Calm, Gloomy Water (Mer Bleu Profond)

Waylon Jin

British Literature E Block
Mr. O’Brien
February 3, 2014

A slit of light between darkness

Opens countless possibilities

To tranquility

Dark ocean waters reflect

The anger of the gods,

But patches of light clouds

Augur future peacefulness

Many millenniums ago in the time of Greek gods

All the gods were invited to a hero's celebration,

Except for Poseidon

How indignant had Poseidon felt,

The rage, the fury, the isolation

He drowned the world with his tears of seclusion

Murky, mysterious waters to cover the ground

And auspicious, but somber clouds for observing

A thin illumination provided sanctuary to the people,

Guarded between two worlds of darkness,

To complete a balanced picture

Ruffles in the dark ocean waters

Reflect Desperation,

Desperation to help others,

Desperation to get revenge,

And Desperation to have a voice

Happiness tries to penetrate the darkness in the skies

Mixing in with dark solicitude to form mixed patches of shade

But leaving black lines of lightning from discontent

Discontent with the injustices of the world

Discontent with constant feelings of disappointment

Discontent with being unhappy

Everyone has feelings of darkness

In the most difficult times and troubling moments

But hopes to reach the ending point

Lightness, freedom, contentment

A path leads from the starless waters

Into the glimmers of auspicious light

For those who are ready to be welcomed into the light

(URL here) -> http://imagerf.photoshelter.com/image/I00005pFw8ry0RqQ

Kenyan Landscape

Grant Regillo

D Block

Mr. O’Brien

1/30/2014

The Kenyan Safari

                  The imposing and impressive Mt. Kilimanjaro towers over the scenic landscape of the Kenyan planes while one elephant grazes in the foreground. In merely 382 KB’s, Kevin Smith’s photo encapsulates the dramatic and diverse scenery found in Kenya. From a strictly photographic sense, Smith’s photo embraces the cardinal rule of thirds (foreground, middle and background; each representing one third of the photo) while highlighting the fore and background and almost omitting the middle, where the focus usually applies. Where the focus lies in a photo tells volumes about how the viewer understands the importance and intended subject of the photo. In this photo, Smith’s focus is primarily on the elephant in the foreground and partially on the towering Mt. Kilimanjaro in the background.  This focus draws the viewer’s eye directly to the dramatic, lone elephant and tree in the foreground while the mountain in the background provides a spectacular backdrop for the grassy plains. The colors in the photo vary drastically; from the bright greens and browns of the grass and elephant in the foreground to the faded blues and grays that together develop Mt. Kilimanjaro and the sky around it, the color and focus work collectively to draw the views eye to depth of Kenya’s geography.

"8 Days Kenya Trip." N.p., n.d. Web. 30 Jan. 2014.

Ekphrasis

 

 

A story paints a series of pictures in the mind of the listener

Colorful, descriptive pictures.

But if black is the absence of all light,

And therefore the absence of any color,

How is it that the stories on this black wall are the most vivid?

 

The shiny granite portrays the reflection of his face against the wall,

But that is not what he sees.

He sees the flash of explosions.

He sees the blood-stained Earth.

He sees his friend, alive, looking back at him from the black wall.

 

He brought with him a flag, folded, as they are at military funerals.

He presses the flag against the wall,

Awarding it to his fallen comrade.

He maintains poise, staring back at the wall,

Until he can no longer sustain the façade he was taught to uphold in battle.

 

His head lowers, visually in pain,

But his hand remains, holding the flag in place for his friend.

A stranger sees him,

Without saying a word he extends a hand,

A normally negligible gesture.

 

But, terrifically like black wall itself,

This small gesture reveals so much.

The stranger feels the tough, camouflage uniform,

He feels the heaving shoulders,

He feels the agony.

 

The stranger captures the moment with a photograph,

Not for attention, nor personal desire,

But rather for the chance for other people,

The chance to tell a story,

As significant as what the man in his grasp was experiencing.

 

Never once did he look back at the stranger,

It was unnecessary.

A few minutes pass,

The stranger needs to leave,

So he does.

 

The man remains,

Eventually his gaze returns to the black wall,

Absorbing the other 58,271 names,

Today would be someone’s birthday,

Today would be someone’s date of death.  

 

He wished he could present a flag,

To every soldier who died years ago today.

He decided he had mourned and grieved enough for one day,

For a soldier, perhaps,

But not for a veteran.

