Sept 16 2013
Even snapshots
have their artistry.
In the accident
of pointing the camera,
the intersection
of light, and action
and chance.
The image, fixed.
Seen
as reality can't,
an infinitesimal instant
you can hold in one hand,
re-visit, re-live.
But more important, what's missed;
the before and after,
the telling absences.
As in music
where beauty
is in the space between the notes.
The expectant pause, ear cocked,
and the sublime release
of completion.
And when the music stops, but lingers,
notes that resonate, unplayed
on weightless vibrations of air.
Or the last word
in a line of a poem,
hovering
like the final measure
still unresolved.
Her unblinking eyes
so wise, so world-weary
locked onto mine
like a diamond-tipped drill.
In that one still moment
all we will know of her;
surface, as in everything we see,
but somehow deeper
indelibly.
What took place before
will happen after
the interrogating lens
moved on?
And was he caught, or posed,
distilled
in the click of a shutter
in darkness, and light?
Nothing
Even snapshots
have their artistry.
In the accident
of pointing the camera,
the intersection
of light, and action
and chance.
The image, fixed.
Seen
as reality can't,
an infinitesimal instant
you can hold in one hand,
re-visit, re-live.
But more important, what's missed;
the before and after,
the telling absences.
As in music
where beauty
is in the space between the notes.
The expectant pause, ear cocked,
and the sublime release
of completion.
And when the music stops, but lingers,
notes that resonate, unplayed
on weightless vibrations of air.
Or the last word
in a line of a poem,
hovering
like the final measure
still unresolved.
Her unblinking eyes
so wise, so world-weary
locked onto mine
like a diamond-tipped drill.
In that one still moment
all we will know of her;
surface, as in everything we see,
but somehow deeper
indelibly.
What took place before
will happen after
the interrogating lens
moved on?
And was he caught, or posed,
distilled
in the click of a shutter
in darkness, and light?
Nothing
is entered into evidence
no fact is hard.
Because every picture
is projection, inference,
every photograph
a trick.
Especially in black and white,
its austere view
more essential
than colour’s literal truth,
so faithfully reproduced
we hardly notice.
Like that skinny little boy.
So earnest, and dignified,
so fragile, beside
the big black car.
He arrests my eye
stopping time.
A universe
in the small gradations of grey.
In the unnatural stillness
where he will always remain.
no fact is hard.
Because every picture
is projection, inference,
every photograph
a trick.
Especially in black and white,
its austere view
more essential
than colour’s literal truth,
so faithfully reproduced
we hardly notice.
Like that skinny little boy.
So earnest, and dignified,
so fragile, beside
the big black car.
He arrests my eye
stopping time.
A universe
in the small gradations of grey.
In the unnatural stillness
where he will always remain.
I struggled a great deal with this poem. It's one of several I've written about photography, trying to capture the powerful effect of arrested time, the indelible power of the still image. I don't think I've ever succeeded.
And I suspect this effort may be a step back, not forward. Because there were many false starts and rejected revisions. And in the end, I don't think the poem works. Probably because there are too many words. And because I never found the phrase that really nails it.
On the other hand, I think I salvaged enough to keep it, and post it. Perhaps a reader will find more here that I can see. And perhaps I will return to it, eventually; or, if not return, then at least plagiarize the good bits!
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