top of page

Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84

Saturday Afternoon in Santa Fe

When Kellie and I came out of the International Folk art museum filled with toys and paper mache, the rain had stopped and a beautiful rainbow was stretched over the mountains in the distance. At the opposite end of the museum quad sits the Native American art museum. It has several statues outside including one statue called the Rainbow Warrior. Now, I imagine it has been done before, but how cool is it that I got a picture of the Rainbow Warrior with a rainbow seemingly connecting him to the sky?


After taking this picture, Kellie and I stepped into the Native American art museum. It was nearly 4 o'clock, and, because we had been on the road in the rain, we had not eaten lunch. The cost of the museum was not particularly high (I don't remember what it was.), but we could see into the display area, and, from what we could see, the displays were mostly items like turquoise jewelry, reed baskets, moccasins, and decorative, ceremonial dress. I am interested in that sort of thing, but, with growling stomachs, the appeal was just not strong enough to pay another entry fee. In other words, I didn't want to pay to look at such stuff for another two hours before eating. So, we exited the museum.


This interesting statue of the Lightning Spirit was outside the Native American art museum in a garden to the right as we exited. Though it represents a spirit, the detail is very exquisite and life-like.


The statue above was also in the little garden area. I don't recall that it had a name, but it reminded me of Dante's Inferno and the thieves who constantly eat themselves.


I found the statue above called Sorrow particularly poignant, so much so that I got a close-up of the woman's face. It is below.


Kellie got some other pictures of the statuary around the museums, but the ones above are all that I took. We had only started to the car when the rain started pouring down again. We drove down into Santa Fe proper around the square and ate at a place called the Burrito Cafe or something like that. Later, we learned that any place that asks whether you want green sauce or red sauce is not authentic. I don't remember why. Apparently, with authentic Mexican food, you are not asked what you like. You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit. While the food we ate that afternoon was good, it was nothing spectacular.


After the meal and bit of wading through some flooded streets (They really do not get much rain there!), we retired to our VRBO which was a tiny house situated behind the garage of a couple's residence. Later, we ventured out to get some groceries for our little house of three days and nights. Not much to tell there. Walmarts are the same just about everywhere.


Stay tuned for Sundays adventures in Los Alamos, Jemez, and Red Rocks.

Comments


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

bottom of page