In his dark room he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.
He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays
beneath his hands, which did not tremble then
though seem to now. Rural England. Home again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don’t explode beneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.
Something is happening. A stranger’s features
faintly start to twist before his eyes,
a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries
of this man’s wife, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the blood stained into foreign dust.
A hundred agonies in black and white
from which his editor will pick out five or six
for Sunday’s supplement. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers.
From the aeroplane he stares impassively at where
he earns his living and they do not care.
CAROL ANN DUFFY
collating, learning, shooting, it’s all go
It’s hard to convey in a still image the feeling or atmosphere at a particular event. the shot below is purely random, I can’t remember taking it but it conveys the atmosphere created at Disco Kid, one of my biggest dance conventions in Blackpool Ballroom. I just like the feel, the dancers oblivious to the camera, judges all dressed up, A haze caught in the higher levels of the balconies, the spotlights shining.
‘Is it the technical side that you like or is there something more?’ A simple question but one that hit home. I guess that’s why I’m on the course to find that something more…..
‘To enter a wood is to pass into a different world in which we ourselves are transformed.’