poems are sometimes like photographs sketching a life in fragments occasional impressionistic pieces you hope might one day coalesce to form something coherent this was me you want to say and then to examine each piece in turn identifying a place a person your mother’s third wedding-day that uneventful holiday in Greece the love of your life before the second love of your life (and so on) but all too often you find the images blurred their language letting you down as if the autofocus was on the blink either that or you see the same thing depicted over and over again like tourist shots of trees by a lakeside a picture-postcard waterfall the big hills still in the distance
Beautiful. And yes, a photo zooms in on a particular moment. Poems do the same.
I know what you mean by inability to sharpen the edges and everything in monochrome. Well chosen words for a disheartening experience.