Portrait
He is called director
Makes movies
Documents!
To me he, an artist
A poet, a painter.
First sees with his eyes
Pictures it in his mind
Transforms to pixels
Capturing in frame
Of the ‘Ten eighty' by
The ‘Nineteen twenty…'
His pillow paint plate
His frames are Michael's
And has rhyme with meter
Minimal tools in use; iris, lens.
To him a camera is woman
Has inlet, must become pregnant
Light to the black-box is sperm
Pollinates by using own ovule
Seeds will rest on pixels
And fruits are pictures.
Unlike me
His footage is around ten seconds!
Waves' circles
Visible on surface
Of the pond, on water…
I write of:
-the willow
-and the fish
-a child and his pebble
He leaves them for you, I
-make your own stories…
I am a student
As always and must learn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem