Most of us, when we travel, would consider a camera an essential item to bring along. Capturing the experience and preserving these once in a lifetime memories and stunning sights just seems to make sense. These days, with modern camera phones having high quality cameras attached, we can all take limitless images of our travels. However, there is a big difference between the casual traveller taking the odd snap and actual travel photographers such as myself.

With that in mind, this guide lets you into a few of the secrets of taking great travel photographs. There are five key lessons…

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels

Today, modern travellers are well respected people. We travel to far flung, exotic and hard to reach places — the kinds of places most of us can only dream of going — reporting back either visually or through first-hand accounts to give us an idea of their experiences.

I, for example, run a successful travel and photography blog, with an emphasis on the flowers and plant life I find along the way. But was the traveller always seen thus? How have they been perceived throughout the ages and why has this changed?

Travelling for pleasure is not, as you might…

Juan Ramon Gomis On Feasts and Festivals

The feast and the festival celebrations of food. There is metaphysics about the festival that remains echoed in the fringes of life in the 21st century. The fairgrounds that visit in summers or at bank holidays exist at the fringes of the conventional structures of society. The government of John Major articulated the threat represented by people who move about with his absurd hysteria about new age travellers. The Nazis signalled the Roma people out as victims, they remain victims of discrimination and persecution. Thus, the food of the fair represents something which…

The Flower by Alexander Pushkin

A flower — shrivelled, bare of fragrance,
Forgotten on a page — I see,
And instantly my soul awakens,
Filled with an aimless reverie:

When did it bloom? the last spring? earlier?
How long? Where was it plucked? By whom?
By foreign hands? or by familiar?
And why put here, as in a tomb?

To mark a tender meeting by it?
A parting with a precious one?
Or just a walk, alone and quiet,
In forests’ shade? in meadows’ sun?

Is she alive? Is he still with her?
Where is their haven at this hour?
Or did they both already wither,
Like this unfathomable flower?

Leaves Compared With Flowers by Robert Frost

A tree’s leaves may be ever so good, So may its bar, so may its wood; But unless you put the right thing to its root It never will show much flower or fruit. But I may be one who does not care Ever to have tree bloom or bear. Leaves for smooth and bark for rough, Leaves and bark may be tree enough. Some giant trees have bloom so small They might as well have none at all. Late in life I have come on fern. Now lichens are due to have…

Juan Ramon Gomis: we pick flowers

Flower-Gathering by Robert Frost

I LEFT you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I’ve been long away.

Juan Ramón Gomis: The morning found the breeze a hundred miles away

Wind and Window Flower by Robert Frost

LOVERS, forget your love, And list to the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze. When the frosty window veil Was melted down at noon, And the cagèd yellow bird Hung over her in tune, He marked her through the pane, He could not help but mark, And only passed her by, To come again at dark. He was a winter wind, Concerned with ice and snow, Dead weeds and unmated birds, And little of love…

A Red Flower by Claude McKay

Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn’s a silver sea of light.

Your lips betray the secret of your soul,
The dark delicious essence that is you,
A mystery of life, the flaming goal
I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.

Your lips are the red symbol of a dream, What visions of warm lilies they impart, That line the green bank of a fair blue stream, With butterflies and bees…


© Pearlyn

Published: February 2015

They have no mouth, but seem to speak
A thousand words so mild and meek.

They have no eyes , but seem to see
And bury thoughts into me.

They have no ears, but seem to hear
All my cries, my every tear.

They have no arms, but seem to pat
When with worries my heart is fat.

They have no feet, but seem to walk
Along with me in my dreams and talk.

They, I know, are the flowers so nice
That spread their fragrance a million miles.

Grow a few and then you’ll know
How your life is fresh and new.

With a smile so broad, I thank my God,
Whose work to imagine is really too hard.


A lovely poem about Yellow!

Yellow is the sun of childhood
the certain day
the fine silk strands
of youthful years
and wearing them
in a simple dress
of pale shantung
natural delicate
rustling against warm thighs

Yellow is a daisy-chain of memories
picking primroses in the woods
on Mothering Sunday
mailing them home in a tin box -
the flowers arranged on damp moss

sandals on sea fronts
Italian ice-cream
English mustard in a blue glass pot
Welsh rarebit and tea
with my father on visiting days.

Yellow is perfect dawn - a bouquet of open beaks in a…

Juan Ramón Gomis

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