Dinesh's photos

I resemble everyone but myself, and sometime see in shop windows, despite the well known laws of optics, the portrait of a stranger date unknown, often signed in a corner by my father "Self Portrait" ~ A.R Ramanujan www.jagiroadcollegelive.co.in/attendence/classnotes/files/1590899611.pdf HBM and have a great week

Old age is A flight of small Cheeping birds Skimming Bare trees Above a snow glaze. Gaining and falling They are buffeted By a dark wind - But what? On harsh weedstalks The flock has rested The snow Is covered with broken seed husks And the wind tempered By a shrill Piping of plenty. “To Waken an Old Lady~ William Carlos Williams

Oh gracious moon, now as the year turns, I remember how, heavy with sorrow, I climbed this hill to gaze on you, And then as now you hung above those trees Illuminating all. But to my eyes Your face seemed clouded, temulous From the tears that rose beneath my lids, So painful was my life: and is, my Dearest moon; its tenor does not change. And yet, memory and numbering the epochs Of my grief is pleasing to me. How welcome In that youthful time -when hope's span is long, And memory short -is the remembrance even of Past sad things whose pain endures. "To the Moon" ~ Giacomo Leopardi

Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter half my day passes. One day it will be half a century. I live in strange cities and sometimes talk with strangers about matters strange to me. I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich. I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain. The fourth has no name. I read poets, living and dead, who teach me tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand the great philosophers--but usually catch just scraps of their precious thoughts. I like to take long walks on Paris streets and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy, anger, desire; to trace a silver coin passing from hand to hand as it slowly loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased). Beside me trees expressing nothing but a green, indifferent perfection. Black birds pace the fields, waiting patiently like Spanish widows. I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older. I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist, and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses dissolve like cumuli on sunny days. Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me and irony suddenly vanishes. I love gazing at my wife's face. Every Sunday I call my father. Every other week I meet with friends, thus proving my fidelity. My country freed itself from one evil. I wish another liberation would follow. Could I help in this? I don't know. I'm truly not a child of the ocean, as Antonio Machado wrote about himself, but a child of air, mint and cello and not all the ways of the high world cross paths with the life that--so far-- belongs to me. "Self Portrait" ~ Adam Zagajewski

The heron stands in water where the swamp Has deepened to the blackness of a pool, Or balances with one leg on a hump Or marsh grass heaped above a muskrat hole. He walks the shallow with an antic grace. The great feet break the ridges of the sand, The long eye notes the minnow's hiding place. His beak is quicker than a human hand. He jerks a frog across his bony lip, Then points his heavy bill above the wood. The wide wings flap but once to lift him up. A single ripple starts from where he stood. "The Heron" ~ Theodore Roetheke

Car Show

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/REO_Motor_Car_Company