Poem Photographer

 

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Sometimes
She searches for poems,
Roves over
Innumerable things
With a hope
Her eye might catch
A suchness
And florescence
Glowing real
In the edges
Of interest.

And so to the woods
For knot, bird and lichen
Hosted in the crenellations
Of ecosystems’ burgeoning.
And to the city streets,
Angular in architectural
Masterpieces and rhombus
Network’s crystalline form.
And to the face of child,
Old man and worn woman
Storytelling in wrinkles
And light shining eyes.

But sometimes,
Caught unawares,
She finds the thing
In the corner of her eye,
Like an insistent child
Demanding attention,
A nugget gleaming treasureful
In the open hand
Of the high carat sand
And the riverbed of imagery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

For Melinda https://thepoetryofphotography.wordpress.com

And all the other talented photographers I follow.

 

In The Meniscus

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In the meniscus
The whole reflected world.

Even in the shine
Of the pebbles,
Glossed wet,
There are mirrors
Two fold:

In the painted light
And in the seeing.

*

And In the sheen
Of the sea’s damp hold

Stones gleam transformed.
Surfaces everywhere

Like shields,
Like barriers
To hold the selves
Of things,
Make them impervious
And themselves
Entirely.

Stones are whole
Behind their skin,
Behind the thin film
And that,
Reflected on its surface.

And the sea too
Is deep
Below it’s meniscus.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

When I Look At Art

When I look at art
I’m looking
For the gliding truth
To slice the mediocrity of life
And expose
The pure, clear moment,
The glowing wow,
The real thing,
The something said,
The revelation in my head,
The satisfaction, soul deep,

As I understand

And see

The thing

As it was meant.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.