This post is part of my Calendar 2017 with twelve photos from last April. Each photo is accompanied by a little something. Let’s not call it either poetry or prose but merely words.
For the curious, the three previous Calendar 2017 months are assembled here.
In fact, there was one recent previous post with only photos of last April, but those were only about the green and growing springy things and there was a sonnet. Today a bit more variety. Frankly, I took so many photos last April that I had huge sweet problems choosing which ones to post and I’m not nearly done.
When we look at the NaPoWriMo Challenge 28 for today, you will see that these are exactly the kind of words that I most often write under my photos anyway (if you read the captions): “We challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.”
As Charles Simić says: “The prose poem has the unusual distinction of being regarded with suspicion not only by the usual haters of poetry, but also by many poets themselves.”
Another sentence drew my attention in the craft resource, A Brief Guide to the Prose Poem: “As its creators intended, the prose poem is the ultimate act of rebellion.”
And as we’ve already discovered on my blog, I love, live, eat and sleep rebellion.
Here are my twelve postcards. The text is repeated in the corresponding photo captions in the gallery with locations.
“Dog! You have abandoned your owner again.” When the street writes poetry and adorns it with yuccas, the only thing left for you to do is turn it into prose.
This building clearly needs the satellite dish because the flowers decided to hold an all-Roman balcony beauty contest. Shhhh, they are just about to announce the winner. As I’ve thought – it’s a tie between these three.
I might have taken this one over the wall. Curious camera wishes to know. How to tend a garden in the city where everything grows? A little bit of this, a little bit of that and then wait.
Isn’t it like a little kick in the shins? This place is the cradle of life, and Romans don’t let you forget it. Not only they grow everything and flaunt it, they also have the best food, climate, attractions and sense of style. And then on top of it you find a pyramid, in a cemetery, among flowers.
When exactly does one start to regard cemeteries as a possibility? And pick them out as one would a favourite house? The sea is an obvious pull but do not be fooled: all the flowers here are plastic. The real ones would burn in an hour.
The aged dog in the spa garden makes you believe that they will take care of you just as well. He parks himself down in the sun and watches me pass with no interest whatsoever. I return the same way to hop into the pool and it’s then that I spot another one under another bush, just as old. Makes sense, I’ve got my sister with me, too.
Imagine a river with the temperature of a small clothes washer. Then lie in it and be transported smash-bam into the next group of people because the current is so strong. Don’t worry, it happens all the time.
These are a dragon and obviously George under pots of flowers, drawn in a casual hand, but I like them not only because St. George is the patron saint of our Piran as well but because the dragon looks more like a pet.
Not as casual. Highly dramatic and pre-planned, by the look of it. With the ceiling like that who needs stars? If I was a church-goer, I’d keep looking up until all the stars, windows and fellows align in a clear pattern that only I can see.
The blue boat in a blue photo. So all-blue that even the cyan filter makes it less blue instead of more. You may call it romantic, I blame the blimey dusk-and-dawn setting.
The stars have seen to it that I should acquire another, Roman family who will provide the garden and food, while I’ll contribute the cat pot stand and eternal gratitude.
One bird, one car, one me, one cloud. Soon there will be an invasion, but not yet. For now the only ones who know about it are you and me.