God, ” A nasty surprise in a sandwich ” – Poem by James Fenton
God, A Poem –
Poem by James Fenton
A nasty surprise in a sandwich,
A drawing-pin caught in your sock,
The limpest of shakes from a hand which
You’d thought would be firm as a rock,
A serious mistake in a nightie,
A grave disappointment all round
Is all that you’ll get from th’Almighty,
Is all that you’ll get underground.
Oh he said: ‘If you lay off the crumpet
I’ll see you alright in the end.
Just hang on until the last trumpet.
Have faith in me, chum-I’m your friend.’
But if you remind him, he’ll tell you:
‘I’m sorry, I must have been pissed-
Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You
Should have guessed that I do not exist.
‘I didn’t exist at Creation,
I didn’t exist at the Flood,
And I won’t be around for Salvation
To sort out the sheep from the cud-
‘Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is
In soteriological terms
I’m a crude existential malpractice
And you are a diet of worms.
‘You’re a nasty surprise in a sandwich.
You’re a drawing-pin caught in my sock.
You’re the limpest of shakes from a hand which
I’d have thought would be firm as a rock,
‘You’re a serious mistake in a nightie,
You’re a grave disappointment all round-
That’s all you are, ‘ says th’Almighty,
‘And that’s all that you’ll be underground.’
1983
The River Of Life, A poem By Thomas Campbell
River of life, River Suir
Clonmel , Ireland
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The River Of Life
Poem by Thomas Campbell
The more we live, more brief appear
Our life’s succeeding stages;
A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.
But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow’s shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death
Feel we its tide more rapid?
It may be strange—yet who would change
Time’s course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding?
Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;
And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.
The River Of Life
Thomas Campbell
The Growth of a Seed – By Dan Farella
The Growth of a seed
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Growth of a Seed
– By Dan Farella
The growth of a seed
Starts with a need
A feeling inside her
Like a burning fire
Glowing to inspire
And the growth transpires
Inside her that fire
Burning brighter and brighter
Ignites her into a frenzy of burning desire
To lift herself higher, and higher, and higher…
A desire to surrender to the growth that transpires
And she never grows tired, growing, and growing
And a sprout grows out from beyond the doubt
The shadows get exposed to the light of insight
As the stem grows longer getting stronger and stronger
The days get brighter and her spirit feels lighter
The pulsing emanates from a sacred place…
Babump…. babump… babump….
Reaching for the light radiating inner sight
[And an animal comes to take a little bite]
And the nutrients they grow as the energy it flows
And the time has come for her soul to become one
So she sends out her leaves allows herself to be alive
No running no hiding and nowhere to go
So it waits and it grows and it sits and it flows
As the thoughts pass by and she holds her composure
Growing and growing flowing and flowing
Getting taller and stronger
Allowing herself to be seen
It goes on and on as she reaches her dawn
Only to know that its time for her to move on
And release her seeds to the wind, set sail
And she trusts they will grow through wind, rain, or hail
As she brings all the energy up into her crown
The wind begins to blow as she listens to the sound
And she knows its time to let her children take flight
Getting lost in the life, the love, and de-light
She completes her deed and she dies a slow death
But she knows she will go back into the goddess breath
Where she feeds the soil that will grow her kin
With the nutrients she once used to help her begin
And she feels a sense of right-ness and completeness inside
As she knows that she worked with Natures highest design
And she never grows tired, growing and growing
Reaping and sowing, reaping and sowing.
– By Dan Farella
Blue flowers , they stands for desire the infinite and unreachable
Blue flowers of , Common-Field-Speedwell
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Blue flowers must be one of the hardest types of wild flowers to find, these Field-Speedwell’s are just some of a few we have in our local woodlands.
Blue in nature has been used as a powerful symbol, the following uses are just a few …..
Blue flowers
A blue flower is a central symbol of inspiration. It stands for desire, love, and the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable. It symbolizes hope and the beauty of things.
Early use of the symbol of blue flowers
German author Novalis used the symbol in his unfinished Bildungsroman, entitled Heinrich von Ofterdingen. After contemplating a meeting with a stranger, the young Heinrich von Ofterdingen dreams about a blue flower which calls to him and absorbs his attention.
