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To
My Camera
My
beautiful, my beautiful, that standeth proudly by, Your
chromium plated elegance enhances every eye.
I
feel you pressed against my breast, or better still I trow
I
know how much your magic touch can cool my fevered brow.
For
years my hand has fed you with the films that you require,
And
reverently pressed the knob to make your shutter fire
Then
to replace you in your case I lovingly prepare
Where
you remain exempt from strain till next you take the air.
Yet
despite my constant heed, how strangely it befalls
My
pictures seldom seem to reach the Exhibition walls.
They
can’t compare (it seems unfair) with Blank’s, through his old thing
Is
kept in shape by sellotape and fortified with string.
My
beautiful, my beautiful, I wonder can it be
That
cameras don’t count as much as eyes that really see,
And
when we try, both Blank and I, true pictures to create
Has
he the flair the skill, the care, I but the chromium plate?
1956
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