When I watch you
I’ve been writing from some old black and white photographs of my parents when they were young, pictures mostly taken by my grandfather the amateur photographer. In a family that didn’t tell stories about itself these photos are the few stray bread crumbs left in a trail that the birds almost picked clean. They lead somewhere, these pictures, these moments. They lead here, of course, to me, to my sons, to today as surely as the past always leads to the future; but they lead someplace else, too, down other paths to alternative futures my parents could have, but didn’t, live out. And they lead me backwards, as well, back to each of those moments to wonder which was the moment they chose this future instead of that one, or that one.
Did they in fact even choose, or did they just take the car out of gear and let the momentum carry them?
Christmas 1953
The back of her hand
meets her brow
in a gesture so theatrical
it could almost be posed,
the distress signal of a dozen
damsels in distress.
Her arm is all slender grace,
the branch of a weeping willow.
Her eyes are closed;
she is tired of pretending cheer,
wants to leave.
He is turned to her
his hand grazing her exposed back:
a solicitous reflex -
I almost say “as always”
but on the back of the print
her careful hand has noted
Christmas, 1953.
Married a mere seven months
there is no as always
yet.
He is wearing a suit,
she glamorous in black strapless.
They are smoking
(as always)
but there are no cocktails
unless they’ve been cropped out
or that habit has not developed
yet.
She is just twenty
but looks already weary:
that arm frozen in time
hand to brow
those closed eyes,
the beginning of a sigh
as if she already knows
all the disappointing years
before she dies.
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Filed under Memory and meaning, Poetry |
9 Responses to “When I watch you”
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What an intriguing project, Jennifer. I’m captivated by your opening remarks to this piece, the family “that didn’t tell stories about itself.” I’m struck by how carefully you are examining the gestures and details of the photograph, drawing connections. I like the different takes on “as always” you use here. I love poems that imply much without stating things too baldly, as this seems to do with the reference to cocktails (I know this may be my own interpretation). A very moving ending as well.
Wow. The last two lines really threw me. I love it when a poem does that. There’s great stuff here, the quiet building of a theme: the “willow,” the “pretending,” the just beginning habit and “as always.” All told from the powerful future perspective of seeing the beginning of what came to be seen as inevitable.
how wonderful you speak of glancing thru b&w photos..the feelings are subtle but tell so much of what is not yet… she is just twenty and weary already.. beautiful…
So much said by gesture and the poem itself, the way you’ve revealed and not revealed supports that.
Great use of language here: I especially like “a dozen
damsels in distress” and the way you play on “as always”.
It evoked mixed feelings in me. I remembered my parents photograph which was taken a few months after their marriage.
You poem spoke to me just the way the photograph does.
Thanks!
rot
Nathan - the last two lines really threw me when I wrote them; I didn’t know that was where I was going.
Sad but beautiful… with just a little poignant humour to it makes me want to see the photo too. (though I fully understand why you wouldn’t necessarily want to post it!) It’s interesting how these poems about watching someone make you think about the watcher’s attitudes, and how that shapes what they see.
Lirone - I wouldn’t mind posting the picture but I don’t have a scanner. And it would be interesting to see if anybody but me - who knows how the story turns out (or know my version of it anyway) - sees any of this in the picture. As you say, the watcher’s attitudes (and experiences) shapes what she sees.