I’m a photographer who writes to paraphrase Austin Kleon. Therefore, my blog combines posts on books (reading, writing, musing over), lots of photos (all taken by me, unless otherwise stated), culture and arts in general, some astronomy and space (I’m a Science-Fiction fan), and cats as cats rule the internet.
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There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where’er the gentle southwind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunnyvale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird’s wing and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the till night, with its passionate cadence.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) was an American poet and educator, and one of the monumental cultural figures of nineteenth-century America.
To read more poems, click here.
It’s always such a joy discovering new music! I’ve recently stumbled over Elyanna (the stage name of Elian Marjieh), a 22 year-old Palestinian-Chilean singer-songwriter based in Los Angeles.
She merges Arabic music with Latin rhythms to create an experimental Arab-pop sound with inspiration from jazz and blues. She’s released one studio album so far (Woledto, April 2024) and I’m looking forward to hear more from her.
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There are ghosts in the room.
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
They come out of the gloom,
And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair
There’s a ghost of a Hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow,
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night
With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,
And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There’s the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
And the hands that destroy
Clasped its close, and it died at the withering touch.
There’s the ghost of a Love,
Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,
But he towers above
All the others—this ghost; yet a ghost at the best,
I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
Make my struggle in vain—
In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 – 1919) was an American poet and journalist.
To read more poems, click here.
Boxing practice: two young kangaroos sparring at sunset. This is how they learn to fight: first with their mother and then with other young males. As they grow, sparring with other males helps them establish their position within the mob. With experience, the sparring sessions become longer and more intense.
Kangaroos use their sharp claws, strong back legs, and muscular tails —capable of supporting their entire body weight — to deliver powerful kicks that could disembowel a human.
However, these youngsters were only playing and started grooming each other shortly afterward.
This is one of my absolute favorite photos from 2024, but the year isn’t over yet, so we will see which one wins in the end.
🦘Kangaroo Island Kangaroos (Macropus fuliginosus fuliginosus)
📍Kangaroo Island, South Australia
Sometimes, simple is best—just a few grazing sheep and the beauty of the rising sun. There’s something about that golden light that makes everything—sheep butts included—look fabulous!
We were on our way to Seal Bay for a 7am appointment with the research team when we came across these sheep grazing peacefully as the sun rose. Everything was bathed in gold; it was breathtaking.
Unfortunately, we were in a hurry and couldn’t afford to stop for too long. I literally jumped out of the car and quickly took a few photos, hoping some would be good enough 😅.
📍Kangaroo Island, South Australia
Did you know that woodpeckers store seeds, berries, and acorns in the hollows of trees to prepare for the winter? In late autumn, these resourceful birds not only stash food for the colder months but also occasionally utilize these tree hollows as shelter for resting.
Great spotted woodpecker (Dendrocopos major)
📍Lidingö, Stockholm (Sweden)
Another hoarder 😉 squirrels are, of course, known for squirreling (pun intended) food to prepare for the cold season. They stopped a few moments between supply runs to pose for the 2024 Halloween cards, though.
Red Squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris)
📍Lidingö, Stockholm (Sweden)
All photos were taken with Canon EOS R5 and Canon RF100-500mm F4.5-7.1 L IS USM.
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Trick or treat, bag of sweets, ghosts are walking down the street.
Happy Halloween!
Happy World 🦘Kangaroo Day!
📸 Canon R5 & Canon RF100-500mm F4.5-7.1 L IS USM
📍Kangaroo Island, South Australia
🦘Kangaroo Island Kangaroo Joey (Macropus fuliginosus fuliginosus)
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Swift and agile
Sleek and prehensile –
Skittering across bark
And as dexterously over brick –
Squirrel.
The arch survivor –
A thief in woodland
A bandit of suburbia,
Beautiful peanut pirate.
You skim the rigging of
Rotary washing lines
And old telephone wires:
Your sail-tail
A Spinnaker of balance –
A back garden acrobat.
Grey down of fur covers
The machine of sinew
Tendons tight
Like bowstrings
Wired to shoot across
Fence top,
Gate post, sign post,
Post box – post haste.
The highwayman of the high street,
Terror of the terraces
Ply your profession –
Livelihood in the manmade Landscape.
A narrow escape
With a clutch of grapes
Hijacked from garden vine
Jam-packed with sweet juice.
You make a getaway
Into ornamental spruce
Where you have your hideaway.
by Finn Farnsworth who came second in the People Need Nature competition set on the Young Poets’ Network.
To read more poems, click here.
Did you know that October is Squirrel Awareness Month?
It all started in 1995 when Greg Bassett, deeply moved by his encounter with a fox squirrel at the Grand Canyon, founded the Squirrel Lover’s Club and Squirrel Awareness Week. This initiative later expanded into Squirrel Awareness Month, a testament to the profound impact a single squirrel can have on a person.
The creation of Squirrel Awareness Month helped highlight the critical role squirrels play in our environment. ‘Squirrel Awareness’ refers to the understanding and appreciation of the ecological importance of squirrels and the need to protect their habitats.
However, due to deforestation and urbanization, squirrel populations are declining in many areas. Squirrels, with their unique behavior of burying nuts, are key players in forest regeneration. Many of these buried nuts sprout into trees, contributing significantly to reforestation. This behavior underscores the vital role squirrels play in maintaining healthy ecosystems, a fact that we should all appreciate.
Interesting Facts About Squirrels
How to Celebrate Squirrel Awareness Month
Bonus: NASA engineer designed a squirrel-proof birdfeeder. Or so he thought.
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I come from the remote borders
of the land of oblivion. My songs
will not sound beneath your balconies,
I am the singer of the broken sanctuaries.
Artist, dreamer, sensitive and tender,
my music is a voice of affirmation . . .
I am like a winter twilight
in love’s garden.
I love the fire of the sun. My delights are
the flaming rose, the bleeding pink,
and I love the white swans on the lakes
and the blue clouds in the wind.
I love the sad—for life is Pain—
I love your black half-opened eyes
fixed in an unknown direction
where dead loves are forgotten.
I know full well that love is sleep . . .
and my soul sleepless. You are not
to blame for my sorrow. You are a dream . . .
I call you when I wake and you do not come!
You can come only as does death,
silent and fatal. You are anxiety,
no matter, come; my heart is strong . . .
Shed your petals in my hands, faded rose.
I knew in my dreams that love is good
and today, impenitent, a rebel against love,
I weep upon the lilies of your breast
and kiss you on the forehead.
Julián del Casal (1863 – 1893) was a Cuban poet and one of the most important forerunners of the Modernist movement in Latin America
Translated from the Spanish by William George Williams.
To read more poems, click here.
With graceful waves, ye waters, frolic free;
Uplift your liquid songs, ye eddies bright,
And you, loquacious bubblings, day and night,
Hold converse with the wind and leaves in glee!
O’er the deep cut, ye jets, gush sportively.
And rend yourselves to foamy tatters white,
And dash on boulders curved and rocks upright,
Golconda’s pearls and diamonds rich to see!
I am your sire, the River. Lo, my hair
Is moonbeams pale: of yon cerulean sky
Mine eyes are mirrors, as I sweep along.
Of molten spray is my forehead fair;
Transparent mosses for my beard have I;
The laughter of the Naiads’ is my song.
Manuel José Othón (1858 – 1906) was a Mexican poet, playwright, and politician.
Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell
To read more poems, click here.
