Poems Inspired by Photographs
Two poems by Joanne Durham from To Drink from a Wider Bowl
Photo Through the Glass Window of Grace’s Coffee Shop
The baby’s nap miraculously timed with chores done,
we’ve all managed to meet for croissants and cappuccino.
Globed lamps and a morning sun cast jumbled layers
of reflection into the lens, land a garbage truck
right between Grace’s glazed tables. So the only human
you’d see at first is my one-year-old grandson, palms pressed
against the glass, his sippy cup beside a gold-tipped saucer
with a slight rim of foam. Then, squinting, you might notice
refracted fragments of our full and fleeting lives,
my son’s smile as he peers from the left corner, face
larger than the building transposed behind him, his father
in baseball cap, a translucent giant grinning
through the truck’s body, my scarlet jacket a red carpet
for its wheels, all bound into the frame
by my daughter-in-law, mirrored from outside,
camera raised, focused precisely on her son.
The baby’s nap miraculously timed with chores done,
we’ve all managed to meet for croissants and cappuccino.
Globed lamps and a morning sun cast jumbled layers
of reflection into the lens, land a garbage truck
right between Grace’s glazed tables. So the only human
you’d see at first is my one-year-old grandson, palms pressed
against the glass, his sippy cup beside a gold-tipped saucer
with a slight rim of foam. Then, squinting, you might notice
refracted fragments of our full and fleeting lives,
my son’s smile as he peers from the left corner, face
larger than the building transposed behind him, his father
in baseball cap, a translucent giant grinning
through the truck’s body, my scarlet jacket a red carpet
for its wheels, all bound into the frame
by my daughter-in-law, mirrored from outside,
camera raised, focused precisely on her son.
Tobacco Salesman, Hartford, Connecticut, 1931
I saw my grandfather only once, in a crumpled
sepia-toned photo. He peers out the driver’s window
of his tobacco truck, a huge, rolled cigar
painted on its side, Perfecto 10 cents. A hint
of annoyance on his boyish face, bored perhaps,
driving around the city to hawk cigars? Does he calculate
how many sales will pay the rent, or savor
that last second of peace before he settles
into a ready-to-please but not-too-eager smile?
Or does he memorize the motions and leave
the rest to fate?
The scraggly bare trees and his bulky flannel jacket
suggest the chill of a Connecticut winter, yet his elbow
rests on the truck’s open window. I like to think
he was about to leave for work when his wife waved
for him to wait, his daughter ran outside
to snap his picture. I like to think his wife will reappear,
You forgot your lunch, I made your favorite egg salad
sandwiches, and his pursed lips will part in a grin,
soften into a kiss.
I saw my grandfather only once, in a crumpled
sepia-toned photo. He peers out the driver’s window
of his tobacco truck, a huge, rolled cigar
painted on its side, Perfecto 10 cents. A hint
of annoyance on his boyish face, bored perhaps,
driving around the city to hawk cigars? Does he calculate
how many sales will pay the rent, or savor
that last second of peace before he settles
into a ready-to-please but not-too-eager smile?
Or does he memorize the motions and leave
the rest to fate?
The scraggly bare trees and his bulky flannel jacket
suggest the chill of a Connecticut winter, yet his elbow
rests on the truck’s open window. I like to think
he was about to leave for work when his wife waved
for him to wait, his daughter ran outside
to snap his picture. I like to think his wife will reappear,
You forgot your lunch, I made your favorite egg salad
sandwiches, and his pursed lips will part in a grin,
soften into a kiss.
Spark by Joe Cottonwood
I’m delivering firewood.
You’re leaning over a triple sink,
sleeves rolled up in a baggy sweatshirt,
elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing
93 soup bowls in the camp kitchen
where washing dishes is punishment
but what could you do wrong?
Your hair is a swirl on top
like black soft-serve ice cream
with one lock loose over the forehead.
Cheeks shiny. You reach overhead
in rubber gloves for a can of Comet cleanser
(stretching, exposing belly, unaware)
when you see me and try to push
the straggle of hair from your face
leaving little bubbles among the freckles.
You smile.
Your teeth are straighter than mine.
You say, “Want a potato chip?”
“I’d love one.”
Sparkle eyes, green.
We’re sixteen.
First published in Verse-Virtual
I’m delivering firewood.
You’re leaning over a triple sink,
sleeves rolled up in a baggy sweatshirt,
elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing
93 soup bowls in the camp kitchen
where washing dishes is punishment
but what could you do wrong?
Your hair is a swirl on top
like black soft-serve ice cream
with one lock loose over the forehead.
Cheeks shiny. You reach overhead
in rubber gloves for a can of Comet cleanser
(stretching, exposing belly, unaware)
when you see me and try to push
the straggle of hair from your face
leaving little bubbles among the freckles.
You smile.
Your teeth are straighter than mine.
You say, “Want a potato chip?”
“I’d love one.”
Sparkle eyes, green.
We’re sixteen.
First published in Verse-Virtual
Photo by Diane Hackworth
Ladyslipper by Joan Leotta
I am a ladyslipper.
As soon as I saw the photo
I recognized myself.
Always a lover of shoes
it was this shape
that first called to my spirit.
The more I leaned, the
more I realized I am
this dangling bit of
pink that slips out from
greenery, among long branches
in the woods, off the
paths most tread. Why? Well,
I grow only in the wild, so
do not even try to
transplant me into your world.
Allow me to thrive,
alive in my own way,
among fallen pine needles, leaves
where I catch morning dew and
glimpses of sun, clouds,
stars, and moonrise
through branches.
