I got my Olloclip 3 in 1 lens for the iPhone yesterday. Tonight I used the fisheye for wonderful cloud photos. It is sort of like a toy, with tiny parts to lose. The lens caps are the size of small coins. You are supposed to carry it in a little sack in your pocket, but because it is the size of about two of those big gum balls that seems like a silly idea to me. After I took a zillion cloud views with both the fisheye and the wideangle, I decided to try the macro again, since my in-house trials had not been very good, except one that shows how coarsely bristled the dachshund nose is.
This is a campion, which blooms at this time of year, and which I always think of as a dainty little wildflower. I have forgotten if it is the bladder campion, or the white campion. I was trying to pin this down to be accurate here, and still can't quite be sure, but what I found out is that it is a noxious weed and a great trouble to farmers in Oregon.
I also found out tonight that macro photography with this setup requires a very steady hand, and most likely a tripod. And naturally, there was a slight breeze. This is the best photo I got and it isn't really sharp. But how otherwise, an such a small flower, would I know that the filaments are such a delicate shade of reddish purple. I also think the foremost anther is almost in focus. Tomorrow!
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Such a very small flower I felt required a small poem, so I looked in the latest Acorn; a journal of contemporary haiku #30 and found this one on page 48::
into a sky
all spent reed and burdock
a burst of goldfinches
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I am happy for Mr. Barlow, my goldfinches have been very scarce this year. Although there is plenty of reed and burdock at the other end of the meadow in the new Hymas Woods Nature Preserve.
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In redoing a bookshelf today, I found Stanley Kunitz's choice small book, The Wild Braid; a poet reflects on a century in the garden, W.. W. Norton & Co., 2005. Here is just a taste of prose from page 97.
"The poet is an anomaly in our culture. The goal of our culture is money and power. And that's not exactly what poetry is about. What is it about? That's a hard question. It's about anything the human mind can produce. And that's infinite.
Some people think being a poet is like being, say, a bluebird. It's hardly that. But then, why not? I wouldn't mind being a bluebird for one day! It certainly would be fun to be perched in my garden, at the top of this spruce here, singing like mad and pursuing another bluebird,"
Bluebirds, goldfinches, campion and burdock! Be sure to get outdoors tomorrow, even for a few minutes, if the only growing thing you can see is a potted petunia! Good night!