This month we used vintage photographs as our jumping off point for writing ekphrastic poems. There were no other rules at all, except that we are using this overarching (underlying?) theme of conversation this year.
My photograph is one my maternal grandfather took of me as a toddler. I’m walking on the beach, alongside Lake Michigan, and he’s up on the bank. Some other adult — probably my mother — is surely just out of the frame, but you’d never know it. I’d never know it.
When I look at this photograph I think, I always knew how to be alone.
My poem, a villanelle, became a conversation between me and my child-self, obviously. But also, maybe, between me and my grandfather. I’m grateful to him for capturing this. For capturing me.
(PS this is still a draft but it’s been A WEEK, and it’s Friday already, so I’ll post what I’ve got and life goes on…)
The Little Girl We See
By Liz Garton Scanlon
She doesn’t know yet who she’ll be
The clock is started, limbs mid-stride
The little girl we see is me
Loved and unguarded equally
A certain dreaminess abides
She doesn’t know yet who she’ll be
Made precious here, by lens and tree
(Though we all know the frame is wide)
The little girl we see is me
When left alone like this, she’s free
A rolling swash line by her side
She doesn’t know yet who she’ll be
Unhindered, still, by some degree
She tugs her strap up, does not hide
The little girl we see is me
Just strolling with Calliope –
already I’m amazement’s bride!
I don’t know yet just who I’ll be
This little girl we see me
Read the others here:
Laura
Sara
Tricia
Mary Lee
Tanita
Poetry Friday is at My Juicy Little Universe this week!
And if you’d like to write with us in May, we’re writing Golden Shovel poems, using a line (any line) from Elizabeth Bishop’s Letter to NY. Join us?
I’m so glad you grew up to be the “me” that I’m lucky to be friends with. This picture is stunning, and your conversation with it is so tender. You hold the “then” and “now” in balance.
I suppose your mother must have been just out of frame, but I love that she isn’t there – instead this girl, already amazement’s bride, runs to the altar to see what else there is to discover… The clock is started, and we only have so much time allotted, to explore and seek and know, since beach days don’t last forever.
The poem captures a simplicity that speaks to both the adventure of then and now.
I love the slight change in the last line. We see you in the little girl, and the “I don’t know yet just who I’ll be.” These show how you and she are one and the same. I like that, and the photo is just glorious. I can see why you are grateful your grandfather took the photo. I am too.
This conversation between who you were then and who you’ve become (who you’ve been all along, really) is itself so…YOU. Generosity, acceptance and wonder all shine through.
Absolutely lovely. The photo looks like a painting and the conversation in the villanelle is intriguing. It’s full of the awe of not knowing and yet finding the hints of possibility. I know what you mean when you write, it’s been a WEEK. I’m all for sharing drafts…leaves room to re-draft and polish which is so fun! Thanks for sharing this part of you here.
Your poem is a gift to yourself and all of us who have the privilege to read it. Thank you for sharing. I think you chose the perfect form.
Oh the “rolling swash line” what a great image. And I love “Made precious here, by lens and tree.” Wonderful!
That is an incredible photo, Liz. The combination of distance and focus, the angle, the sense of unobserved movement–“I always knew how to be alone.” The beautiful 4th and 5th stanzas capture this especially. Lovely.
Oh, Liz, this is fabulous! The photo and the poem. What treasures they–and you–are. Love that shout-out to Mary Oliver, too. “does not hide” — and you don’t! Thanks, Liz <3
I’m late reading poems, having spent the weekend at the beach. There is so much to love about this photo and poem. I felt in my bones the kind of freedom this photo seems to exude with no adult in the frame. That untethered trust you were given to explore shines through in the phot and the poem. The last stanza is a wonder.
Thank you for gifting up this lovely poem.
Oh, I love this, Liz. So much to see and celebrate in that little girl. And knowing how to be alone? Priceless.