Explanation of the symbol of blue flowers
In the book Heinrich von Ofterdingen the blue flower symbolises the joining of human with nature and the spirit so the understanding of nature and coincident of the self is growing. In the Romantic the meaning of human was a continuation from Humanism and the Age of Enlightenment, but the focus was on the own emotions not on abstract theory. Understanding and thinking rise in the comprehension of Romantic from own individual love. Feeling is based on the self, thinking is based on the self and the development of the self leads the individual person. Also very important is contemplation. About the feeling, the thinking and contemplation personal inward cognition is possible. The process of cognition merge again with own individual love. The self and the nature is in this theory always linked.
Use of the symbol
Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff wrote a poem called Die blaue Blume (The blue flower). Adelbert von Chamisso saw the core of Romanticism in the motif, and Goethe searched for the “Urpflanze” or “original plant” in Italy, which in some interpretations could refer to the blue flower. E. T. A. Hoffmann used the Blue Flower as a symbol for the poetry of Novalis and the “holy miracle of nature” in his short tale “Nachricht von den neuesten Schicksalen des Hundes Berganza”.
In 1902, Charles Scribner’s Sons published “The Blue Flower”, a collection of short stories by Henry Van Dyke, the first two of which, “The Blue Flower” and “The Source” refer to the blue flower as a symbol of desire and hope, and the object of the narrator’s search. This volume also includes Van Dyke’s most famous story, “The Other Wise Man”.
Blue rose
Walter Benjamin used the image of the blue flower several times in his writing. For example the opening sentence of his essay Dream Kitsch: “No one really dreams any longer of the Blue Flower. Whoever awakes as Heinrich von Ofterdingen today must have overslept.” Also in his Work of Art essay: “The equipment-free aspect of reality has here become the height of artifice, and the vision of immediate reality the Blue Flower in the land of technology.”
C.S. Lewis, in his autobiographical book, Surprised By Joy, references the “Blue Flower” when speaking of the feelings of longing that beauty ellicited when he was a child of six. He associates it with the German word sehnsucht, and states that this intense longing for things transcendent made him “a votary of the Blue Flower.”
English writer Penelope Fitzgerald’s historical novel The Blue Flower is based on Novalis’s early life. In John le Carré’s 1968 novel A Small Town in Germany, the character Bradfield says, “I used to think I was a Romantic, always looking for the blue flower.” (Pan edition, p. 286 – chap. 17) Substance D, a fictitious drug in Philip K. Dick’s 1977 novel A Scanner Darkly, is derived from a plant with blue flower.
Tennessee Williams used images of blue roses in his play, The Glass Menagerie, to symbolize the frailty and uniqueness of Laura, a central character that reflects the life of Williams’ sister, who underwent a lobotomy. In the play, Laura is nicknamed “Blue Roses” after another character misheard her say “pleurosis”.
In his fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire, American author George R. R. Martin uses the blue flower as a reoccurring symbol to represent young women of the noble House Stark, often with hints to an illicit love affair. In one instance, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen uses blue winter roses to crown the Lady Lyanna Stark as the “Queen of Love and Beauty” at the Tournament of Harrenhal, passing over his own wife, Princess Elia of Dorne.
“Blue Flower” is the name of a song by the British avant-garde pop band of the early 1970s, Slapp Happy, later covered by the 1990s indy rock bands Pale Saints and Mazzy Star. “Blue Flowers” is a song by the alternative MC, Kool Keith (AKA Dr. Octagon), on his 1996 album, Dr. Octagonecologyst.
From Blossoms, Poem By : Li-Young Lee
From Blossoms
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
From Blossoms
By : Li-Young Lee
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
– Li-Young Lee
Lilleshall Abbey Shropshire, England
Lilleshall Abbey, Shropshire, England,
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Lilleshall Abbey Shropshire, England
On a very wet day back in April 2015, I visited Lilleshall Abbey Shropshire, while driving back from London to a friends home in North Wales. The Abbey is located just north of the M54 junction 5, near the village of Lilleshall.
To find the Abbey just follow the Brown tourist signs when you leave the motorway.
The weather was somehow fitting for making a visit here as it made it very clear just how life would have been for the 11th century monks who lived their lives here ( cold , wet and isolated ).
