1.27.2011

today in new york

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My thought: The neighbors will probably postpone their garden party.






:image diana, rear window series

1.21.2011

here comes the sun

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The depth of color and shadow produced by sidelong sunrise light (featured here) is endlessly fascinating to me.

(And, lest we forget, sunset light has its own special mojo. But it's sunrise's turn today. Thank you.)





:image diana murphy

1.17.2011

snow divide

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This afternoon in Riverside Park.









:image diana murphy, new york city

1.01.2011

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1-Jan-65


The kings will lose your old address.
No star will flare up to impress.
The ear may yield, under duress,
to blizzards’ nagging roar.
The shadows falling off your back,
you’d snuff the candle, hit the sack,
for calendars more nights can pack
than there are candles for.

What is this? Sadness? Yes, perhaps.
A little tune that never stops.
One knows by heart its downs and ups.
May it be played on par
with things to come, with one’s eclipse,
as gratefulness of eyes and lips
for what occasionally keeps
them trained on something far.

And staring up where no cloud drifts
because your sock’s devoid of gifts
you’ll understand this thrift: it fits
your age; it’s not a slight.
It is too late for some breakthrough,
for miracles, for Santa’s crew.
And suddenly you’ll realize that you
yourself are a gift outright.

- Joseph Brodsky
(translated from the Russian by the author)




Brodsky wrote this poem while in internal exile in Norenskaia, in the Arkhangelsk region of northern Russia. In the Soviet Union,
New Year’s celebrations came to be seen as a substitute for Christmas. This translation was found among his papers.





:image diana murphy, new york city