Skywalker country & Collodion
by Patrick Chapman
[ poetry - october 08 ]
Skywalker country
It was a
long time ago. The boy was out
On the bog with a ruddy neighbour, a man
Strawberry-faced from years of hidden anger
And pious
disgust at every foreign thing.
Although he'd brought a radio he tolerated
For the Gaelic, he remained dismissive
Of
transmissions from abroad. Now while
The neighbour passed remarks and fed on bacon
Sandwiches and hearkened to the news hour
And the
Angelus, the boy piled up a rick
For grown-ups to bring later in their cars; and
Time wore on. Another programme started:
National
Public Radio's dramatic presentation
Of Star Wars. This was no bog, but Tattooine
And to a man for whom Drumshanbo was too far,
Mos Eisley
was unthinkable. 'American muck,'
He said, and turned it off - then urged the boy
To pray; and save himself as well as turf.
Collodion
Unless
they can parade out of the shot,
The soldier and his wife will never move;
Stood forever at the gable of their house -
And even the house is gone, even the light,
Even the photographer.
The image
does not know them.
They are never to be known again;
Never to be recollected fully as they were -
Every death an abstract; every life,
Its negative, an abstract given time.
The image
did not steal their souls
But saved them for a moment that will last
Until the chemical bonds dissolve, in fire perhaps.
