The vanity of visual art
Is the soul of modern poetry.
When I cast my eye at buildings
In the March light I note the vanity
Of every photo stored on my phone.
I must save photos of family—
But there’s one I’ve saved I think is art;
“Family,” “Art,” the only categories.
There’s not enough memory for all I see,
And this sad selection, on my phone,
Or, this poem, by me,
Sounds the whole vanity of photography:
Life’s visual background, also known as reality,
Is a thousand times more intricate
And beautiful than what I can possibly select,
And then publish, desiring vain respect.
The best girlfriend I ever had
Was sarcastic, and her eyes were bad.
What I attempt to foreground cannot match
The moving background seen in March light.
I cannot hope to seize on that delight
In my vain photos. Why am I vain,
When I own no beginning or end?
The pictures are real. But they pretend.
A thousand vain wrongs don’t mean I’m right.
My daughter, with small bright feet?
Delete, delete, delete.
I freeze the great movement and think
Vainly my picture has meaning
Beyond this one, myopic choice.
Who is that floating there? Is that her voice?
I’ll tell you what is meaningful to me:
The eyes I loved. And all I didn’t see.