I’ve been flipping through some poetry this evening and it reminded me of something. I took poetry in college and was asked to pick a poem to memorize and recite. My teacher adored Emily Dickinson, especially when she wrote in a voice “beyond the grave.” One example of this is in “I heard a Fly buzz—when I died—.” Of course I wasn’t about to pick his favorite poet to recited. Too nerve-wracking.
However, I went for that “beyond the grave” voice he liked so much by opting for a poem by Margaret Atwood called “This is a Photograph of Me.” It has a haunting tone to it that has always stuck with me.
Today I find myself missing such analysis and all the nitpicking conversations I’ve had over poetry and literature in general. If I had time, maybe I would think of pursing that masters in lit. No idea how I’d fit novel writing and starting a new age business in there, but ahh, the mind does wander. Yes, I am rambly and reflective this evening…perhaps a bit too nostalgic. Just how it goes.
I’ll leave you with that poem now:
“This Is A Photograph Of Me” by Margaret Atwood
It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)
………………………………..
Have a great night!
