Screen Idols
Screen idols, you do not know
how your fragmented images weave a myth
from the moments you impress upon the screen
in isolate fractions cut off from the stream,
a passionate kiss, an uplifted face and hands cupped around a neck, eyes that delve into the depth of the other's secret being!
You repeat like a puppet those rehearsed passions and every retake is filled
with the boredom and the sweat on the brow that you cannot wipe.
The dazzling lights and the flashes of lights glaring all around
and you do not know how the eye behind the camera
quickly captures the fleeting shadow playing around
the corner of the mouth and then
even the tip of your nose begins to speak.
You know not how those isolate images cut off from the stream, reassembled in a claustrophobic lab and finally on to the screen
are meant to set ablaze
millions of hearts in their intrepid rage.
A signal from the director ends the take
and you withdraw into your separate corners, disenchanted, to light a cigarette and watch,
each an island unto the self, like a passenger watching, waiting in the lounge.
(c) Sushama Karnik
Image Courtesy Hector Merced
Joan Fontaine & Laurence Olivier in Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca (1940)
Screen idols, you do not know
how your fragmented images weave a myth
from the moments you impress upon the screen
in isolate fractions cut off from the stream,
a passionate kiss, an uplifted face and hands cupped around a neck, eyes that delve into the depth of the other's secret being!
You repeat like a puppet those rehearsed passions and every retake is filled
with the boredom and the sweat on the brow that you cannot wipe.
The dazzling lights and the flashes of lights glaring all around
and you do not know how the eye behind the camera
quickly captures the fleeting shadow playing around
the corner of the mouth and then
even the tip of your nose begins to speak.
You know not how those isolate images cut off from the stream, reassembled in a claustrophobic lab and finally on to the screen
are meant to set ablaze
millions of hearts in their intrepid rage.
A signal from the director ends the take
and you withdraw into your separate corners, disenchanted, to light a cigarette and watch,
each an island unto the self, like a passenger watching, waiting in the lounge.
(c) Sushama Karnik
Image Courtesy Hector Merced
Joan Fontaine & Laurence Olivier in Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca (1940)
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