I Am A Cameraman
They suffer, and I catch only the surface.
The rest is inexpressible, beyond
What can be recorded. You can’t be them.
If they’d talk to you, you might guess
What pain is like though they might spit on you.
Film is just a reflection
Of the matchless despair of the century.
There have been twenty centuries since charity began.
Indignation is day-to-day stuff;
It keeps us off the streets, it keeps us watching.
Film has no words of its own.
It is a silent waste of things happening.
Without us, when it is too late to help.
What of the dignity of those caught suffering?
It hurts me. I robbed them of privacy.
My young friends think Film will be all of Art.
It will be revolutionary proof
Their films will not guess wrongly and will not lie.
They’ll film what is happening behind barbed wire.
They’ll always know the truth and be famous.
Politics softens everything.
Truth is known only to its victims.
All else is photographs– a documentary
The starving and the playboys perish in.
Life disguises itself with professionalism.
Life tells the biggest lies of all,
And draws wages from itself.
Truth is a landscape the saintly tribes live on,
And all the lenses of Japan and Germany
Wouldn’t know how to focus on it.
Life flickers on the frame like beautiful hummingbirds.
That is the film that always comes out blank.
The painting the artist can’t get shapes to fit.
The poem that shrugs off every word you try.
[Wrzuciłem najpierw ten wiersz w tłumaczeniu Piotra Sommera, zapomniawszy jednak, że pięć lat temu pojawił się on na hiperrealizmie w parze z tekstem W. H. Audena... No więc wpis skasowałem i wklejam teraz w wersji oryginalnej, bo wiersz/temat niezwykle ważny.]