"halide" poems - Hello Poetry

My memory is just a darkroom, where every picture ever taken by eye sight: Waits. Develops. They accumulate in Black and white, Positive and negative. My mind the developer, my thoughts the water, removing the excess silver halide. What remains is a picture, a memory taken from this very life They hang from thin lines fastened by close pins so delicate and so fine To dry, To develop And remain to live in the safelight within my mind. But you see that light has left, Now every picture is Too over exposed, Too vague And too undefined. I’ve had too much drink, so much smoke. A stop bath of the wrong kind. Too much green and blue light. You see, my darkroom is too bright Now the pictures that hung from the close pin lines of life dilute, shrivel And fade. Now, What remains is a picture-less memory, and no clear recollection or reflection. No darkroom for every photograph ever taken by eyesight, No pictures of black and white. There is just one final question… Who am I?

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Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC

patty-baier

Korsakoff's syndrome

My memory is just a darkroom, where every picture ever taken by eye sight: Waits. Develops. They accumulate in Black and white, Positive and negative. My mind the developer, my thoughts the water, removing the excess silver halide. What remains is a picture, a memory taken from this very life They hang from thin lines fastened by close pins so delicate and so fine To dry, To develop And remain to live in the safelight within my mind. But you see that light has left, Now every picture is Too over exposed, Too vague And too undefined. I’ve had too much drink, so much smoke. A stop bath of the wrong kind. Too much green and blue light. You see, my darkroom is too bright Now the pictures that hung from the close pin lines of life dilute, shrivel And fade. Now, What remains is a picture-less memory, and no clear recollection or reflection. No darkroom for every photograph ever taken by eyesight, No pictures of black and white. There is just one final question… Who am I?

30

Three days ago it was Canada Day Wait for the winter under Maple Leaf shade. I'm alight with night time's anaesthetized truths soothe sweaty, shaking aches until this Independence Day frees up my lungs. Three days ago, turned 29 years old. Etched our initials in a park bench, rolled my smudging thoughts into photographed truth. Our silver, halide smiles on paper live in drawers, tie me to 25. Our hearts aglow, we rose through dreams and aching, chafing hopes. True. Free. Young. But the bombs burst that bubble and red eyes glared through anger and an aching, sorry chest.

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Aug 15, 2014

Aug 15, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC

kyle-kulseth

4 July, 2014

Three days ago it was Canada Day Wait for the winter under Maple Leaf shade. I'm alight with night time's anaesthetized truths soothe sweaty, shaking aches until this Independence Day frees up my lungs. Three days ago, turned 29 years old. Etched our initials in a park bench, rolled my smudging thoughts into photographed truth. Our silver, halide smiles on paper live in drawers, tie me to 25. Our hearts aglow, we rose through dreams and aching, chafing hopes. True. Free. Young. But the bombs burst that bubble and red eyes glared through anger and an aching, sorry chest.

26

This morning, I dream of a birch tree bench upon which she strews jars of sea glass, filled with blues and greens or something inbetween. Sunlight shifting like prismarine snakeskin, shed where sky meets eye, dyes the white wood underneath in bisecting lines that ripple and breathe. Thumbing at sea glass, I see her smile, circa redress, in a pile of polaroids passed over the wood by hands neither she nor I possess. And then I see me, my head leaned into hers, two gray trees grown too free. Hairs tangle and end centimeters from the edge of the bed. We look together. That’s when I cry. Beneath two trees planted too close, below silver halide wiping blue and green from her eyes, in black ink that's yet to dry, she leaves a note that I can’t read because this is a dream and we were the lie.

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May 30, 2018

May 30, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC

everiv

Two Truths

This morning, I dream of a birch tree bench upon which she strews jars of sea glass, filled with blues and greens or something inbetween. Sunlight shifting like prismarine snakeskin, shed where sky meets eye, dyes the white wood underneath in bisecting lines that ripple and breathe. Thumbing at sea glass, I see her smile, circa redress, in a pile of polaroids passed over the wood by hands neither she nor I possess. And then I see me, my head leaned into hers, two gray trees grown too free. Hairs tangle and end centimeters from the edge of the bed. We look together. That’s when I cry. Beneath two trees planted too close, below silver halide wiping blue and green from her eyes, in black ink that's yet to dry, she leaves a note that I can’t read because this is a dream and we were the lie.

22

I fear that inside I’m made of silver halide I can’t risk exposure, so my pupils go wide as they thirst for light in this room sealed tight while lusting and longing, for my dark to turn white and print on my brain black and white frames of a moment in time, that will always remain. But a moment of light means I must let some in… I'm sure my development can never begin.

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Feb 21, 2021

Feb 21, 2021 at 2:54 PM UTC

Mik

Silver Salts

I fear that inside I’m made of silver halide I can’t risk exposure, so my pupils go wide as they thirst for light in this room sealed tight while lusting and longing, for my dark to turn white and print on my brain black and white frames of a moment in time, that will always remain. But a moment of light means I must let some in… I'm sure my development can never begin.

16

Semi-automatic eyelids flicker, Backdrops glare through thick black lines. Fast forward tracks on silver halide, Detail removed, spoiled by light. A scene defected as clarity hides. Rib-cage rattle engine backfire; A marble rotates on the edge of a knife. Three-hundred bodies drift by aligned: All voices unify into a singular baritone Outfits blur like the traffic at night. Cloud cover grows, the audience subsides Calmness prevails, relaxing your mind Shoulders sink to back to a perch A low ISO repairs the flooding of light Each silhouette regains its detail As passers by regain their autonomy A low ISO repairs the flooding of light Each silhouette regaining its detail Sweat stops pouring from over your brow Conjoined voices become conversations Clouds cover cracks as the day drifts by A marble taps the brickwork below As vertical beams shoot from the sky Get back to your feet, pray to the night.

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Nov 4, 2017

Nov 4, 2017 at 7:30 AM UTC

zacolian

Where were you when you heard?

Semi-automatic eyelids flicker, Backdrops glare through thick black lines. Fast forward tracks on silver halide, Detail removed, spoiled by light. A scene defected as clarity hides. Rib-cage rattle engine backfire; A marble rotates on the edge of a knife. Three-hundred bodies drift by aligned: All voices unify into a singular baritone Outfits blur like the traffic at night. Cloud cover grows, the audience subsides Calmness prevails, relaxing your mind Shoulders sink to back to a perch A low ISO repairs the flooding of light Each silhouette regains its detail As passers by regain their autonomy A low ISO repairs the flooding of light Each silhouette regaining its detail Sweat stops pouring from over your brow Conjoined voices become conversations Clouds cover cracks as the day drifts by A marble taps the brickwork below As vertical beams shoot from the sky Get back to your feet, pray to the night.

24