Canto L

I spend the afternoon watching a reel
of film inside the Bankside turbine hall,
a perfect storm of photons, that travelled

a fairly straightforward ninety three million miles
to bounce from object, through lens into chamber
and rest upon a strip of chemicals.

They say the day for film is nearly over,
last lab in London’s closed, and all the rest
look up to see digital vultures hover.

Its physical, the new light beams are passed
through the trace left forever by the old,
the flicker makes the pigments seem alive.

An hour from now I’ll get home to be told
that Gaddafi is dead by the newsman.
They’ll show the body, bloody, not yet cold,

the shouting mob, discharging machine guns,
a hyperactive Sergio Leone,
a phone camera held in a shaking hand,

the joyless, blocky truth of video.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 20, 2012 @ 09:11:33

    Poetry can evoke memories.
    I remember the clicking noise as as the celluloid film fed through the sprockets and the dust particles caught in the projectors luminous beam.


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