Lost in Transmission



I wrote this poem for a fascinating lady and talented artist Zoë Watson. (website zoewatsonartist.com twitter @ZoeWatsonArtist)


I read your words,

Though they're yours no more.

Lines on paper,

Symbols on a screen,

Bytes in memory.

As far removed,

From your fingers,

On your keyboard,

As from the moon.


I see your face,

But that is not you.

Patterns of charge,

Electrons on a wire,

Stored, forwarded,

Second, third, fourth hand,

2D still in RGB,

That tells me much,

But far from all.


I read your expression,

And believe I see you there.

Fierce, direct,


Slightly intolerant

With guarded openness.

Humour and optimism.

Yet slightly unsure,

of something.


I look into your eyes,

And somehow believe,

I can glimpse the thoughts,

That swim behind.

Their tenor,

And flow,

Their patterns,

That maybe hint at,

The way you think.


Yet these are not enough,

To write the verse you need.

To capture you in lines,

Requires life in motion.

Mere images, or words,

Diminishing returns,

More missing than present.

I need not just to see,

But to observe.


I would listen to your words,

From your own breath.

I would watch your face,

In its own light.

I would see what lurks,

Behind those eyes,

And run my fingers,


Through your mane.


Then I might hear you,

In the silence.

I might see you,

In the dark.

I might feel your warmth.

I might taste those lips.

I might share your thoughts,

And know you,

At last.


© Marcus Brook 2017

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