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5.0 out of 5 stars
The Past of Future, June 18, 2006
This review is from: All the Mighty World: The Photographs of Roger Fenton, 1852-1860 (Metropolitan Museum of Art Series) (Hardcover)
An Ode to Roger Fenton's Valley of the Shadow of Death by Ayul M Zamir
The photograph: pale, grainy, and fading
And on the ground, you see them, where they solemnly lie,
like boulders of an ancient river bed
that has since long dried.
Strewn across the valley floor:
innumerable spheres--dark and silent--
spent up cannon balls.
On this desolate land, once, there was a great war, and
many battles, brave men had marched here to fight.
And now across that prized land,
that men had, then, fought so hard to conquer,
now, only rocks and abandoned metal lie.
And not a single soul is in sight
All of the same shape and size, these
round, metallic, man-made spheres.
Can almost feel the texture of those in a sharp focus,
so many lie scattered far and near.
Wonder: what color impressive uniforms,
did the soldiers on march to that war, then, wear.
Looking at this eternal photograph,
you can almost hear that distant rumble.
And feel the ground beneath your feet shake
under the recoil of giant cannons when they thunder.
When volley after volley of heavy metal
was sent soaring high into the air,
both sides knew another battle had begun--
in one more war that was just, honorable, and fair.
And all that metal,
once laboriously molten and carefully cast,
hurled into the air
with each soul shaking blast.
Dispatched, flying across
to land on the enemy--
to hit and hurt him
before he is near enough to be even seen.
That shocking power unleashed on the enemy
That flying metal, now, on its downward journey
Lethal arches drawn by metal balls--
as they, now, race down to find bodies
in that final,
awesome, terrorizing, whistling freefall.
You could trace back their long paths
to earlier fought wars,
and well thought out, rehearsed plans.
Emotions ran high:
military honor, national pride, old resentments,
and long held anger
--thoughtfully, however, on the map, and
carefully--precise lines were drawn.
"We feel just and right about it.
"Conquest is ours in the end.
"That is our Nation's destiny.
"Ours is that God granted fate."
And with that righteous inner strength,
new perfect plans were made.
And a minute ago, in final brave acts,
in the midst of rousing cheers,
they fired the guns
--could feel the ground shake
--they swaggered lightly:
the shocked and awed enemy
was about to meet his fate.
Hot metal balls are landing:
see that mud erupting, and sand flying;
and desperately in all directions--
our wretched enemy is running blind.
"Get ready to charge the stunned-softened enemy, now, boys;
use whatever: knives, bayonets, swords, sticks, hands, or dogs;
glorious victory is ours--
and on our side is the God."
"Of course, few of our brave men too
--honorable mothers--
are left with severed limbs and torn flesh.
And, yes, irreparable damage to hands and feet.
But hear the Heaven greeting those
who fell in the last final battle;
for them, now, let us cheer and ring in the victory."
"And thanks of a grateful country
to those who, now, in the mother Earth's womb
lie for eternity.
At peace--and like in their mothers' laps
lie breast fed, pink, sleeping babies.
Roger Fenton's hundred and fifty years old photograph:
from 1855, of the Crimean war.
An eternal testimony,
a little pale and grainy,
silent, lifeless, spent up cannon balls
strewn across the land
as far as the eyes can see
in the "Valley of the Shadow of Death"
in the past of the future.
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