Everything in Motion, Everything at Rest: A Gallery of Photo-Poems
This is a book of poems inspired by a variety of photographs, some of which you may have seen. The photographs are not here, but you may find them drawn into your mind's eye as you read.
What can you say about a photograph? a photographer once asked me. Where to begin There's the mysterious art of photographers, transforming motion into still image, transforming light and shadow into composition, which can move us without the use of words. But how much of this art is planned before the camera seizes a moment and how much an instantaneous sizzle of luck and skill (Henri Cartier-Bresson's Behind the Gare Saint-Lazare)? Then there's the authenticity of a photograph, image as fact. But is a photo authentic if the photographer posed or arranged the subject in some way (Arthur Rothstein's Steer Skull)? Is a photo authentic if the subject was paid (Robert Doisneau's The Kiss at City Hall)? Is a photo authentic if the photographer erased or altered something in the photo, something they considered distracting (W. Eugene Smith's Spanish Wake)?
Given that a photo can be altered for effect, perhaps we should consider photography not as a truthful recording of a moment, but more a portrayal of an emotional truth. But what are the limits on this type of truth if evidence suggests the photo to be a hoax (Robert Capa's The Falling Soldier)? Lastly, are there some photos that should never be taken (Kevin Carter's Vulture Waiting for a Starving Girl to Die)? These questions arise again and again in these galleries.
But I also hope the poems celebrate the beauty and complexity of photography, as well as the artistry and dedication of photographers. I wish to thank all the photographers whose images inspired these poems. For those who wish to see the photos, the title of each poem provides the information needed for the reader to track down the photo online.
What can you say about a photograph? Take this simple test. Drop a photo in your mortar; grind it with the pestle. What remains? Nothing-but the dust of words. -John Bradley
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