IN THE DARK ROOM Poem by Danie Marais

I've taken photos of all the distant places
I've been without you;
photos to prove how complete
my life is without you.
I've tried to adopt smiling expressions
for the camera
like a man of the world -
certainly didn't want to seem
like a guy who couldn't survive
a couple of kisses and a wasted opportunity.
But my photos from Norway, Greece and Thailand
didn't develop into the pictures
I'd planned.
In the dark room
your face appeared
over and over again.
The dripping skins that I hung out in a row
were the over-exposed images
of my life without you;
the photos I showed to people
bleached postcards
from my new life to you.
And yet I still hoped
the photos might persuade you.

They didn't.

It's a pity, you said, that I
lead such a vicarious life in Europe.
The dictionary explains ‘vicarious'
as: ‘temporary', ‘indirect', ‘second-hand'.

I disagreed with you impatiently,
said that only Tuaregs and Amazonian Indians
didn't live a so-called "vicarious life".
And when they sat around the camp fire and told stories
their lives were also indirect,
second-hand and temporary,
I added.

But in the dark room
by the sleeping body of the woman
who I share my life with now
I know, as always,
exactly what you mean.
In the darkness
your words hold me
with soft eyes
again.