte Bates

The Spirit of Past Octobers by Mihaela Limberea

Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.

Emily Brontë

The Spirit of Past Octobers by Mihaela Limberea 2

And the sun took a step back, the leaves lulled themselves to sleep and autumn was awakened.

Raquel Franco

You Expected To Be Sad In The Fall

You expected to be sad in the fall

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was though a young person died for no reason.

Ernest Hemingway, A Movable Feast

I Cannot But Remember When the Year Grows Old

Autumn by Mihaela Limberea

I cannot but remember

When the year grows old—
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a sharp little sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
How she disliked the cold!

Edna St. Vincent Millay, When the Year Grows Old

I Cannot Endure to Waste Anything So Precious as Autumnal Sunshine

Autumn in the Woods II by Mihaela Limberea

I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Autumn Colours by Mihaela Limberea

Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love—that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one’s very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit.

George Eliot

Autumn in the Woods by Mihaela Limberea

At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honey-sweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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