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I've been a photographer all these years... I haven't been in my own darkroom for 10 years.

quote by Graham Nash
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Darkroom

Got a place we can go
Lights are low
Let me show you to my darkroom
Come a come along with me to my darkroom (4x)
Come a come a come a come...........
Got a place we can go
Lighting low
Let me show you to my darkroom
Got a place
Come a come along with me to my darkroom
We can go
Got a place we can go
Lighting low
Let me show you to my darkroom
Come a come along with me to my darkroom

song performed by Paul McCartney
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What is Sometimes Hidden.

Just as Minnie gets in the mood
to play the Debussy Violin

Sonata her mother says the
photographer is waiting and

so she has to go along to the
lounge and pose and have her

picture taken and as she stands
there with her violin dressed

to the nines the photographer
says no do not smile it cheapens

the effect and so she stiffens
her lips and stares at the young

photographer's moustache and
her mother says do has the man

wants dear and don't pout so
and so she ceases to pout and

gazes at the box camera and man
hidden behind the cloth his hand

visible and do not move he says
hold it do not fidget dear her

mother says and puts her hands
on her shoulders and places her

in the position her mother thinks
the photographer wants is that it?

her mother asks the photographer
smiling in that way she smiles that

gives the impression of an imbecile
yes yes he says that is it and so she

stands as placed the sensation of
wanting to urinate suddenly upon

her and so she squeezes her thighs
together her knees touching her

hands gripping the violin trying
silently to keep the urine in.

poem by Terry Collett
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It was amazing to watch him in the darkroom at an advanced age, still get excited when the results were pleasing. He still struggled like we all do in the darkroom and he struggled behind the camera, and when he had a success he was beaming.

quote by John Sexton
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Unhinge

Unhinge the photographs
we licked as
children
tongues in Sarishvili
unhinge
the dead foxes in photographs
kids
that talk Swahili and eat jam.
Jam and Persian ponies-
If I tell you there's no traffic
jam at 4 am in Skopje or no jam in jars, hot suns and super-novas
Will you eat
Me up?
Like air-
Unhinge paper clips or just an eye-lash
and indigo photographs of Romania
In 1963
If I tell you there's no earth-
quakes,
Unhinge Vlach alphabet, breaths caught on cameras
I the darkroom-
when we licked
our photographs of
world chimeras and natural-
yes, natural disas-
ters.
Unhinge.
Lips and nasty
weathers, rain outlets and
rusty sonatas-
Unlock your hair
to
me.
Unlock your hair
to
me.
In one of the mosques in Sarajevo
the cats talk Sanskrit-
Unhinge,
not us in the darkroom licking indigo languages
and scrambled worlds,
but
the sparrows
from
the
sycamore
branches.
Even
they are
sick,

[...] Read more

poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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The Amateur Photographer

Beware of those who slyly pilch
In many cunning ways;
Beware of little lyres that filch
From undisputed bays!
Beware the tumbler's beaded brim,
The ass in fiercer fur;
But most of all beware of him
Who makes my pen to stir--
THe Insecure
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!

Beware lest, thieving for your thirst,
An earwig's in the plum!
Beware of folly, gay at first,
That later makes you glum!
Beware of pits when stars are dim,
The tooth of vagrant cur;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The masterful
Disasterful
Implacable Photographer!

Beware of angling in a stream
Whose trout are not for you;
Beware of trusting in a dream
That's gone before the dew!
Beware of truckling to a whim;
Of folks that always purr;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The premature
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!

poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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Then I thought I was going to be a photographer. I tried a hand at darkroom technician. I played in a band. It took me quite some time to discover that I wanted to write.

quote by Guy Johnson
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You do your work as a photographer and everything becomes past. Words are more like thoughts; the photographer's picture is always surrounded by a kind of romantic glamor - no matter what you do, and how you twist it.

quote by Robert Frank
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What is right? Simply put, it is any assignment in which the photographer has a significant spiritual stake... spiritually driven work constitutes the core of a photographer's contribution to culture.

quote by William Albert Allard
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Photographer From Chicago

In the department store

on Nicollet Mall,

a photographer

photographed me

from Chicago.

He came back before

snowy and blurry,

MN Twins were winning

The World Series.

photographs were taken

when I was young,

it was great I

had a lot of fun.

now the roll of film

almost became lost,

another photographer

found it before it was tossed.

if anything I still have

photos to show

I was young and a glow.

