SHOW-ME POETRY |
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AUTHOR
UNKNOWN (Bolivar, Missouri) |
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Bolivar Cemetery, October 25th, 2015 The line “FOUND PICTURE” is scrawled on a yellowed envelope and stuffed in the base of a broken statue. It draws our eyes and our camera lens from the crumbling tombstones we’ve been photographing before the afternoon light fades like the epitaphs. My friends dare me to open it (we haven’t learned anything from horror movies) and inside is a photograph from when photographs were new of an equally new baby her eyes closed (I think it’s a her.) perhaps in sleep but more likely in death. (If my friends know anything about history - and I know they do - babies had to stay very still for portraits, very still or stillborn.) She is beautiful but a little blurry around the edges. We replace the envelope and let her slumber under autumn leaves, sheltered by a headless angel, Hers the only nameless face in a field of faceless names- slumbering, too- the only ones who might recognize her. --Amy Vitt |
Jeffrey Rawlings “Bolivar Cemetery, October 25th, 2015” A Critique This poem combines cinematic terms and techniques, qualities and imagery to evoke a sense of somber wonder, underscored with an existential melancholy. It is, however, delightfully tempered with a wry humor: My friends dare me to open it (we haven’t learned anything from horror movies) The poet is unafraid to rise above the inherent sentimentality that might otherwise soften the impact of the narrative: ..babies had to stay very still for portraits, very still or stillborn.) In places, the poem’s poetics dazzle: She is beautiful but a little blurry around the edges. This is a particularly well-crafted phrase: Hers the only nameless face in a field of faceless names- I find this to be a poem of substance, voiced in a conversational tone; it’s approachable in its construction, imagery and its universal theme of impermanence. The poet artfully mixes modern technology and sensibilities with older classic motifs of mortality and tenderness. ** Observations ** This poem captures a very personal experience, and although the actual event might have been a group outing, I felt that the poet’s singular voice and feelings should be emphasized and brought to the front. Accordingly, I experimented below with first person speech in the first and last stanzas. Poetry is the confluence of sound and sense, and poems should be experienced in the round; that is, out loud, inflected and respectful of rhythm and flow. In reading this poem aloud, some few lines arouse this reader’s curiosity: Why this word here? Should this line break here? Why this word twice? For example: The first stanza might have its optics improved by a slight rearrangement and the addition of some poetic elements to augment the photographic imagery and metaphor. The second stanza and third stanza might profit from being concatenated instead of separated after the line ..from horror movies). I think that the parenthetical line (I think it’s a her.) is redundant and doesn’t advance the narrative. The last stanza has that wonderful phrase Hers the only nameless face / in a field of faceless names, so I hesitated to tinker with it. However, slumber and slumbering bump up against each other. There might be a synonym or other poetic alternative that might work. Here is an alternative version, incorporating my observations above. (Keep in mind the fact that the poem in its original form is a good, strong poem that stands on its own.): “Bolivar Cemetery, October 25th, 2015” The words FOUND PICTURE are scrawled on a yellowed envelope stuffed in the base of a broken statue. It draws my eyes and camera lens away from the crumbling tombstones I’ve been photographing, hurrying before the afternoon light washes out like all these faded epitaphs. My friends dare me to open it (we haven’t learned anything from horror movies) and inside is a photograph from when photographs were new, of an equally new baby; her eyes closed perhaps in sleep but more likely in death. (If my friends know anything about history – and I know they do – babies had to stay very still for portraits, very still or stillborn. She is beautiful but a little blurry around the edges. I replace the envelope and let her slumber under autumn leaves, sheltered by this headless angel: Hers the only nameless face in a field of faceless names, asleep in anonymity, among the only ones who might recognize her. |
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Poem
critiqued by
Jeffrey Rawlings for the Poet's Roundtable of Arkansas (Mar 2016)
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