“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Photo-graphic memory
Obsessed with photo graphs and charts,
we point our longest sideways glance right
away
and shoot for the best, hitting hope
happens square in the chest,
stars also aim for the numbers.
Numbness by position,
this poison saps our steady grip,
an aching up the arm from the aorta.
In this contraction,
we miss the moment around the image,
the time between sight and capture
or full appearance formed
in our human haste
Roughly,
to see and to show how it should look
from our island view,
by entitling
what was then as now.
The pictures portrayed only figures,
we made out images
believing in lines like these
holding black and were definitive
made by an arrangement or
juxtapositioning.
Framed in theoretical suspension
of time to believe in what we see
as all white.
Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
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