The Personal Photographer
Posted: Thu Nov 18, 2010 9:37 am
The Personal Photographer
My personal photographer only pictures what I like
and there are no interlopers – I tell them ‘‘get onya bike
and bugga orf for ya aint wanted round here - read the sign.
No Trespassers. Are ya deaf too? The piccha show is mine.”
I’ve had to take this stance you see, for whirling round in my head
are the old pictured remembrances of good mates who are dead.
Too many ghastly horrid scenes of men, left where they fell
as the air around is shattered with pieces of flying shell
and dirt from the explosions, and there are no birds on the wing.
It’s as if one’s walked right into hell – that’s what I’m picturing.
For I’d long swallowed myths of glory of brave men under fire;
now I’ve seen the true reality- the blood, the stench, the mire –
and my thoughts like silly putty keep on altering in my head;
my long nights are full of wakefulness – I’m haunted by the dead.
So I hope you’ll try to understand if I seem somewhat strange.
There’s a reason – for the things I’ve seen will make a man deranged.
Strike a light mate, it is hard to see those good young blokes struck down
and be unable to help them – some were blokes from my own town.
Even though the words are never said I see it in the eyes
of their Mothers as they wonder – how come this young bloke survived
when my young son’s life was taken? Well I have to tell you here
that although it seems I’m living – I am dead inside I fear -
that’s why this photographer only pictures what he likes,
if you don’t like that –“ bugga orf, go on – get onya bike.”
Maureen Clifford © 11/10
My personal photographer only pictures what I like
and there are no interlopers – I tell them ‘‘get onya bike
and bugga orf for ya aint wanted round here - read the sign.
No Trespassers. Are ya deaf too? The piccha show is mine.”
I’ve had to take this stance you see, for whirling round in my head
are the old pictured remembrances of good mates who are dead.
Too many ghastly horrid scenes of men, left where they fell
as the air around is shattered with pieces of flying shell
and dirt from the explosions, and there are no birds on the wing.
It’s as if one’s walked right into hell – that’s what I’m picturing.
For I’d long swallowed myths of glory of brave men under fire;
now I’ve seen the true reality- the blood, the stench, the mire –
and my thoughts like silly putty keep on altering in my head;
my long nights are full of wakefulness – I’m haunted by the dead.
So I hope you’ll try to understand if I seem somewhat strange.
There’s a reason – for the things I’ve seen will make a man deranged.
Strike a light mate, it is hard to see those good young blokes struck down
and be unable to help them – some were blokes from my own town.
Even though the words are never said I see it in the eyes
of their Mothers as they wonder – how come this young bloke survived
when my young son’s life was taken? Well I have to tell you here
that although it seems I’m living – I am dead inside I fear -
that’s why this photographer only pictures what he likes,
if you don’t like that –“ bugga orf, go on – get onya bike.”
Maureen Clifford © 11/10