(based quite closely on The Naming of Cats by TS Eliot, my favourite poet, and one of the greatest writers of English poetry)

The showing of slides is a family matter,
It just isn't something to do to a chum.
Let the family watch while grandmothers natter,
But don't show outsiders those views of your mum.

First of all, at a pinch, try them out on the daily,
But watch for the yawns - you don't want her to leave.
Are you sure your wife liked them? Did she smile, or sigh greyly?
It can cause more divorces than you would believe.

Matching programme to audience you must be particular;
Consider the person, consider the slide.
If your buildings all lean from a neat perpendicular
Can you really expect to keep friends on your side?

The pick of the bunch you may show to another;
If you have any doubts, leave the slides on the shelf,
And reserve them for one who's more close than a brother,
And will truly enjoy them - just view them yourself.

I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."

And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."

Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"

I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"

I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.

My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."

I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."

And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.

He takes photos.
His books are filled
With spilled coffee.
Wavy sun ray hair
Lime green citrus eyes
Sturdy safe shoulders
Rich, melted dark chocolate voice
Pouty peony puckers
Stolen lenses
Quirky movies
Oversized sweaters to cover his quivering hands when he cautiously holds hers.
He reminds me of a child's desk
That was personalized by doodles dinged and carved into it over the years
The desk that his parents probably adore.
He is a collage of all the things he photographs.
He takes pictures of anything and everything
To make himself whole.

"photographs
of high fever.
unlocked films
of diamond-set
insignificance
this negative
of existence,
spitting static
in sweat soaked
dark rooms."
|| shoo.shu ||

I heard photographs show who you really are inside
And maybe that is why
You say you're ugly every time

I spotted the box
out of the corner of my eye
There in the closet
stuffed into a corner
covered in cloth

At first it mattered not
I had other priorities
I had to meet

But then a memory
knocked upon the wall
of my curosity

So I took the box out
and sat upon the bed
And I started to take
the photographs out

So many faces , so many places
lost in time's goodbye
So much found
and so much lost
so , so very much

After all the you and me's
After all the summers
and winters too
Life has boiled down
to a box of photographs
made for a shoe