So for the next fortnight we move on to a new aspect of seeing. This is juxtaposition, where putting or finding two things next to one another highlights the difference and gives strength to both. These two muppets couldn’t be more different. Sat side by side, the meekness of Beaker and the energy of Animal become even more powerful. This could be a photo of myself and my husband, for although he is an introvert too, he has been known to play in death metal bands and frequent the odd mosh pit or two, whereas I am rather less adventurous! Fortunately the two of them seem to share a love of poetry.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
It might seem odd to see hope in poetry written by someone who took her own life, but for me it shows that however low we feel, or how insignificant we might think we are, we still may have created beauty that will outlast us. We may not have all written poetry, but we may well have spoken a kindness, given a smile or expressed an encouragement into another person’s life, that had a great impact. It is our small actions, as well as our seemingly large ones, that change lives. And Plath’s work has given hope and meaning to a great many readers. Beauty, however sad or even difficult, always improves the world.
Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
Ancient of Days, yew circles the holy ground and stands sacred guard. Her hollowness disguises fullness, and even her dank rotten places are teeming with abundant life; jewelled scarabs and luminescent fungi adorn the lightning wounds and tend the darkness. Toothed fort of the dead, domino headstones re-etched by lichen look ready to fall after centuries of marking mounds of mourning. And life, undeterred, springs up in grasses and buttercups, golden grails full of dew, bluebells ringing out the hours, a carpet of prayer covering the crypt.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from Pixabay
Dull and dun, dusty and drab, somewhere for the forgotten to linger and know they belong, hands in worn pockets, facing the bracing wind. Rusting girders and cracked concrete foundations poke up through the soil here and there, skeletal reminders that this corner too was once conquered by borders and framework, but now lost to civilization.
A place for cast-off words mumbled sotto voce, crunched and thrown by the poet, missing the mark, discarded and forgotten, blown by the wind, tumbleweed verses skipping across brown and worn-down earth. A new dance of contemporary chaos, watched only by a mangy vixen sheltering under a billowing tarpaulin, both greyed by time, waiting for the inevitably unexpected new thing that will rise.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016