 

Because he was no longer on the battlefield,

He would break the façade,

For those who could not,

Because they were fighting,

At that very moment.

london landscape

The London Landscape

                  The colors pop out like lightening across the periwinkle sky. The sky is consumed with dark clouds bordered by pink linings that signal dusk. The buildings light up with artificial sunshine, attracting the eye, intriguing the pedestrian. Walking the streets I can only imagine feel like walking in a bubble. Towers loom on all sides and one can only look straight up to see the big blue ceiling while feeling encompassed by walls. These walls do not shield nor shelter the traveler. The small world inside this city is still so open and inviting to all. The walls are boarders that bring life and texture. They protect through the harsh winter season by defending against the sharp wind that pierces the skin. They provide shelter for history, art, food, shops, people. This city that is such a destination for all brings happiness and joy. My desire to visit this mysterious place filled with so many cultures and sights grows every day. Being on the same continent as the Royal Family, being able to breath the same air heightens my excitement. I can imagine stepping onto the London Eye, and as I get higher and feel the crisp air and the mist of the clouds, I will be able to see this bright and colorful city below me. Look at the tiny ants, the miniscule buildings, the blinding lights, the tips of towers and come face to face with what I thought would only ever be a dream. As I step off the Eye, feel the city back beneath my feet and sink back into becoming one with it. Feeling no longer lost in this big unknown place, but rather filled with knowledge on where I am. Standing on the street, looking as the blue waters ripple from the brisk wind, but the cold does not stop the people around. Everyone keeps walking in and out of these huge, old, intricately detailed buildings that hold such history. Some made of perfectly polished glass that you see your reflection on and feel as though you became a part of it. Others made out of carved stone, with accessories to fill space, particularly huge clocks. The bridges are the connecting force, holding this city together, bringing more people in to appreciate all of the sights and sounds. One can walk on the bridge and go to any part of the city, even with water below at one’s feet. Although this is only an imagination, the picture above promises me complete satisfaction to all that I have dreamed. 

the storm

Just a little ways out

You’ll find the lighthouse

Small yet significant

It has saved

Countless number of

Ships and lives

Warning lake travelers

Of the approaching coast

Battered and beaten

Throughout the years

It’s seen good days

And bad

But it always stands

However

One summer day

Its strength was tested

Like never before

One summer a storm

Like no other

Formed along the eastern coast

Wiping out towns

And cities

Destroying lives

Its power and ferocity so great

It was even felt midland on

The Great Lakes

Wind gust that would

Lift you off the ground

Rain that

Never seemed to end

Flooding that caused

Unimaginable damage

And waves that touched

The sky

So dark and gray

Hiding any bit of

Sunlight wanting

To pierce its way

Through to land

This was no ordinary storm

The hundred year old

Lighthouse had never

Experienced anything like this

It was as if the house

Drifted out

Into the lake

And was consumed

By the water

Surrounded on all sides with

Wave after wave

Pounding its rickety structure

For days on end

It was sure to crumble and crack

At any moment

With each relentless blow

Of salt water suffocation

But it did not fall

Damaged? Absolutely

Debris of the

Lighthouse

Was scattered everywhere

And even taken out

Away deep on the lake

As a remembrance for

What has happened

After the storm

Peace ensued

The storm left its mark

But it did not prevail

The lighthouse

Is still there

Jetting out onto the lake

Protecting those

heading home towards the coast

Hadrian's Legacy

Hadrian's Legacy

 

Green hills roll, carved out by rambling walls,

the stones black with moss

feet sink deep into the thick grass, sodden

with centuries of rain.

 

A gravel road weaves its way around clusters of trees,

pastures spattered with multi-coloured sheep,

dappled with red and blue dye.

 

Cars hurtle past on the adjoining highway,

slitting past the stones and sheep.

But besides their whir it is quiet.

 

Calm and a sense of wonder

hangs heavy from the clouds,

and curiosity, a thirst for knowledge seeps through the pores

of all the tourists,

enticing profound thoughts, questions, and theories

out of the mottled stones

of great ancient empires:

emperors, dictators, military strategists,

that we still study today,

 

as American children

we travel thousands of miles to see these stones

that really just look like a bunch of rocks,

but with history as green as the pastures.

 

Two thousand or so years ago,

Emperor Hadrian felt uncomfortable having the savage Scots and barbaric northern Brits

so close to his soldiers

so they built a wall

and he felt better.

They're all dead now

but the stones remain to separate sheep

Herat, Afghanistan

Herat, Afghanistan

Many millennia ago, a small fire was started

With the fire came a town, a city, and a civilization

With civilization came culture

With culture came art, architecture, and learning

And with that came life

Not so many millennia ago, a larger fire was started,

With the fire came shouts, cries, and anger

With anger came war

With war came bombings, battles, and insurrection

And with that came death

And now a city lay bombed and barren

A city seeming to belong to another age

A city betrayed by shadows

A city remembered by a mere few

And yet, even now, a small fire burns

Photo taken by Steve McCurry of Herat, Afghanistan being rebuilt in 1992 after years of Soviet Bombing. Can be found here