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AUTHOR UNKNOWN
(Bolivar, Missouri)


 

 



    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
State Poetry Critic
for the Poet's Roundtable of Arkansas (Mar 2016)

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