Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
Dials and Bells
looking up skywards
we can't fail to see
dials and bells
on a tower face
marking time
sounding alarms
as our lives tick by
chimes ringing out
we can yell
we can scream
whisper or shout
dials mark time
in a visual way
but now we find
we may not know
or even understand
what time is
or how it flows
what really matters
with the time we have
is how we grow
and what we grow into
wine bottles
seem so small
after you have
seen amphorae.
civilization is such
a big surprise.
all it takes to tame
troupes of
frantic monkeys
is sufficient alcohol.
amphorae do look
interesting in a way.
cool shapes.
(comforting somehow)
frantic monkeys do
love their comfort.
fear the pandemic,
it can damage
our feeble brains.
already we are
woefully underpowered.
save my cpu!
the water's cold
although the
ice is gone.
we know icy water
from almost before
we were young .
stick your toes
in springtime's
chilly water.
your toes went in
to the ankle;
you know cold water
for long as you live.
deep chill,
down deep
to where light fades
into featureless
blurry shadow
diffuse light
seems to come
from every place.
interesting days,
we still survive:
icy weather,
cold spring water
chills our toddler toes.
tiny trucks deliver to tiny shops, as if there was room on roads. pedestrians learn quickly. out of the way! (no suitable translation springs to mind.) everyone moves aside, quickly. tiny trucks go slowly by. white-painted roads in a beautiful place. tiny trucks leave no dirty tracks on the streets. shops sell a few amazing things: exquisite art, a bowl: carved of ancient olive, grown thousands of years ago. cool shade is an under-rated blessing. just stay cool!
ruins and palms
have little value
in my daily life.
in my memories
they are magical.
stories of ruins,
of the things
that happened
there and there,
well I know that
i ought to say:
something's
very special
about the stories
i don't want to hear.
like the palms,
they are not
related to my
own stories,
or my life.
they have a very
different mesage,
maybe, while i
might have none.
my own stories or my life
nothing important,
because i must be
about as important
as an ant in a hill.
would i like to be
more important?
what kind of
responsibility
comes with that?
maybe to be an ant
is enough.
and what about
the palm and its
importance?
and the wall?
drifting along a beautiful seawall on an island, they have no agenda, nor purpose. nothing's important on a day like this. quarried stone holds back waves, waves breaking unnaturally on hard stone. make no mistake; any rock weathers on these edges. some last longer than others. these stones last longer than we do. for us the people are always the story. and here, the story is that the people do not seem so very important. not much going on, no real dramas are unfolding. the drama here is all unseen, and unseeable, or maybe the drama is the landscape.
that morning the north end of the adriatic sea, looked like a scene from a monster movie, after the crowd ran away. venice started out that way, a barbarian army at the edge of a swamp. nothing much has changed an awful mist hung over the grand canal, as we looked toward a modern art museum. maybe it excited her to support men who might some day be known as greats. you never know. a carpenter might become a fisherman; a slave might become a famous sculptor, a plowman, a poet. and we had faith that sunshine would come back.
somewhere near, a road-building project destroyed a historic wonder, i made a photograph: a very old log house. sunburned from probably a century of summer sun. logs turned rich brown and black, cracks filled with old white plaster. whitewash, maybe. i don't know the stories i can't see. i can always believe nonsense; it's a very human thing to do. the creek flowed silently past the old log house. maybe it was drinking water, though today it looks murky, a bit dangerous. old stories are impossible to prove, a bit murky, digging for truth a little quirky we turn over stones, looking to see clues to untold stories, stories we can't see.
through those ancient doorways ancestral feet wandered in through those doors, and out. masons built such solid walls, brick and mortar last so long. nothing is forever, it is said. two thousand years those bricks held strong; there's little left of the old town; the doorways now are falling down. through those ancient doorways ancestral feet wandered in through those doors, and out.
she's such a
gruesome
creature,
waiting quietly
for something
foolish enough
to wander
close enough.
she will
pounce and
sink fangs in
deep enough
to inject her
poisonous
venom.
two workmen
watched me
capture
her image,
to make this
photograph,
from what they
considered a
safe distance.
her bite might
not be fatal
for someone
my size.
it might make
me very sorry.
and sorrier,
her mate,
who i am not,
may be killed
and eaten.
i am not him,
and keep my
safe distance.
she is so
beautiful in
her hunger,
almost a
majestic
creature,
with such
gruesome
expectations.
she is amazing,
a thing of wonder.
Murray Robertson (photography & poems) 