This text form wikipedia on the Abbey, describes very well the life of a monk and contains a great history of the Abbey …
Lilleshall Abbey Shropshire, England
The monastic life
The abbey’s community were Augustinian Canons Regular or conventual canons, not technically monks. Although the Arrouaisians were at first noted for their austerity of life, they were less enclosed than Benedictine or Cistercian monks. Arrouaisian houses were noted for the high quality of their liturgical observance. A prayer roll of about 1375 confirms that this was so at Lilleshall more than two centuries after the foundation.
There was a large number of benefactions from lay landowners and these often came with requests to be buried or prayed for at Lilleshall or for membership of the fraternity of the abbey. Late in the 12th century, for example, John Lestrange, a local baron with holdings further afield, got into a dispute with Ramsey Abbey over the church at Holme-next-the-Sea in Norfolk. In a settlement acceptable to all, he gave the church to Lilleshall Abbey, for the health of his own and his wife’s souls. Shortly afterwards he added the church at Shangton in Leicestershire, adding specifically “the body of his wife Amicia when she shall have gone the way of all flesh.” Similarly, Robert de Kayley gave the abbey two thirds of his land at Freasley, in Dordon, Warwickshire, on condition that it accept his body for burial.This suggests that its monastic life quickly built up a reputation for holiness that could be acquired by proximity, and one that clearly persisted into the later Middle Ages. John of Gaunt, 1st Duke of Lancaster, spent two days at the abbey, together with his wife Katherine Swynford and a large retinue. He had fallen ill after the 24th parliament of Richard II’s reign was held at Shrewsbury, dissolving on 31 January 1398. Gaunt himself, his wife, and his squire, William Chetwynd, were received into the fraternity, and Gaunt made a gift of twenty pounds of gold.
Although the fraternity was important in diffusing the influence of the abbey, there is no evidence of lay brothers and sisters being admitted to the abbey community itself. This is unexpected as the Abbey of Arrouaise had admitted lay members at least since the time of Abbot Gervais. There were many employees, however. In the mid-15th century, there were over twenty household servants, including two porters, a butler, a chamberlain, two cooks, a baker, a bell-ringer, a cobbler, and washerwoman, as well as a carpenter and a group of apprentices to carry out repairs. There was a tannery on the premises, as well as a brewery. Self-sufficiency was an important feature of Arrouaisian houses. Arrouaise itself had a similar but even larger and more differentiated lay labour force.
The canons were much employed in managing the abbey’s substantial estates, which seem to have been worked mainly by indentured servants and later by wage labour. A fairly high proportion of the abbey’s land was kept in demesne, cultivated from granges. The Lilleshall estate alone had four of these and there was a ring of further granges in Shropshire and Staffordshire, with two outlying at Blackfordby and Grindlow. The grange at Blackfordby seems to have absorbed a good deal of time and labour, with canons often staying there. There was even a chapel on site, with mass said three times a week. This was strictly irregular, as it was considered perilous to the soul for a canon to reside anywhere alone, and there were complaints about it from the Bishop of Lichfield. However, the nature of the abbey’s estates meant that canons would often require leave to travel. Both this and the increasingly unfavourable agrarian conditions and labour market of the 14th century meant that direct exploitation of demesnes was gradually reduced in favour of leasing out land.
The abbey was not noted for its intellectual life. However, there was some kind of library and a copy of a chronicle ascribed to Peter of Ickham has survived from it, with additions made locally. There is also evidence of a canon being licensed to study at university for 10 years from 1400.
John Mirk, a Lilleshall canon of the late 14th and early 15th centuries did make a literary mark. He wrote in the local West Midland dialect of Middle English and at least two of his works were widely copied and used. Festial is a collection of homilies for the festivals of the Liturgical year as it was celebrated in his time in Shropshire. Instructions for Parish Priests is in lively vernacular verse, using octosyllabic lines and rhyming couplets throughout. Mirk intended to ensure that priests had the resources to give good counsel to their flock. The existence of such works suggests that the canons were actively engaged with the liturgical and pastoral work of their region, if not at the highest scholarly level.
