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Jorge R. Vicente

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Member Since: Nov, 2006

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Photograph (translated, as always by Alexandra and Joseph)
by Jorge R. Vicente
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by Jorge R. Vicente
•  Lucifer's Lament
•  Archeology Of Words
•  in the glass I pour the echo and observe
•  A Ray of Path
•  Nostalgia for Colours (translated by Alexandra and Joseph)
           >> View all 9

(photo by Irving Penn, "Cuzco Children, Peru", 1948)




I have this distinct feeling that the photograph I carry in my eyes
is nothing more than a ruin under the stone, like
a vase, whitewashed, recently, by silent hands,


the memory discovered and simply departed, without an image


I wish all memories were made of stone
that they would stretch and blend with the dying salt
and that, from there, they would depart to other shores,
to the clouds which create movement


photography and the dying salt are the sole reality of cosmos



© 2006 Jorge R. Vicente – All rights reserved


This poem was inspired in an article I’m reading, about geography, photography and cinema. It is very interesting, but its author quotes several other authors who believe that photographs are, in many ways, like ruins, bringing us memories of people and places that are no more.

And then, I thought: what will the photos of those we love convey, in a 100, 150 years, to those who will be here by then? - Probably nothing but the memory of a time which was their own. This thought did cause some nostalgia, but it is also the kind of nostalgia that brings about reflections.

Incidentally, I wonder if any of you have seen a show, on the Odyssey TV channel, about a ship that sank 130 years ago. Its discoverers found the photo of a person, kept in a trunk, at the bottom of the sea. The photo was intact. And it made me wonder: who could that person in the photo have been? What was her history? All these reflections were the inspiration for this poem I now share with you.





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Reviewed by Alexandra* OneLight*® Authors & Creations 12/2/2006
I share your nostalgia, dear friend... and I have a deep respect for old portraits. When I look at those photos, yellowed by time, like autumn leaves, when I look at those portrayed there, I can't help thinking that they were important to someone, that they had a full life, that they had dreams... so, I always smile at them, as if they can actually see my smile... and I like to imagine that they can. For a moment, I'm with them, in their moment captured. And life becomes a little fragment, square shaped, of the infinite.
Bravo, Jorge, on this magnificent photographic poetry!
Abraços, da tua amiga
Reviewed by Abigail Kloss-Aycardi 11/29/2006
You know, I think about this a lot. If someone were to find my photos centuries from now, they would never truly appreciate their significance because they don't know me or my connection to the people and/or things in the picture. You've captured this beautifully within these lines. It definitely makes me sit back and think. Thank you.
Reviewed by Joseph* OneLight*® 11/29/2006
Dear Jorge,

The opening stanza is a poem in and of itself. Capturing moments in time that will never be repeated again ... that's what good photography is all about. It's also what good poetry is all about (like the freflective one you've penned here).

Love & Light always and in all ways,
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