click to enlarge
Peter Henry Emerson

A book is made by the reader.

Marcel Proust

Jun17 – 24

Geraint Lewis

click to enlarge
Yuri Kozyrev

What I am I must not show,
What I am thou couldst not know.
Something betwixt heaven and hell,
Something that neither stood nor fell,
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good, may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind’s wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion
Every change of human passion,
While o’er our frozen minds they pass
Like shadows from the mirror’d glass.”

Sir Walter Scott
[Works XVII, 138: chap. 17]

Above the Gorges, one thread of sky:
Cascades in the gorges twine a thousand cords.
High up the slant of splintered sunlight, moonlight:
Beneath, curbs to the wild heave of the waves.
The shock of a gleam, and then another,
In depths of shadow, frozen for centuries:
The rays between the gorges do not halt at noon;
Where the straits are perilous, more hungry spittle.
Trees lock their roots in rotted coffins
And the twisted skeletons hang tilted upright:
Branches weep as the frost perches
Mournful cadences, remote and clear.
        A spurned exile’s shrivelled guts
Scald and seethe in the water and fire he walks through.
A lifetime like a fine-spun thread,
The road goes up by the rope at the edge.
When he pours his libation of tears to the ghosts in the
    stream
The ghosts gather, a shimmer on the waves.

Meng Chiao

(trans. A.C. Graham)