In Silence and In Verse

Peter Serko is not a trained photographer. A self-described “computer guy” for the Vashon School District, the Tacoma native didn’t begin taking photos until he was well into his fifties. Having moved from a Vashon home to a condo near downtown, Serko would often go on walks early in the morning, exploring the city he thought he knew so well. What he saw was a city of surprises. He soon began to carry a digital camera with him in an attempt to capture those quiet surprises. As gallery rats have discovered this year, he did just that. The photos that Serko has displayed in numerous rooms in the last two years – most notably in his April show Around the Block at Mary Boze Gallery – are revelations, displaying the uncanny ability to recreate those minor moments of silent euphoria that make people fall in love with the urban landscape. Serko’s photography captures that specific mood of the city that inspires great art, as he found out when a few poets read poems inspired by his images during a performance celebrating the opening of Around the Block. Moved by the experience, Serko and collaborator Michael Magee commissioned some of the city’s best poets to interpret whichever of his photos they wished and put together a show. The results will be unveiled this month on December 5 at the Tacoma Art Museum before the show, 20/20: Tacoma in Image and Verse, moves on to Clancy’s Coffee. But first, Serko let City Arts choose a few of our favorites to share with you. MARK BAUMGARTEN•

PHOTOGRAPHY BY PETER SERKO

DOWNTURNTOWN

Another For Sale sign recalls the time when
the Mall in the sixties took the Sears store;
and then Big Lumber left, even the Tribune.
They went to flatter places where
they could have more parking spaces.
Now the Russell company is sold
and gone, their building to be remembered
from now on the way open-air markets
left just a street name. Barely
a day goes by without a new theory about why.

When another big name leaves downtown,
store fronts retreat behind plywood.
The streets play dead and then start dying.
Traffic lights pretend there is heartbeat.
A WALK sign continues ironic. Yet, it is said
somewhere up near old Masonic Hall
someone with a spray can full of hope
has ganged up on a wall where graffiti
gives a fuck, and number ten thousand red font
tells the truth that Tacoma is not a truck.

— Tim Sherry

A STORY

Your face was hidden in among the words.
I cut out the words one by one to get near you.
When I excised the last word, you were gone.  
Then
out of the clippings of words I fashioned a story.
I didn’t have
anyone to tell it to. I carved it
into my forearm
with your penknife, so that

I can remember.

— Juniper White

IF SILENCE, THEN POETRY

If silence is an empty room, then poetry’s the peeling paint.
If silence is the sound of doom, then poetry’s a kneeling saint.

If silence is a cityscape, then poetry’s a hanging shoe.
If silence is a fallen drape, then poetry’s its reddish hue.

If silence is a ceiling burned, then poetry’s the mottled trim.
If silence is a feeling earned, then poetry’s the interim.

If silence is the street below, then poetry’s the bird’s complaint.
If silence is a sheet of snow, then poetry’s the footprints, faint.

If silence is a moonlit pool, then poetry’s a naked swim.
If silence is a smiling fool, then poetry’s the ache in him.

If silence is a simple nod, then poetry’s a peek-a-boo.
If silence is the skin of God, then poetry’s a blue tattoo.

— Brian Desmond

REQUIEM

Three soldiers’ shadows,
larger than life, lie
flat across granite squares,
like sundials in a country garden,
signify the end –
days and lives combined.

“Grant them,” we intone,
“eternal rest.”

The three turn “a-bout face!”
as shadows slide ahead
in muffled retreat.

Three more families receive flags –
white stars upon tri-folded blue –
cradle them in loving arms
as if to croon down the moon
for the sleepless child
still tousled and wound in sheets.

— Maggie Kelly