Written on April 5,2011 by Christina Sunrise

poem by Christina Sunrise
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And What Is A Photo

And what is photo
The photographer can tell you.
And what he told
Is to conform the pose.
And the pose if neglected
Spoiled you and the picture.
And your life is in danger
O Photographer please guide
You are my master.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Poor Decorative Platoons

We were there even before
The first guest arrived
We were not, of course, the host
We were colourful
Attractive to most of the guests
Children looked at us with awe
Even some senior guests
Talked to the host in praise of us
The hall got filled with guest
Young, old, men, women and children
A videographer capturing all happenings
A photographer creating a capsule of stills
A lot noise around
We were witnessing gossips,
Romantic glances,
Secret affectionate exchanges,
Fiery arguments,
Friendly approach for new business deals,
Discussion on weather, politics and so on
But we were never a part of these
But silently watching all these
With a bang came the occasion for celebration
All gathered around
Wished the couple on their
Fiftieth wedding anniversary
Some youngsters fell at the feet of the couple
Seeking their blessings
Some shook hands with the couple
Some greeted them with gifts
And some with bouquets
Some read out a citation
Some sang while some others danced
We were just watching
Time came for dinning
Some held glasses with drinks of their choices
Some turning more confident after intoxication
Some men venturing making fun of ladies of their liking
Some happy with a cup of soup
All were busy with their plates
Some mothers feeding their reluctant kids
Some continuing the discussions while eating
Some being gentle consumers
Some devouring with less pleasant gestures
Videographer and photographer covering all these
Aroma of the food items filled the hall
Function nearing an end
Guests leaving one after another
Hosts thanking each personally for their presence
All left the hall
Switching off lights, fans and air conditioners

[...] Read more

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Photography Is Kin’s Thing

At the Lake Street Painting festival I did meet,
a photographer named Kin who is really sweet.
He shot photos of my princess on sidewalk not street.
being a rogue artist the sidewalk was the place,
that I decided to use my chalk to paint.
Paint a small square by the Hummingbird hotel,
Kin shot great photos of Sarah Star not Mel.
Since then Kin shot photos of my painting 3x5,
also castle scene painting this year with keen eye.
We went to wildlife Wakodahatchee Wetlands by Jog,
we photographed birds, alligators and frogs.
Kin visited me at the Royal Art & Music Fest,
photos he took turned out best above all the rest.
Kin says he’s my fan, and never charges a fee,
he supports all artists like cartoonist like me.
Thank you Kin
for being a great photographer and friend.

poem by Christina Sunrise
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Loving life to the death: Robert Capa

Behind the lens, the eye of the photographer;
behind the eye, the observer;
behind the observer, the immortal soul:

Robert Capa shot
(as they say) five major wars
as mankind’s record
of man’s inhumanity to man.
Finally, was shot himself.

When asked for advice
by a young photographer, he said,
“Like people; and let them know it..”

And so he printed out his soul.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Donald Trump's Safe Kept Secret By Suzae Chevalier

Light bulbs flash and celebrity smiles,

all for a photo in "Fashion & Style".

Now at Palm Beach Today,

photographer Sue Chevalier,

snaps photos of Donald & Melania

on the morning of Easter Sunday.

Just around the same time that year,

Melania conceived a gift that was very dear.

Now Sue heard the news and never did brag,

she was not a squealer who makes money on rag mags.

Unlike a photographer who heard 'your fired' with no tears,

selling photos of Donald's wedding so 'cavalier'.

But of course at that time Sue was not near,

she was in Bora Bora having fun times with good cheer.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on Jan.31,2011
www.suzae.com www.suechevalier.com
www.suzaria.com www.majestymermaid.com

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Five Years

Pushing thru the market square, so many mothers sighing
News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in
News guy wept and told us, earth was really dying
Cried so much his face was wet, then I knew he was not lying
I heard telephones, opera house, favourite melodies
I saw boys, toys electric irons and t.v.s
My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare
I had to cram so many things to store everything in there
And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people
And all the nobody people, and all the somebody people
I never thought Id need so many people
A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadnt a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that
I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlour, drinking milk shakes cold and long
Smiling and waving and looking so fine, dont think
You knew you were in this song
And it was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor
And I thought of ma and I wanted to get back there
Your face, your race, the way that you talk
I kiss you, youre beautiful, I want you to walk
Weve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Weve got five years, what a surprise
Five years, stuck on my eyes
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Weve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Weve got five years, what a surprise
Weve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Five years
Five years
Five years
Five years

song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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The four Monarchyes, the Assyrian being the first, beginning under Nimrod, 131. Years after the Floo

