This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was to find inspiration from a newspaper, using anything from a story or an advertisement as a jumping-off point for a poem. Lately, news about the deaths of those Amish school children have been all over the papers. And today, I came across this beautiful, yet haunting image of one of the funeral processions.
by Associated Press Photographer Matt Rourke
In the photo, the man looks unmoved, eyes straight ahead, his face without expression. I don't equate that with indifference, but rather with strength... in a moment of tragedy and death. And I began to think about the way people cope, or are unable to cope, with death.
Memory Wrinkles
I was helping you clean
your room, because that's what
friends do, except
we were more than just that. We were
memories. Underneath
a pile of shirts, wrinkled
like dead leaves, you found
your dead uncle on
a digital photo montage cd.
(the uncle you so loved
yet so rarely spoke of)
You played it and we watched it
in the background, the way
we do many things, like listen
to music, listen to each other,
have sex, make love, love,
in the background - too busy
folding your old clothes.
In the background, your uncle
aged in photographs, grew
young and aged again.
In the background, spanish techno
played as snapshots of him
dancing, drinking, dillydallying,
as if alive to the sound.
In the background, I lifted
up a yellowed white shirt, with
holes for each finger. You told me
you were going to keep it. Had
your mantra, you said, "It's not illegal
unless you get caught" and I smiled
at your inability to let go
of meaningless meanings.
The last song on the digital
photo montage cd was Queen's
"Another One Bites the Dust" -
you stopped it before the chorus,
and I was ready to protest. Then
you said: it just didn't seem right,
for them to choose that song, didn't
need a reminder, still missed him.
But before I asked who them was,
I said "Yeah" and thought quietly
that it was a good song, nonetheless.
You threw the cd on top of the
yellowed white tshirt with holes.
And we were silent, except
for the rustle of fabric, of hands
running across cloth, smoothing
out the memory of wrinkles.
Labels: Poetry, Writing Prompts
11 Comments:
That's a lovely poem. And a haunting photo - the one that was in the papers here was of an older Amish woman and a young girl staring out of a window. Very powerful
i like the thought of clothes having memory wrinkles and how we might erase or smooth them by folding/cleaning. great imagery!
An unbelievably sad story; breaks a person's heart. Nice that you had an outlet for expressing your grief
Michelle, such a sad, sad comentary on this world we live in and what a beautiful example these quite simple people have given us, one of forgiveness and compassion even in the midst of their own sorrow and grief, I can only hope if faced with the same I too would turn the other cheek. I am glad you found an outlet for your own grief..I alwasy enjoy what you write..and the visuals you give..thanks ..M
. . . We were/memories
Very nice.
The photo is painful in the context the world has seen it through. Your poem reflected that same kind of pain, a seeking of a way to cope. Just wonderful.
Great photo, and an interesting poem.
your poems paint such complete pictures. Bravo.
A beautiful sad poem and a stunning photo to complement it.
I love this. It nearly made me cry at my desk at work. What beautiful sentiments of love and loss and family and memory all wrapped up together.
what a touching poem . it has definitely affested me . thanks.
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