I did a version in a larger font, so
if you're having trouble reading this,
check it out. It appears next on the list of poems. There is also a brief introduction that I would love for you to read. T h a n k s! {N: only made the print this small because that AD book ad robs so much space that it
messes with formatting. ~~ scowl ~~}

               To Teach People to see Without a Camera
               Photographer Dorothea Lange {1895-1965}
                               
click-cli–. . .wait.   Do I hate flash more than I love to be surprised?
Pulling my leg (okay to say leg, relax).   Like I can give up seeing
things I miss develop.  Eyes abruptly gloss.  Shrug or twitch
gives the lie or a flat-lined grin stands, brushes itself off,
and shouts, I'm aliiiiiiiiive.  Here, cheek bones leap and arc
like shark-spooked fish.  See too much hunger, God.   Yet
frolics frolic.   A child who lost her only doll – made of rags,
of course – along with the home she knew,  to raging whirling
dust wags her tongue.  Jigging sis winks mid-twirl, blushing
to her rag-curled locks.  15-year-old partner flushes and ducks,
dirty yellow cowlick tattling, I am yours, I am yours!   Look.  
at the woman raise her fiddle over her head.  Doesn't miss
a beat.   Toothpick arms sad.  On, and here a man tips a moth-
hatchery hat, revealing a bowling-ball pate.   But the hands
that reach to help and the Huck Finn grins that poke fun
at odds,  I  live to see.    Now back to the issue of flash. 
 I understand poets have to swallow its use.  Say a  beginning
begs for more light.  Always stash the gun when sun streams.
Natural!  Natural!   Flat gotta have it.
 
flash click   1519:  Leonardo da Vinci draws a camera..  See?
he crows.  Just takes a light-proof chamber and punch a tiny hole
to let in light, get a reverse copy of what's opposite.  Radical!
 
flash click   l8th century dude goes by de la Roche  spins
a tale in which mystery-goo'd canvas captures image,
albeit in reverse.  Dry in the dark to keep.  Voila!
 
Clunky Graphlex borrowed.   Got to hop between assignments.
"Hop?"    Here to tell you,  the after-effects of polio are nothing
against having seen storms destroy the house and farm
that muscles you never knew you had and a wife worth her weight
in gold dug, hoed, and cursed into yielding.  How many prayers
can a person pray?  Hell seeing silk-suits strut away to count
your lost living.  Or say you heaved, toted, and dragged
whatever needed heaving and toting and dragging to keep
your family alive.  Off the blasted dole.  Then sharks zero
in on blood on the dock.  Snap!   Fat's sucked, union's a farce.
Some of you got robbed by other means.  Bureaucrats divided up
your house and ran over your garden, all the while besmirching
your name.  Prodded you and your family like cattle behind
barbed wire states away.   All because you have Japanese blood.
Having seen her work, the feds enticed Dorothea to document.
Knew without knowing she would make others see.  The polio
that had felled her as a child and seeing her father walk off
had left her sensitive.   Lonely and pegged Different, Lange
had sped and steeled her stride on the streets of Manhattan
from the age of  twelve.  Among her lucky breaks, the marvels
spread before her.  Weaving and re-weaving threads
of an unbelievable tapestry,  raveled and dirty but rich
in color, and with an exotic background.   So many  
countries represented.  So many stories in the passing
faces.   Heady mix.  But so many people were in rags.  
So thin, they made Dorothea wince.  Yes, and dream
of one day finding a way to make others see.
 
"How did I get started?   Scut-work, my dear.  I toted, I hopped
to the deli, I made the cold calls.  Eyes open, ears tuned.   Great
teachers helped. In time, I had the good luck to find a mate sees
as I.  Cross America together, beseeching survivors to tell their side.
Seeing and hearing and feeling help us swim beyond physical
mental, and emotional limps.   Straighten up, cough up
the bottom sand, sieve out most of the weeds, and create gifts.
Me, I start with light and shadow.   See?"
 
Hot  in California, ain' it?   Look over there.   Our gal's on top
that boxy car.  Camera to eye,   Worn shorts, lots of pockets,
thrown-on shirt. . .boots made for walkin', yeah.      click cli--

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c) Phyllis Jean Green,  May, 2006  __ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED