Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
Oz and i
walked by
the dying
mugho pine
i stopped
to shoot a
photograph.
trapped his leash
under my feet
as if i had a right.
no choices left,
he waited,
impatient as
such a small
dog can be,
perhaps a bit
indignant.
i liked the
leaf colours,
not the meaning.
the pine had
a problem
so unlike Oz
(and me)
we were so
happy, on our
perfect walk.
(for him,
always an
adventure)
we watch the
weather roll
over this hill;
we see mists
slide down
towards us,
sometimes
bringing snow.
we run a tab
with nature,
fools if we
forget this.
when we are
least prepared,
perhaps; it
will come due.
mists and clouds
obscure the
hilltop in autumn.
snow, in winter
reminds us
we don't go
up these
hills so well.
these are our
autumn days.
it isn't over;
the view is
fine, from here.
i met a man who
could not see
any colour.
though i love
to see colour,
i didn't pity;
the man with
no colour
was good as any.
he lived his way,
making this
world his own.
he wasn't disabled
in any way.
nobody knows
what other senses
he may have had.
he wasn't talking
about such things.
perhaps there is
no way to speak of
unshared visions.
we all walk alone.
Caribbean Rain last time was exotic tile roofs waiting in early morning rain. maybe it was here we saw pelicans, marine iguanas, rain, tropical rain. looking through glass, we see a certain welcome a welcome of a certain kind. rains taper off. rain, tropical rain peaceful warm rain does not alarm in any way instead, it soothes. (been wet before and always dried)
BW Tree
looking lonely
on a hillside,
black on white
is all we see
under blackened
branches i see
no distant stars
even there we
crave light,
we are
night-blind
even in daylight
we do not
see so well
from here,
it looks like
scenery of
some kind
these days, it
seems so
hard to find
good scenery,
a distant hillside
and a black tree...
Leaf on Asphalt
(only a fallen
leaf, a thing
of little value)
i cannot say
what meaning
there could be.
how important
is anything
i have to say?
does anything
we think count
as important?
can we ever
be beautiful
as a leaf?
(only a fallen
leaf, a thing
of little value)
Leaves and Grass
today is
a new thing
warmer than
i thought
it would be.
brighter, no rain
fireworks celebrate
something i forget.
we look for rain
when we are
so parched
as this our
tired earth,
a fallen leaf
in grass,
an old friend
(we loved)
who now
is fallen, fallen leaf
(unforgotten now)
when we are gone,
who will take up
our memories?
bright stories
capture all
possibilities.
sadly, light fades
(it will return)
and darkness
covers everything.
we sleep
Black and White Barn
all the colours
that we need
to tell a story...
all the colours
that we see
make white.
no colours
at all
make black.
darkness is
like silence
to our eyes.
a step this way,
the point of view
will change.
this becomes that.
and unreal
becomes real.
looking around
corners: a question
of seeing.
any artist should
know: seeing is
not believing.
but believing
is a big part
of creating.
creating may require
all the beautiful
colours that
there are.
Autumnal
this time of year
our world begins
to chill,
so we wonder
why we're here
as light
grows dim
and air gets cold
but not too
cold to breathe
today, october,
colours
start to fade
except for trees
which go to
red and golden
(a million leaves
have lost their green
and changed)
this time, this
change (is a
beautiful thing)
it decorates our
cooling world
and cheers us
once again.
Blackened Barn
roasting in
hot sunshine,
hundreds of years,
it can't share
its stories
the laughter
and the tears,
beautiful wood
colours, burned
to black,
no reason to
stand tall,
no purpose
any more...
the old black
buildings lean,
falling slowly,
rotting
wooden
foundations
crumble
to dust
any nails
that may
be found
turn slowly
into rust.
still something
there appeals to us.
hope that
things went well,
sometimes, there
might be stories
but no-one's
left to tell.