—————
I really enjoyed taking a pause in my long drive here, even in the heavy British rains and would recommend a visit if your ever passing by …..
Lilleshall Abbey a Gallery
To The Daisy, Poems by William Wordsworth
The Daisy
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest objects sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough’s rustelling;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature’s beauties can
In some other wiser man.
in youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,–
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature’s love partake,
Of Thee, sweet Daisy!
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;
Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling,
Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet’s darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art!–a friend at hand, to scare
His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;
An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost run
Thy pleasant course,–when day’s begun
As ready to salute the sun
As lark or leveret,
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time;–thou not in vain
Art Nature’s favourite
Spring Herb’s : Herb-Robert
Herb Robert
Irish nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Spring Herb’s : Herb-Robert
Familiar little pink flower from April to November, Herb-Robert is a hairy, unpleasant-smelling plant which grows on banks, bases of walls, shingle and shady places throughout the country. Its pink flowers (8-15mm across) have five un-notched petals and in the center of the flower are orange anthers. Each petal is marked by small lighter-pink lines running into the center of the flower. The hairy, stalked leaves are often tinged red and have three to five deeply cut lobes. The fruit is hairy and beak-like. This is a native plant belonging to the family Geraniaceae.
This plant has been introduced into North and South America from Europe and Asia. In traditional medicine in the Americas it has been used to stop nosebleeds. Its leaves are also made into a herbal tea which is recommended as a gargle and an eyewash. (you would not recommend this course of action).
One wonders who is the ‘Robert’ of this plant. Maybe the name comes from the Latin word ‘ruber’ meaning red which may have referred to the colouring of the leaves and stems.
Hover Fly – Poem by Michael Shepherd
Hover Fly – Poem by Michael Shepherd
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Hover Fly
Poem by Michael Shepherd
The hover fly
that’s just demonstrated
that it’s one of the Creation’s greatest
and smallest, most compact miracles of lawful
imagination (imagine flying, then stopping
quite still in the air, no slowing down,
just, zap, like that, dead steady,
and it’s smaller (!) than a helicopter, wow)
right here in front of me in silhouette, but
illuminated on one wing by the PC screen,
and pausing for a freeze-frame moment of eternity
as if to tell me something
(illumination, too?) –
all this, and yet it
doesn’t know I’m writing about it.
Presumably.
The Fly – Poem by William Blake
The Fly – Poem by William Blake
Nature photography : Nigel Borrington
The Fly
Poem by William Blake
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
.
For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
“MAY” a Poem by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
The flowers of May
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
May
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
I cannot tell you how it was;
But this I know: it came to pass–
Upon a bright and breezy day
When May was young, ah pleasant May!
As yet the poppies were not born
Between the blades of tender corn;
The last eggs had not hatched as yet,
Nor any bird forgone its mate.
.
I cannot tell you what it was;
But this I know: it did but pass.
It passed away with sunny May,
With all sweet things it passed away,
And left me old, and cold, and grey.
Happy 1st of May to everyone, it is Beltane in the Pagan and Celtic calendar ….
1st of May and its Beltane
Kilkenny Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Beltane or Beltain
(/ˈbɛl.teɪn/)is the Gaelic May Day festival. Most commonly it is held on 1 May, or about halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Historically, it was widely observed throughout Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. In Irish it is Bealtaine ([ˈbʲal̪ˠt̪ˠənʲə]), in Scottish Gaelic Bealltainn ([ˈpjaul̪ˠt̪ˠɪɲ]) and in Manx Gaelic Boaltinn or Boaldyn. It is one of the four Gaelic seasonal festivals—along with Samhain, Imbolc and Lughnasadh—and is similar to the Welsh Calan Mai.
Beltane is mentioned in some of the earliest Irish literature and it is associated with important events in Irish mythology. It marked the beginning of summer and was when cattle were driven out to the summer pastures. Rituals were performed to protect the cattle, crops and people, and to encourage growth. Special bonfires were kindled, and their flames, smoke and ashes were deemed to have protective powers. The people and their cattle would walk around the bonfire, or between two bonfires, and sometimes leap over the flames or embers. All household fires would be doused and then re-lit from the Beltane bonfire. These gatherings would be accompanied by a feast, and some of the food and drink would be offered to the aos sí. Doors, windows, byres and the cattle themselves would be decorated with yellow May flowers, perhaps because they evoked fire. In parts of Ireland, people would make a May Bush; a thorn bush decorated with flowers, ribbons and bright shells. Holy wells were also visited, while Beltane dew was thought to bring beauty and maintain youthfulness. Many of these customs were part of May Day or Midsummer festivals in other parts of Great Britain and Europe.