If you try to place me
in your finely tuned soil
I will spoil, wither, rot.
Instead, kiss me in my wildness.
Cherished as and where I am
I will bloom gloriously for you.
Ladyslipper by Joan Leotta
I am a ladyslipper.
As soon as I saw the photo
I recognized myself.
Always a lover of shoes
it was this shape
that first called to my spirit.
The more I leaned, the
more I realized I am
this dangling bit of
pink that slips out from
greenery, among long branches
in the woods, off the
paths most tread. Why? Well,
I grow only in the wild, so
do not even try to
transplant me into your world.
Allow me to thrive,
alive in my own way,
among fallen pine needles, leaves
where I catch morning dew and
glimpses of sun, clouds,
stars, and moonrise
through branches.
If you try to place me
in your finely tuned soil
I will spoil, wither, rot.
Instead, kiss me in my wildness.
Cherished as and where I am
I will bloom gloriously for you.
The Photo of my Great Grandfather Found on the Internet by Alan Walowitz
It couldn’t be easy to hold their heads, that pose,
my great grand aunts and uncles seated that way
and those who stand behind, distant cousins,
younger, obedient, and now without names.
All hands are tensed, not closed,
as if ready to grab some unnamed future.
But not my Yirmiyahu who sits fully at ease, legs crossed,
with just the start of a grin, perhaps ironic,
judging by the mien of those who were to come after.
Or knowing he bore the name Exalted by God,
why not look content and amused?
Who can say what that seer told them
to hold them just so--
about what he was doing under his hood,
and why they had come to his shop on DeKalb
near where their posterity would live proudly again
in Williamsburg and Bushwick and Bed Stuy to the east?
Could he have known that here
where all had been unsettled, crazed, inbred
would be outposts of the well-to-do and up-and-coming?
And what would I think one day
as I sit at this time machine
seeing one of my kind so calm and at ease
but, if truth be told, was likely so green
he didn’t know enough to tense at the call to
Watch the camera.
Sit straight.
Look proud.
The shutter blinks.
A puff of smoke.
How quick it all is over.
Poet’s note: The photo appeared as the cover of my chapbook, Exactly Like Love, published by Osedax Press. The poem also appeared in the book.
It couldn’t be easy to hold their heads, that pose,
my great grand aunts and uncles seated that way
and those who stand behind, distant cousins,
younger, obedient, and now without names.
All hands are tensed, not closed,
as if ready to grab some unnamed future.
But not my Yirmiyahu who sits fully at ease, legs crossed,
with just the start of a grin, perhaps ironic,
judging by the mien of those who were to come after.
Or knowing he bore the name Exalted by God,
why not look content and amused?
Who can say what that seer told them
to hold them just so--
about what he was doing under his hood,
and why they had come to his shop on DeKalb
near where their posterity would live proudly again
in Williamsburg and Bushwick and Bed Stuy to the east?
Could he have known that here
where all had been unsettled, crazed, inbred
would be outposts of the well-to-do and up-and-coming?
And what would I think one day
as I sit at this time machine
seeing one of my kind so calm and at ease
but, if truth be told, was likely so green
he didn’t know enough to tense at the call to
Watch the camera.
Sit straight.
Look proud.
The shutter blinks.
A puff of smoke.
How quick it all is over.
Poet’s note: The photo appeared as the cover of my chapbook, Exactly Like Love, published by Osedax Press. The poem also appeared in the book.
Instamatic by Mary McCarthy
In my favorite picture
You are young
Standing in bright sunlight
With your fifth child
On your hip
His arm flung out
Away from you
Reaching joyously
To something outside the frame
Arms around him
Your upper body leans away
From his
In counterbalance
Your face turned
Toward him
Or toward what he
Is reaching for
Your smile a glory
Caught forever
In that motion
Reach and balance
Opening ready
For the glad embrace
In my favorite picture
You are young
Standing in bright sunlight
With your fifth child
On your hip
His arm flung out
Away from you
Reaching joyously
To something outside the frame
Arms around him
Your upper body leans away
From his
In counterbalance
Your face turned
Toward him
Or toward what he
Is reaching for
Your smile a glory
Caught forever
In that motion
Reach and balance
Opening ready
For the glad embrace
Photo by Al Knutson
A White Calf by Sharon Waller Knutson
appears in our yard
in the Arizona desert
in the Angus herd
surrounded by black
mothers soaking up
the shade under a Palo
Verde tree as the sun
sizzles in triple digits
sending me a sacred
sign of new beginnings.
Symbolizing innocence
and purity according
to the Hindu religion,
the white calf stares
at us through the window
as if posing for a photo.
so we snap the shutter
and spread the word
to the world of hope,
peace and community.
A White Calf by Sharon Waller Knutson
appears in our yard
in the Arizona desert
in the Angus herd
surrounded by black
mothers soaking up
the shade under a Palo
Verde tree as the sun
sizzles in triple digits
sending me a sacred
sign of new beginnings.
Symbolizing innocence
and purity according
to the Hindu religion,
the white calf stares
at us through the window
as if posing for a photo.
so we snap the shutter
and spread the word
to the world of hope,
peace and community.
Spark is wonderful, welled me up, love the possibility of Tobacco Salesman and what comes after that picture as so brilliantly written, and I feel awe and sorry for the "white calf" (not the poem, I mean I don't feel sorry for the poem) but he's so similarly different and the poem sings. THESE ARE ALL GENIUS I adored each one, just reponding to a few that startled me and makes me wish I could write like that again.
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