Week 6 – poems for voting

Monday, 25 November 2013

The challenge for week 6 was to write a poem in response to this intriguing black and white image by Steve Aukett. Thanks Steve!

Please vote for your favourite by e-mail. You can join in too if your poem is included here but please don’t vote for your own as it won’t be counted. Votes to be in by Tuesday 3rd December please (10pm) Results will be announced on Wednesday 4th.

This is the final batch for voting from this forest phase of the challenge. We’ll resume with a brand new photograph on Saturday December 28th.


Poem 1

A grey coat

In a grey coat, leaning on a bench, collecting dispersed thoughts,

Nietzsche was terrifying once, with remote grandeur.

Power overcomes weakness.


Now it is just a Dionysian fairy tale on the glowing screen.

A silhouette darkened by fog will leave a mark in the flame of memory.

Power overcome by weakness.


Anna Maria Mickiewicz


Poem 2

Snapshot of a droplet

Snapshot of a droplet
Close up of a flea
Don’t know what you’ve got yet
It could ‘ave been you but it was always me

Kneel down and shoot
Money shot and keep the loot
Filthy and tired
Passion gone feel wired

Flash spent
Face down on the damp floor
Don’t know were the time went
Three bloody hours more

Could a’ sent David or Julie
But it ended up bein’ yours truly
Face down on the wet floor
Wonderin’ what I came for

William Jones


Poem 3

The sixth sense


Objects surround us, but for memories

the eye defines objects.

Complexed by triggered senses like touch

and even the movement of air for the ear.

Yet amongst us exist the unsensed,

the unseen and unheard,

untouchable nano-particulates.

Almost invisible

to all but semiconductors and silicon,

recording the world in digital detail.

Celebrate the electronic eye,

our sixth sense.


Michael Summers


Poem 4

Taking a Photo of Hell with a Digital Camera


With all this computer technology

Kneeling closely at this frozen puddle,

Between the cracks, the jagged ice,

Ice-covered leaves and crystallised soil.

The sophistication of my camera

Will take a picture of the underworld

The busiest of my camera, zooming,

Adjusting of the light, clicking, snapping away.

Hundreds on my USB stick, all downloaded

On the iPad, mobile phone, laptop and TV.

The Goole searching for the add-ins;

A pitch-fork glows against the fire,

Lost souls travelling in despair,

The Devil seeps in fury against the backdrop

Of ice and leaf.


Johanna Boal


Poem 5

As Time Goes By

He’ll be waiting for me

Beside the Roman coin collection.

Is he feeling as nervous as I am,

clenching and unclenching

my hand on my shoulder bag?

So many years have passed.

Have the people we once were

been changed beyond recognition

by marriage, divorce, health?

Am I being daft?

There’s still time

to turn back, act my age.

Then I see him,

scanning the crowds for me.

And I know we’ll be

in bed all weekend.

Di Coffey


Poem 6

Scale or Focus

The universe becomes a planet
The planet becomes a nation
The nation becomes a city
And the city a street and then a building on the street.

The warehouse at the end of the road contains the photographer
Lying on his side focusing on the still drop of water on the cold damp floor
He is watching the swirl of the oil film,silver,blue and green.
Trying to capture the fragility and stillness of the moment.
From this angle he can see the curve of the water and the slender layer
sliding on it’s surface.

Then the snapshot becomes a slideshow
The slideshow becomes a movie
The movie becomes a life
And the life becomes eternal.


Andy Scotson


Poem 7

Looking glass

Bubbled air

let loose on a window pain

a mirrored splash of a split second


an ornate semblance

depicting a shadow of an unknown artist

a sculpture of a white marble hand


doubled sideways

a hidden strap in fingers waiting to play

a sonata near a moon in a black sky


a thumb upturned

insinuating a perfect surface and the intricate

light a gift.


Audrey Arden Jones


Poem 8

Smoke and Mirrors


Fingers shell around a camera,

lips set, intense, the man who hopes to catch

the image that his eyes have seen.

A mirror image in a solid plane

reflecting back, cold, hard-edged

like frozen water leaned upon.

What second does he hope to trap

at speed of shutter light? What replica?

Does he even know that he is subject,

a pawn in chess; at any moment

game upstaked to Russian roulette,

one shot the echo chamber to his heart?


Angela Platt


Poem 9

Covert: One Last Photograph


Now the horizon

feels as if it’s slipping.

Now reflection

feels more real than me.


Yes, you say you’re leaving

and yes, I will forget your face,

I know I will forget your voice


so, I focus on horizon

shoot into reflection

listen to the soft, soft click

no one knows this.


Chaucer Cameron


Poem 10



Uncle wore a suit

on Sundays
more to please my aunt
who tired of scrubbing
his colliery clothes


He was a quiet man
and after mass
would walk across
the rich fields
that narrowed to the river


Swapping his piece box
for a camera
his miner’s hands
captured wild flowers
in shades of grey.


Eileen Carney Hulme