Author Archives: stevedsmart

About stevedsmart

Steve Smart is an information designer, poet and visual artist.

go-around

StAnza Poetry Map of ScotlandDelighted to have my poem go-around placed on StAnza’s Poetry Map of Scotland. They located the pin for this poem perfectly on the exact spot between the hills of Glas Maol and Creag Leacach where this encounter happened.

Read the poem and check the map here.

WordPress tells me this is my 200th post on subjects, objects, verbs – hooray!

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Sidelong

First photographic portrait image of a human produced in America.
“Robert Cornelius, head-and-shoulders self-portrait, facing front, with arms crossed”, approximate quarter plate daguerreotype, 1839 [Oct. or Nov.]. LC-USZC4-5001 DLC United States Library of Congress
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Sidelong

Robert Cornelius remains skeptical.
He does not trust that it will work,
or that a specific future develops
when this image will be visible.

He does not pause to comb his hair
or consider us, but guards himself
against the possible exposure,
against the theft, of unmarshalled spirit.

Slow counting silent hesitation,
he glances sidelong from 1839,
doubtful of our existence,
his focus on what he next intends.

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Retouched

Retouched

That’s so weird, you said.
But it was just people,
lots of people, before
Glastonbury main stage
on a Sunday retrospective show.

A rammed excess of happy
swaying drunk on music
or sun or sleepless, undisclosed
influences, of thighs shouldered,
arms like barley, of singing along.

It’s just a big crowd, I said.
I’d have avoided it anyway,
but I knew what you meant,
weird like green purple,
levitation, or holding hands.

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Lockdown meeting

For several years I’ve often worked from home, but of course this year most of my colleagues at work have had little choice but to begin to do the same. As a consequence of the coronavirus lockdown, like so many others, I suddenly found I was taking part in a lot more online meetings, both for work, and with friends.

It’s great that these technologies allow us see each other when we are talking. The experience is not as good as being with, but there does seem to be a stronger feeling of presence than is the case with just a phone call. Of course the shiny newness of this sensation soon wears off as the technology quickly grows more familiar. It already seems quite odd to imagine now, that meeting people using remote video was for a long time an idea largely in the realm of science fiction, or James Bond movies, something with a glamour that bordered almost on thrilling …

Lockdown meeting

Is anybody there?
Can you hear me?
UN-MUTE! They are shouting,
a small informal ensemble pew,
like a University Challenge choir,
feedback buzzers primed.

It’s right there, just CLICK IT!
My mouse-palmed ouija
sweeps and taps the table,
rendering both more and less remote
the possibility of presence.

And what does it mean
in Microsoft Teams,
if only one has camera off?
Is their webcam broken?
Did they forget to shave?
Are they still undressed?

Or is the house just too much mess
for morning discretion.
A late-night party gone just too far
to find absolution in the gaussian
caress of background blur.

Those present gaze down,
or top-left, or anywhere else,
speaking to an invisible presence,
a congregation unsure
of the exact location in the room,
of an obscure lurking god.

Absent Charlie on intercom,
commissioning the Angels,
while – who knows? –
observing in sight unseen,
that this episode seems
far less glamorous,
than once-upon-a-time.
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It’s almost

 

It can be an nervous time, when you have been waiting for a change for a long while, and you know it is coming soon, although you don’t know exactly when it will happen. When the change finally arrives, will it be what you expected? And, meeting it, will you be the person you may have wished to be?

 

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It’s almost

Leaves remain furled at harbour,
tide not turned yet for royals
set aloft on a new season’s airs.

So tell me, is it me, or would these fine trees
be bonnier still without
the addition of wee wooden doors?

Is it the same eco-fetish that
makes me pick at kerbside litter,
or am I just another wannabe-curmudgeon?

Certainly trees don’t much care
about dinky doors, or awkward hinges,
or rusty rat-bag minimalist aesthetics.

They neither bare their wrists,
nor wear their watches on them,
their second sweeps are much too slow.

Less than a woodland minute,
sixty seconds back to seven years, or so,
a growing season’s sea of stories,

a wonky-plank squeezed creasote fence,
to dreamscaped white horse
marrams of unmapped sunlit wonder.

So yes, you say – it’s me. But there’s just time,
to careen and clean before spring
sails. For now – now it’s almost

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