Fotografies de Josep Porcar

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 04:04:08 -0800

llambreig posted a photo:

Emily Brontë: «Every leaf speaks bliss to me»

Another sun

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Mon, 13 Oct 2025 11:31:12 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Tong-Liang Hsieh,, Cannot Let Go, 2001

Dawn bodies

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Fri, 08 Aug 2025 04:48:08 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

—Hi there! Your fire color sounds familiar...

Pit-roig (Erithacus rubecula) amb Vanessa Atalanta [European Robin & Red Admiral]

Calabruixa petita

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 17 May 2025 11:31:43 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

It is the north wind who has woven the clothes we wear

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 17 May 2025 11:26:07 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Some of you say, “It is the north wind
who has woven the clothes we wear.”
And I say, Ay, it was the north wind,
But shame was his loom, and the soften-
ing of the sinews was his thread.
And when his work was done he laughed
in the forest.
Forget not that modesty is for a shield
against the eye of the unclean.
And when the unclean shall be no more,
what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling
of the mind?
And forget not that the earth delights to
feel your bare feet and the winds long to
play with your hair.

—Kahlil Gibran

Collsacabra cliffs

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 17 May 2025 11:20:58 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

—Gerard Manley Hopkins

I'm going out to fetch the little calf

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 17 May 2025 11:13:32 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

—Robert Frost

Arriving at the conclave

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sun, 04 May 2025 03:49:10 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Oh, red hooded poppies like cardinals!

Xino & Xano

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Thu, 01 May 2025 12:22:46 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d’étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d’or, ainsi qu’un sable fin,
Étoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.

—Charles Baudelaire

A flower in the moss

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Thu, 01 May 2025 11:42:58 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!

—John Keats

Pyrenean village

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Thu, 01 May 2025 11:30:07 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Meet me at the sunset
Down in the green glen,
Where we’ve often met
By hawthorn-tree and foxes’ den,
Meet me in the green glen.

John Clare

Mossy path says home

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sun, 27 Apr 2025 04:52:36 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

John Keats

Hi there!

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sun, 27 Apr 2025 03:44:58 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Heart-strung-up

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 26 Apr 2025 11:39:51 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Under Venus the sugared wound, the heart-strung-up, the viola d’amore. Under Venus the Pliny-prescribed, the horsehair-hanked — not plucked, tugged — the singly sung (catgut kidney-cuffs the caterwaul, a knockback to the viola bastarda). Kittenish! A scalloped flirtatious border — florid cordial pansies (candied adoration). Viola odorata. Parfait d’Amourish.

Sylvia Legris

A stone-blind man to the light

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 19 Apr 2025 11:30:19 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

«As some dampness on the air might lead a stone-blind man to the light.»

Yannis Ritsos
Tr. David Harsent

The patient flower

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 19 Apr 2025 11:04:45 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Remember the way you
hunched up the first
times in bed, all your
body as you walked
seemed centered
in your breasts. It
was watching the world
come toward me, I felt
so alive and honored.
Me least of all possibilities,
yet in bed before you,
the patient flower.

—Robert Creeley

Are You Watching Me?

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 19 Apr 2025 05:05:20 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Light my fire

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 15 Mar 2025 11:15:32 -0700

llambreig posted a photo:

Whistled to the Word fire
and she answered me
From her sleep

—Charles Simic

In that prayer for light

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 22 Feb 2025 04:02:58 -0800

llambreig posted a photo:

Heeds he not the gathered laurels,
Fading slowly from his sight;
All the poet’s aspirations
Centre in that prayer for light.

—Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

The light grows, a white flower

nobody@flickr.com (llambreig) — Sat, 22 Feb 2025 03:56:12 -0800

llambreig posted a photo:

They float out of their bodies
And light on the ceiling like a moth,
Watching the efforts of everyone around them.

The voices and the images of the living
Fade away.

A roar sucks them under
The wheels of a darkness without pain.
Off in the distance
There is someone
Like a signalman swinging a lantern.

The light grows, a white flower.
It becomes very intense, like music.

—Frank Stanford

The whole poem:
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52933/the-light-the-dead-see