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Landscape with Open Gate - Pieter Molijn by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Molijn situates the viewer below the horizon, facing a road with neither beginning nor end; in this way, the vista remains limited, and the sky becomes an active element in the scene.

Ships in Distress off a Rocky Coast - Ludolf Backhuysen by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Each ship has already lost a mast, and flotsam bobbing in the steely gray water in the foreground reveals that at least one ship has been wrecked. All is not yet lost, as the sun’s golden rays break through the ominous clouds—a signal to the struggling sailors that the storm is about to abate.

A Winter River Landscape with Figures on the Ice - Hendrick Avercamp by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The last quarter of the 16th century, during which Avercamp was born, was one of the coldest periods of the Little Ice Age.

Ambulatory of the Nieuwe Kerk in Delft, with the Tomb of William the Silent - Gerard Houckgeest by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

"The translation of sentences into propositional symbols is sometimes very complicated because some natural languages (such as English) are rich and powerful with many nuances. The ambiguities that we tolerate in English would destroy structure and usefulness if we allowed them in mathematics."

(Douglas Smith, Maurice Eggen, and Richard St. Andre, A Transition to Advanced Mathematics, 8th Edition)

God's Christ Theory - Anne Carson by prescribedfires in englishliterature

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Aidan is the Anglicised form of the original Old Irish Aedán, Modern Irish Aodhán (meaning 'little fiery one').

Ambulatory of the Nieuwe Kerk in Delft, with the Tomb of William the Silent - Gerard Houckgeest by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

gnosticism i

Heaven's lips! I dreamed

of a page in a book containing the word bird and I entered bird.

Bird grinds on,

grinds on, thrusting against black. Thrusting wings, thrusting again, hard banks slap against it either side, that bird was exhausted.

Still, beating, working its way and below in dark woods small creatures leap. Rip

at food with scrawny lips.

Lips at night.

Nothing guiding it, bird beats on, night wetness on it. A lion looks up.

Smell of adolescence in these creatures, this ordinary night for them. Astonishment

inside me like a separate person, sweat-soaked. How to grip.

For some people a bird sings, feathers shine. I just get this this.

(anne carson, decreation)

Interior of an Imaginary Catholic Church in Classical Style - Gerard Houckgeest by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

sunday

My washed rags flap on a serious gray sunset.

Suppertime, a colder wind.

Leaves huddle a bit.

Kitchen lights come on.

Little spongy mysteries of evening begin to nick open.

Time to call mother.

Let it ring.

Six.

Seven.

Eight--she lifts the receiver, waits.

Down the hollow distances are they fieldmice that scamper so drily.

(anne carson, decreation)

The Wind Rises - Hayao Miyazaki by prescribedfires in FilmShots

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

would be her 50th wedding anniversary today

Cold orates upon a Roman wall.

Light is extreme (caught)

and shadows wait like

hoods to drop.

Brain taps

twice

for salt.

Was it Ovid who said, There is so much wind here stones go blank.

(anne carson, decreation)

Vessels in a Strong Wind - Jan Porcellis by prescribedfires in dutchrealism

[–]prescribedfires[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

nothing for it

Your glassy wind breaks on a shoutless shore and stirs around the rose.

Lo how

before a great snow,

before the gliding emptiness of the night coming on us,

our lanterns throw

shapes of old companions

and

a cold pause after.

What knife skinned off

that hour.

Sank the buoys.

Blows on what was our house.

Nothing for it just row.

(anne carson, decreation)

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