Monday, 12 February 2018

Nine Grids | A Poem



Imagine
How things go,
Their sequences
Left untouched
Present jump cuts regardless
Click
Click
Click
Keep an eye on that aperture,
Watch the depth,
If the shutter speed is too slow you’ll
Miss the shot entirely,

What will your caption be, kiddo?

White balance calls to mind
Those rose-tinted glasses
We all wore at some point -
I lost mine along the line,
A bus from College Green to Ballymun last Spring
I pick up a pair the odd time
I feel the need,
Lose them again
And repeat.

Every person will take away
Something different from
Something printed;
Glossed and brazen,
But flimsy matter
Ignorant to scrutiny

(Once
I looked over the shoulder of
A young doctor
Reading my notes in his lap
As he quickly flipped
Through pages containing
Delineations of my windy spine;
“You probably don’t want to see these”
He said.

I made him flip back
To the page
And told him his learning
Does not stop at RCSI.)

A simple matter of trial and error
Balancing the wheel on the edge
of the curb,
Shift focus
Keep your finger halfway on the silver button,
Gently rested but
Ready for action,
You have it,
You have it.

You could frame it,
Give what you saw a
Sense of permanency
Until the colours fade;
Black
Yellow
Cyan
Magenta -

In a hallway,
Bedroom wall
Or the top of a fireplace,
Far away from here,
By all means
Have faith in what
Your eyes see and have seen

For they take around
Sixteen thousand
Pictures daily anyway,
The ones worth storing
Could be found on a
Sheet of crinkled paper
At the bottom of a wardrobe
Or in a prized technicolored
Notebook
Under my pillow

Through the looking glass,
The subject will shift as the
Eighty thousand people
You’ll come across in your lifetime
Flit in and out,
But the rule of thirds
Will keep you in line.

I said that you have it.

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