Mottled conduit

in poetry •  3 months ago

- Mottled conduit -

- original poetry by @d-pend -

photos by mahoujirou, nasht-01, and lineageman

sky_road_by_mysticspirits-d4w388h 2.jpg


Mottled conduit

Giddy over river ducts unfinished,
I inhabit indistinct forms
to peel back amber ebbing
and strengthen the girders of time.

With no thought to the northern tundra,
here is the sun's cradle
that pacifies me with vibrance.

There, the protean swarm of being,
biodiverse with innocence—
rides its way across the horizon.

The vessels of men,
built of tempered granite and coal
crawl upwards.

Webbing from life's nexus
pours around my skybody,
anchoring me with adakite.

I could escape
from this fated cocoon,
but the aqueducts would crumble
into strontium
and yttrium
and ash of winters past.

fc65fc07e1d9bcf20231411cc7759af8-d4fbgca 3.jpg

parco_degli_acquedotti_nr_2_by_nasht_01 2.jpg

fc65fc07e1d9bcf20231411cc7759af8-d4fbgca 2.jpg

Written by @d-pend
Sept. 4, 2018
Photos by

   I — "Sky Road" by mahoujirou
   II — "Parco degli Acquedotti nr 2" by nasht-01
   III — "Old Aqueduct 2" by lineageman

greenduct 2.jpg

old_aqueduct_2_by_lineageman-d419sa2 2.jpg


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lovely day..

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Sir your points of view just like
In the moon 🌒 light,
Full of bright,
Leaping and flashing
Morn to till night... encouraging poem

The landscape presented in the images is composed of nature and the intervention of the hand of man. The human being has intervened in the environment, always, to improve their living conditions. For better or for worse, there is a close relationship between the human and his natural environment that determines many ways in his way of being and acting. That allusion to destiny highlighted by the poetic voice as somewhat subject to reality, is not like that, it has only an attempt to strengthen the will and the need to believe that it does what it does that it wants and not because of social impositions. The sky and its mysteries are attractive to man and his works are a way of winning it, a promotion, a way to rise, of flow.

The aqueducts are a the marvel of Roman engineering. The allowed the growth of classical cities 2000 years ago and powered a civilization which encountered a prolonged end caused by mismanagement and intolerance. Beautiful pictures. Lovely poetry.

wow such a awesome photography and very beauty fully done great job dear

Excellent sir
Good adjustment of poetry and photography

Very good and hearty poem which touches the feelings of the heart.

What an amazing bridge! Where is this?

Interesting viewpoint, that of water expressing herself through the marvelous cocoons of winters past.
Aqueducts are marvels of human engineering, a testament to people's creativity and capacity to transform nature: dry lands into fertile lands.
It is interesting that the narrative voice expresses her desire to collaborate in a way with this projects, even though she "could escape".
I may be like that. Mother nature helping men when they help themselves.

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Thanks for sharing @d-pend.

This poem begins with nostalgic feelings. I felt the same way when I discovered these stone bridges used on old farms in Korea. I wondered who was silly enough to walk on these narrow bridges seemingly going nowhere. Then I realized they were aqueducts used in the past to bring water to the farm.

Suddenly it hits me that this poem is not about nostalgia. In times of peace and warm sun no one considers the winter that this poem eludes to in a catastrophic way.

Like blood vessels to the body, aqueducts are the arteries of the biosphere. Everything we built up in civilization whether buildings or digital media are not different from these ruins of ancient aqueducts. After Mount Vesuvius erupted no living thing remained. The thermal energy released was greater than that of a nuclear explosion, but still parts of these aqueducts stand.

We are wrapped up in a cocoon called the vessels of men. An escape from here is like a nuclear fallout. Now I'm stuck in this cocoon too. Maybe you would say, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Oh, given that you have surrendered you will see a butterfly born soon.

This is the magic of our cocoon.

Wow, this a great one dude. I see in it the appreciation for catalysts of evolution so vividly

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Whenever I feel down due to societal pressures, I sit silent in one corner and enjoy the calmness of nature. Blossoming of the flowers, chirping of the birds, rising of the Sun, night wind and lush green grass are the symbol of peace and love. The above lines are the true depiction of how life and nature goes side by side. Thank you so much for these amazing and lovely lines @d-pend :)

The nature doe not forgive hte mistakes of human, if we do something without thinking about the consequences, that may happen that the seas dry up like Aral sea in Kazakhstan where the water of rivers were diverted to water the cotton fields. But now it is a saltty ground and ship wrecks only. It is beautifully expressed adn as I mentioned before you have a real talent to put it poetic into words, your thoughts, emotions and let other people to think. Thank you for raising this topic, I also enjoyed reading the comments bellow you are lucky many of comments to your post have sense :)

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nice photo capture i like it resteemed your post @insomniacsk

Hi, @d-pend.

Human legacy is transient. Our fantasies know better, I believe.

When I was little, three maybe, I used to have a dream where I visited a square in my hometown. I went up the hill; on top there was the square, “Plaza Quetepe”. I remember my father telling me it was the town’s historic quarter. The place was high and to me it seemed pretty much an Escher’s drawing; I think, perhaps, my brain turned it to dust so I could cope with the bizarre image. Most structures became earth and stone. The pillars and benches became something similar to Stonehenge. The rest vanished. People disappeared, too, including my parents. Then I wondered if I was still there. I feared I wasn’t, and I was right; I could not see my body; it was like I had become air with a conscience. I could escape, too, but my echerian Stonehenge would crumble, and I was just too curious to find out what that strange world was and today I still wonder what a dream like that meant for a little kid. Instead of escaping, I woke up and went back several times. And, listen, it was not a nightmare, not at all (although it was a weirdest thing).

Your poem reminds me of that dream.

Now I think I might’ve been afraid of the world’s being taken back to a past era with no humans. Our trace, lost.