Historic Beltane customs
Beltane was one of four Gaelic seasonal festivals: Samhain (~1 November), Imbolc (~1 February), Beltane (~1 May) and Lughnasadh (~1 August). Beltane marked the beginning of the pastoral summer season, when livestock were driven out to the summer pastures. Rituals were held at that time to protect them from harm, both natural and supernatural, and this mainly involved the “symbolic use of fire”. There were also rituals to protect crops, dairy products and people, and to encourage growth. The aos sí (often referred to as spirits or fairies) were thought to be especially active at Beltane (as at Samhain) and the goal of many Beltane rituals was to appease them. Most scholars see the aos sí as remnants of the pagan gods and nature spirits. Beltaine was a “spring time festival of optimism” during which “fertility ritual again was important, perhaps connecting with the waxing power of the sun”.
On The Beach – A Poem by Michael Williams
Beach Photography
Nigel Borrington
On The Beach –
A Poem by Michael Williams
At dawn, bare footed, viewing as far as eyes can reach,
the water’s edge advances and recedes along the beach.
Before me I see a carpet of half-buried shells of sea-creatures,
tide washed and rippled in sodden sand along the beach.
I move, exploring, sodden sand oozing between my toes,
beyond me the wavelets breaking on the sand along the beach.
.
Behind me, my wandering trail is blurred and indistinct,
as the water’s edge advances and recedes along the beach.
At mid-day, on the soft dry sand behind the water’s edge,
undressed worshippers lie in the sun that beats down along the beach.
.
At night, the moon’s reflection at the water’s edge
resembles sea serpents playing in the wavelets along the beach.
A Thursdays evening walk at the bay …..
Thursday evening Landscapes
Irish Landscapes : Nigel Borrington
Just a quick image share today 🙂
It is hard to believe that after all the long winter months with their dark evenings, at last we are here in the early days of the summer 2015.
Its has been a perfect start to the summer here in Ireland with long warm days right from the beginning of the Easter Holidays.
I cannot wait for the long warm evenings, with long walks until the sunsets ……….
Summer evenings Gallery
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night – Poem by : Dylan Thomas
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
By : Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
MIR-1 37mm f/2.8 lens , from 1954 to 2015 – Using old lens
Mir 1b 37mm f2.8 m42 lens
Nigel Borrington
Its a while since I posted anything about photography equipment, even though I do keep one eye on making sure I have what I feel to be very good cameras and lenses (Mainly Nikons) , I don’t feel that equipment is what photography is really all about. To me photography is about capturing the world around me and so long As I feel my camera can still do this I am very happy.
Old lenses
At the Same time some of the lenses I have, have been with me for many years and I have used then with many subjects and at many locations with both film and digital cameras.
My MIR 37mm f2.8 lens, I have had since my very first SLR camera back in the 1980’s and I still have complete confidence in it 🙂 even using a Pentax K3 24 megapixel SLR.
Why Pentax ? , The lens is an M42 lens which means that it connects to a camera body using an adapter and the best camera bodies on the Market for using these lenses are Pentax SLR bodies as they only need a metal lens mount adaptor that allows the lens to function without any changes in focus distance, basically all the lenses setting and scales work as they were originally intended to.
There are many things I love about using this lens. the focusing is manual as is the setting of the lens apertures but however the dials used for both these settings are just perfect in operation, no modern plastic jumpy manual focus rings here- just smooth and perfectly controlled movements. One thing also great about this lens is the fact that there are no click stops for the aperture blades , there are marking that show ” f 2.8, 4, 5.6, 8. 11 and 16″ but you can set the blades to any setting in between, this is a huge help for video !!
Another great thing for Video is that this lens is 100% silent , simply no noise feeds back through the camera body !!
The back of the lens shows depth of field and focus distant marks, its not a macro lens as its closest distance is only .7 meters so Landscapes only here !
Some History
The production of this lens originally started all the way back in 1954. It was manufactured in USSR (along with my favourite Helios 44-2) and was mainly made in 2 mounts, M39 and more popular M42 (although both are adaptable to modern cameras). The design of the lens was based on Carl Zeiss Jena Flektogon 35mm f/2.8 and unlike Helios 44-2 was not a complete clone, but using same optical formal as Flektogon 35mm f/2.8, which is definitely a good sign considering how much more affordable they are than just about any Zeiss glass.
In 1958 Mir-1 received a prestigious Grand-Prix Award during the Brussels World Fair. Russians were probably so proud of the award that every Mir-1 lens produced since the 1958 World Fair, sports the “Grand Prix Brussels 1958” inscription on the side of the lens, so don’t mistake these lenses for some sort of special/limited edition.
Lens Flare
Another great asset of this lens is the lens flare it can produce , this link shows some lovely deep spherical Studio flare results 🙂
.Compared to other Classic M42 lenses and modern lenses
.MIR 37mm f2.8 Gallery
The following are some local Kilkenny landscape images that I feel show just how good this lens still is at capturing some great sharp and contrasty black and white images , even with 24 megapixels to expose any defects!
Mornings and Coffee, Poem By : Gabryela Speaks
Morning Coffee
Image : Nigel Borrington
Mornings and Coffee
By : Gabryela Speaks
Feb 2 2015
Cold mornings, warm coffee
The aroma comforts me
Pushing the freezing moment
of having to recall you.
You used to sit with me.
You would look into my eyes,
flash a beautiful smile
and I always wonder
what you see
But one day,
you stopped being you.
Three Poems with the title : Primrose
Springtime Primrose
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Primrose
By Pud
Primrose Stirs Lifts Up Her Head
Stands Up Tall On Softened Bed
Resurrected, As Winter Dreams
Primrose Smiles Or So It Seems
Primrose
By : Charlotte
You looked at me as if I were a
primrose
A delicate flower
with tiny petals
opening up to you
with little thorns to prick you with
when you make me angry
You plucked me up
away from the sun
and the moon
and the sky
and my little primrose friends
You put me in an expensive vase,
caring for me the best you could.
But sometimes you go away,
and alone
I am wilting
Primrose
William Carlos Williams
(1883 – 1963)
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole—
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks—
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the flange of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree—
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes—
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.
My father moved through dooms of love , By : E. E. Cummings, 1894 – 1962
Pentredwr, Hourseshoe pass,
Llangollen,
North Wales
Landscape Photography Nigel Borrington
Its a personal post this one but a post I very much enjoyed getting together !!!
My Father and Mother sadly split when I was six years of age, something that these days I have very much been a peace with.
Over the last few years through accident more that any planning, I found the place he spend the last few years of his life with his second wife and family. He moved to a village “Pentredwr” in a valley near the horseshoe pass, Llangollen , North wales, Its a truly beautiful part of the world.
I visited again during the Easter Holidays and took these pictures of the landscape he must have enjoyed for so many years 🙂 🙂
my father moved through dooms of love
By E. E. Cummings, 1894 – 1962
My father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
.
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
.
keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
.
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
.
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
St Anne’s Pier, a Sunset beach walk…..
St Anne’s Pier,
St Anne’s-on-the-Sea, Lancashire
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Well I am back on my Blog following a great Easter holiday, spent visiting much loved family and friends. It was great to see them and to visit some great locations and share some time with, food and drinks and chat.
My Aunt lives near the town of St Anne’s Lancashire, located in the north west of England.
I can remember visiting the town as a kid and one of the most exciting locations was the Pier.
Half way through this last visit I took an evening walk to the Pier and took this series of images.
These days the Pier looks a little less visited than I remember when I was younger but its looking in great condition and it was perfect to see in just as the sunset out at sea…..
