exclusive_reclusive
An eternal fountain
whence love sprang
on a Saturday in summer,
when I came upon Pam,
enjoying Regent’s Park Zoo.
Initially,
I’d noticed her
struggling,
To snap herself
with a film camera.
A photo capture
that she would sooner
rather than later,
send on to her mother
and father.
Sam told me the story
Only when old and frail.
I was still young back then –
Here, I recall his tale.
He’d watched as she strode away,
emotion bleeding through.
Stayed and watched her longer,
until she faded out of view.
“So – you’re a faggot now?” she’d asked,
sitting out front the old town café,
caught in the sun’s bright glare –
sipping on vanilla matcha latte.
I’m not how I used to appear,
how I saw myself.
I once had the kind of body
deserving of canonisation.
Saint Sebastian –
that’s how I saw myself.
Complete with ironhead arrows
piercing my torso, neck, shoulder,
calf, and thigh.
If I am truly binary
Am I a one or a zero?
Which.
Which?
Which are you?
Looking at it this way,
a one seems a better fit:
Upright, clear and defined.
And yet, I prefer the shape –
the curves of a zero.
Perhaps this, because I am a one?
One does seem more masculine,
whereas – to me – zero appears feminine.
Therefore, I guess all of the above
makes some kind of perfect sense.
Although…
I can see some issues –
going around –
saying, “I am a one,
you are a zero.”
This could surely lead to conflict,
or feelings left hurt.
Some questions are better left.
Do I really believe that?
Better left inside my head,
at least.
Which?
Although more recently popularised, the process of colorization – or “colourisation” – to give the method its full and proper titular designation, has, in actuality, been with us for a period of time now spanning far longer than many an uninitiated observer might at first presume to estimate. For those who, through no fault of their own, remain outside the rarefied circles of expertise on this subject, we shall provide a definition, exhaustive and rigorous, of the phenomenon in question.
Colourisation refers most precisely to the painstaking process by which a black and white photograph, previously devoid of chromatic information, is imbued, by hand, with a palette of hues that approximate – or, at the very least, speculate upon – the real-world colouration of the moment once captured. In so doing, the image is granted, if not absolute historical fidelity, then at the very least a newfound relatability for the contemporary onlooker, whose habitual dependence on the full spectrum of visible light renders monochromatic representation somewhat alien and impoverished.
Continue reading “An Artefact of Uncertain Truths”At the edge of an ancient wood,
where Excalibur’s lake still gleams,
an innocuous tinkle – delicate, steady –
is swallowed whole by the chik-chak snap,
the camera’s shutter-blink.
A capture, on film. An indictment.
Evidence for later. In good time.
What the hell?
the man mumbles,
stumbling, adjusting,
twisting his short neck,
head craned over his shoulder –
ill-prepared to manage
two tasks at once.
Today, I met my doppelgänger.
And I said – quickly, before he could speak –
“This kind of situation, you know it never works out well.”
Although, the setting
I found really quite agreeable.
We’d come upon ourselves
Out in the countryside,
Near a river,
Next to a wood,
Where a light mist had settled
Amongst the upper bare branches of the trees.
When I was younger,
When my hair colour matched my eye colour,
There was a third room in the local library.
Walls lined with shelves full of books,
Whose spines I never once touched.
As well as books on shelves,
And a large wooden table positioned in the centre,
Fixed above the marble mantelpiece
Hung a portrait of a Victorian gentleman:
Seemingly austere, dark, and gloomy.
Often, just him and me,
Along with the grandfather clock’s tick-tock,
And the ever-present smell of old books
Mingling with wax polish and wood.
Charlie: “Grandma, you remember that old photo I borrowed of you? Well, I’ve got a surprise—here, look! I’ve colorized it for you. What do you think?”
Grandma: “Oh, what’s this, then? Let me get my glasses.”
Charlie: “Look, Grandma—that’s you in colour! I did it all by hand. None of that fancy AI stuff that does it all in a flash.”
Grandma: “Oh! You’ve given me orange hair.”
Charlie: “It’s called colorization, Grandma. You take an old black-and-white photo and give it colour.”
Grandma: “But I had blonde hair. And the dress—my dress wasn’t mint green. It was white, with little flowers… where did those go?”
Charlie: “Think of it as a re-imagining.”
Continue reading “Grandma Got Colorized”I fell through a chair
An old, wooden chair
Left out in the garden
In all weathers.
Lately, I rarely sat in it,
Just placed a glass of water
Or a book I’d been reading
While out in the sun.
But on this day
On the patio,
I stood on the chair—
Knowing
It was far from stable.
Brinkinfield 