The great French photographer, Robert Doisneau, was born one hundred years ago on this day, 14th April 1912.
As I was pondering his genius, I recalled a poem I wrote about 20 years ago while I was living in a flat in Edinburgh’s westend.
It’s not actually about Doisneau, but it features one of his most beautiful and enduring shots, Kiss (pictured above), which adorned my wall.
The poem tries to capture the slow passage of time.
SUNDAY.
© David Milligan-Croft
Woodchip wallpaper
And a calor gas stove.
Beige and cream
And white and wood.
Doisneau couples
Kiss on the wall.
A spider labours
Around a craftsman’s cornice.
A Sistine ceiling
Bare-bulb bright.
Drapes held together
By nicotine and dead skin.
A Shackleton seat
As hard as the times.
The hum of the fridge
Against a linoleum floor.
Oranges rot on the sideboard
As the clock tick-tocks.
David Milligan-Croft
I think I pulled those curtains down.
Indeed you did, young man. And a tad vexed I was too, I seem to recall.