Mottled conduit
- Mottled conduit -
----------- original poetry by @d-pend -
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photos by mahoujirou, nasht-01, and lineageman
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.
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
lovely day..
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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.
Sir your points of view just like
In the moon 🌒 light,
Full of bright,
Leaping and flashing
Morn to till night... encouraging poem
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.
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
Amazing photography
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.
What an amazing bridge! Where is this?