When time was young, & World in Infancy,
Man did not proudly strive for Soveraignty:
But each one thought his petty Rule was high,
If of his house he held the Monarchy.
This was the golden Age, but after came
The boisterous son of Chus, Grand-Child to Ham,
That mighty Hunter, who in his strong toyles
Both Beasts and Men subjected to his spoyles:
The strong foundation of proud Babel laid,
Erech, Accad, and Culneh also made.
These were his first, all stood in Shinar land,
From thence he went Assyria to command,
And mighty Niniveh, he there begun,
Not finished till he his race had run.
Resen, Caleh, and Rehoboth likewise
By him to Cities eminent did rise.
Of Saturn, he was the Original,
Whom the succeeding times a God did call,
When thus with rule, he had been dignifi'd,
One hundred fourteen years he after dy'd.
Belus.
Great Nimrod dead, Belus the next his Son
Confirms the rule, his Father had begun;
Whose acts and power is not for certainty
Left to the world, by any History.
But yet this blot for ever on him lies,
He taught the people first to Idolize:
Titles Divine he to himself did take,
Alive and dead, a God they did him make.
This is that Bel the Chaldees worshiped,
Whose Priests in Stories oft are mentioned;
This is that Baal to whom the Israelites
So oft profanely offered sacred Rites:
This is Beelzebub God of Ekronites,
Likewise Baalpeor of the Mohabites,
His reign was short, for as I calculate,
At twenty five ended his Regal date.
Ninus.
His Father dead, Ninus begins his reign,
Transfers his seat to the Assyrian plain;
And mighty Nineveh more mighty made,
Whose Foundation was by his Grand-sire laid:
Four hundred forty Furlongs wall'd about,
On which stood fifteen hundred Towers stout.
The walls one hundred sixty foot upright,
So broad three Chariots run abrest there might.
Upon the pleasant banks of Tygris floud
This stately Seat of warlike Ninus stood:
This Ninus for a God his Father canonized,
To whom the sottish people sacrificed.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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King Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba

(A Poem Game.)

“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, . . .
she came to prove him with hard questions.”

[The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling
and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.]

Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
[He bows three times.]
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon.

[She bows three times.]
Women’s Leader: I was the Queen,
I was the Queen,
I was the Queen.

Both Leaders: We will be king and queen,
[They stand together stretching their hands over the land.]
Reigning on mountains green,
Happy and free
For ten thousand years.

[They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.

Congregation: We were the oxen.

[Here King and Queen pause at the footlights.]
Both Leaders: You shall feel goads no more.
[They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.]
Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.

[The men’s leader goes forward, the women’s leader dances round him.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.

[Here he pauses at the footlights.]
Congregation: We were the sweethearts.

[He walks backward. Both clap their hands to the measure.]
Both Leaders: You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
[The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.]

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Booker Washington Trilogy

I. A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE

(To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.
He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,
And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.

Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.

His fist was an enormous size
To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.

He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.
Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.

He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.
There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab, he found a door —
And went down to the Devil.

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Recollections

I.

Years upon years, as a course of clouds that thicken
Thronging the ways of the wind that shifts and veers,
Pass, and the flames of remembered fires requicken
Years upon years.

Surely the thought in a man's heart hopes or fears
Now that forgetfulness needs must here have stricken
Anguish, and sweetened the sealed-up springs of tears.

Ah, but the strength of regrets that strain and sicken,
Yearning for love that the veil of death endears,
Slackens not wing for the wings of years that quicken -
Years upon years.

II.

Years upon years, and the flame of love's high altar
Trembles and sinks, and the sense of listening ears
Heeds not the sound that it heard of love's blithe psalter
Years upon years.

Only the sense of a heart that hearkens hears,
Louder than dreams that assail and doubts that palter,
Sorrow that slept and that wakes ere sundawn peers.

Wakes, that the heart may behold, and yet not falter,
Faces of children as stars unknown of, spheres
Seen but of love, that endures though all things alter,
Years upon years.

III.

Years upon years, as a watch by night that passes,
Pass, and the light of their eyes is fire that sears
Slowly the hopes of the fruit that life amasses
Years upon years.

Pale as the glimmer of stars on moorland meres
Lighten the shadows reverberate from the glasses
Held in their hands as they pass among their peers.

Lights that are shadows, as ghosts on graveyard grasses,
Moving on paths that the moon of memory cheers,
Shew but as mists over cloudy mountain passes
Years upon years.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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I've found even after nearly 30 years of doing this, there are all kinds of new surprises that rear their heads at various times and I truly believe that 51% of the images, success takes place in the darkroom.

quote by John Sexton
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