St Anne’s Pier, St Anne’s-on-the-Sea, Lancashire, UK
St Anne’s Pier is a Victorian era pleasure pier in the English seaside resort of St Anne’s-on-the-Sea, Lancashire. It lies on the estuary of the River Ribble. The pier, designed by A. Dowson, was completed in 1885 and was one of the earliest public buildings in St Anne’s, a 19th-century planned town. The pier was originally intended to be a sedate promenading venue for the resort’s visitors, but attractions were later added. Changes made to the estuary channels to improve access to Preston Dock left the pier on dry land and ended its steamer services to Blackpool and Liverpool.
A Tudor-style entrance was built in 1899. Early 20th-century additions included a Moorish-style pavilion in 1904 and the Floral Hall in 1910. The Moorish Pavilion was destroyed by fire in 1974, shortly after the town’s centenary; the Floral Hall burned down in 1982. Originally 914 feet (279 m) long, the pier was reduced to 600 feet (180 m) by the demolition of the seaward end. English Heritage has designated the pier a Grade II listed building.
St Anne’s-on-the-Sea is a planned seaside resort on the Fylde coast, at the mouth of the River Ribble, in Lancashire. It was developed in the 19th century, largely by the St Anne’s Land & Building Company. The company was formed in 1874 and leased land for the new town from the estate of the local Clifton family. Towards the end of the 19th century, pleasure piers became a common feature of English seaside resorts, and by the 1870s there were already two piers in nearby Blackpool, one in Southport and one 3.5 miles (5.6 km) away in Lytham. The wording of the land company’s original lease indicates that a pier was probably planned for St Anne’s from its beginning. A subsidiary, the St Anne’s-on-the-Sea Pier and Improvements Company was formed in 1877. The company directors believed that a pier at St Anne’s would offer visitors better conditions for fishing and boating than those at neighbouring resorts.
St Anne’s Pier, a Sunset walk beach walk : Image Gallery
Friday , Beach Photography day. – Taking some Easter down time :)
Irish Beach Photography
County Waterford
Nigel Borrington
Over the next two weeks of the Easter Holidays, I am taking some Offline time, I just want to get the garden ready for the summer,read and walk and maybe visit a beach or two.
I just want to say thanks to everyone for all your great comments and likes here 🙂 🙂 over the months and I look forward to sharing much more of Ireland and reading your great posts when I get back online – have a great holiday period !!!
Friday Is Beach Photography day
Taking a Friday evening trip down to the beach’s along the Waterford coastline is something I love to do in the summer months and I am very much looking forward to doing so again this summer.
I hope to get lots more images to post and share here 🙂
Beach Photography , Friday
The Ice house , Woodstock Gardens , County Kilkenny
The Ice House,
Woodstock Gardens, Co. Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Woodstock Gardens, County Kilkenny – dates back to 1737.
The Gardens and the remains of the old house are one of county Kilkenny’s most popular locations, located above the River Nore and the small town of Inistioge.
The Ice house is most likely less known, as it is located on the banks of the river Nore on the very limits of the grounds, it is however one of the best preserved ICE houses you could wish to find.
The details on the information board nearby are a little unclear as to when this building was constructed but it is considered to be sometime in the 1800’s, it was used for visitors to the smaller river side lodge, named the “Red House”.
The ‘Red House’ was a hunting lodge that at the time could only be accessed via boat along the river, today however you can find this location via a half an hour walk from the town of Inistioge.
A General History of ice houses
The Romans were the first to build ice houses, though not very widely in the UK and Not at all in Ireland. Ice houses were usually built close to sources of winter ice, such as freshwater lakes. In the 17th century, grand country houses followed the fashion of having one built, and then ice houses fell from fashion until about the late 18th century.
—————–
Uses of ice houses
On country estates from about 1660, the ice was mainly used not to chill food, but for its own sake: for ice creams and increasingly popular desserts such as syllabubs.
Meat and fish did not need to be preserved on a large estate because they could simply be caught from estate lakes and ponds when needed. Ice was also used for medicinal purposes: to treat fever and inflammation. At one time, a common prescription for indigestion was being told to suck on ice.
—————–
Woodstock House,
now a ruin, was for generations the home to the Tighe family. In 1737, the twenty-six-year-old Sir William Fownes inherited the estate and commissioned an elegant mansion, completed in 1745. He hoped to establish himself with the gentry of the area and to impress the 2nd Viscount Duncannon, soon to become the first Earl of Bessborough, whose daughter Elisabeth he planned to marry. Over the next forty-five years, Woodstock was the background to a series of dramas that led to the deaths of William, Elisabeth and their son-in-law William Tighe.
