sexta-feira, 15 de julho de 2016

A poem by Sam Buchan-Watts

The Dogs
My most cherished photographs
transformed overnight into those of dogs:
big horny dogs in their ripest years
hogging the frame for themselves.
Every last photographer’s trick employed
so that even in the tacky studio where he couldn’t focus
my dog, like a good dog, looks ever curious and propositional
baring his hunk of incisor at us, its nourished decay.
In the more rough-cut alfresco shots with an arty contrast
between negative and positive textures, my black dog
merges with the dark or slides into a pond in such a way
that dog and pond are seamless.
In this dog world one ear of my dog is serendipitously
folded back forever, fixed there,
and though the tawny insides appear knobby and esoteric
they indicate a constant alertness to any thrown ball
or that he is newly ruffled from rolling in the buzzing grass.
There is a choice photo stashed in my wallet,
its creased folds powdery with friction; his profile
is divine against a backdrop of swirling marble blue.
This day I recall for its stressful hilarity; we could not bundle
his legs onto the stool. Since then the dog has been as mute
as the pictures. Perhaps somewhere
in his cropped-out lower throat, his bark is stuck.
Retirado daqui.

Sem comentários:

Enviar um comentário