Many gardens and walks were laid out between 1840 and 1900 by another William Tighe and his wife Lady Louisa Lennox.[1] The gardens contain many exotic plants from Asia and South America, including the Monkey Puzzle tree and the Noble Fir tree which form two of the walks in the gardens,[2] as well as specimens of the Coast Redwood.
In 1921, the property was occupied by the Black and Tans and Auxiliaries, which caused much local resentment, and then by troops of the Free State Army, who were withdrawn from the premises during the Irish Civil War, on 1 July 1922. The house, left unguarded, was burnt down the next day, and remains a derelict empty shell, overgrown with vegetation
The River Nore, County Kilkenny,
located below the Ice House.
Nigel Borrington
Twilight on the Beach : A poem by : Mary Dow Brine
When Twilight falls upon the beach,
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Twilight on the Beach.
By : Mary Dow Brine
The crimson glory of the setting sun
Hath lain a moment on the ocean’s breast,
Till twilight shadows, gathering one by one,
Bring us the tidings, day is gone to rest.
Far out upon the waters, like a veil,
The mists of evening rise and stretch away
Between the horizon and the distant sail,
And earth and sea are clothed in sombre gray.
The tide comes higher up the smooth, wide beach,
Singing the song it has for ages sung;
Recedes, and carries far beyond our reach
The freight my idle hands have seaward flung.
Over the white-capped waves the seagulls soar
With heavy-flapping wing and restless cry,
As darkness spreads its deeper mantle o’er
The changing shadows of the twilight sky.
.
No voice but mine to mingle with the sound
Of ocean’s melody- as one by one
The stars light up the vast concave around,
And live the glory that is never done.
Still higher creeps the tide with subtle power,
And still the waves advance with sullen roar;
But with the last faint gleam of twilight hour
I turn me homeward from the lonely shore.
Nigel Borrington
Irish Photographer Francis Browne and his lucky escape from the RMS Titanic …..
Francis Browne’s pictures of the Titanic
April 14th 1912
Francis Browne’s Finest Pictures
In 1985 an Edward O’Donnell was searching in the basement at the Irishjesuit Provincial’s House when he came across a large black metal trunk, in it he found a large colletion of negative albums, photographs and most amazingly of all an album containing photographs of Titanic’s voyage.
All these photographs were the work of Francis Browne who died in 1960 and was almost forgotten by this time. Subsequent investigations revealed he had enjoyed worldwide fame in 1912 when his photographs of the Titanic’s journey to Cobh were published worldwide. He had travelled first class to Cobh having been given a ticket by his uncle Robert Browne, Bishop of Cloyne. His remarkable pictures proved to be unique.
So it was that Frank was presented with a first class ticket for the Maiden Voyage of the Titanic to bring him as far as Cobh. The morning of the 12th.April 1912 he arrived at Waterloo Station in London to catch the Titanic Special. He immediately started taking photographs, first recording the train journey and then life aboard the Titanic on the initial section of the voyage. Having made friends with a wealthy American family he was offered a ticket for the remaining part of the journey and no doubt excitedly telegraphed a request for permission to go on to New York, to which he received the terse response “Get Off That Ship——Provincial!” That telegram not only saved Frank’s life but also meant that this unique record of the voyage was saved for posterity and guaranteed overnight fame for Frank Browne.
Browne later described the event as “the only time holy obedience saved a man’s life.”
“Get Off That Ship——Provincial!” – I guess many have wondered about this instruction ? , its almost prophetic in its nature – I guess we will never know how or why it was such a strong and clear order . I think it relates to the fact that while many embraced the new-world of 1912 technology, many also stood in fear of it and in this case clearly for good reason.
Frank Browne , April 1912 – Titanic Gallery
April 28, 2015 | Categories: Comment, photography, photography review, Portrait images, Travel Locations | Tags: 12th April 1912, Classic Photography, cobh, Francis Browne, Historic Photography, Irish photography, Nigel Borrington, photographs, RMS Titanic, Robert Browne, titanic | Leave a comment