Encore Presentation

 Alarie Tennille 

 

 

Alarie Tennille and her brother Geoff.

How Alarie Learned to See the World…and Became an Ekphrastic Poet

By Alarie Tennille

My older brother, Geoff, was a tough act to follow. He could read at age two, memorized the U.S. Presidents in order of succession, and at age 5. He gave a lecture to Daddy’s Sunday school class about Mars. He went on to a career at NASA.

The photo above of Geoff and me was taken as a 25th wedding anniversary gift to our parents. I was 18, finishing my first semester at UVa, where my brother had gone to college. Geoff was in the Navy, stationed in Jacksonville, FL, but soon sailing off for Rome, Greece, and Africa.  My mother and brother showed their Cherokee heritage in their ability to tan quickly. I shared my father’s slow to tan, easy to burn complexion.

I loved to sing and dance, but that was about it. Finally at age four and a half they took me to an eye doctor. I had what was called “incubator blindness.” Decades later, after our parents died, Geoff told me, “First they thought you were stubborn. Then they thought you were stupid. Then they found out you couldn’t see.”

I got glasses, quite heavy ones for a little face, but… “Hello, World!” I began to draw everything I could finally see (still blurry). Then I began reading voraciously, like the rest of my family. One night, when I was in third grade, I was reading a story to Mama, “The Mouse Family’s Christmas,” while she washed dishes.  When she turned around to dry her hands, she exclaimed, “You WROTE THAT? I thought you were reading from a book!”

  

Alarie at two and her brother, Geoff, 5, with their parents.

 

 I was incredibly shy, in fact, I still had to spend four years learning to overcome stage fright after I began my poetry publications in my fifties. So you can imagine how horrible it was to move to a new neighborhood in fifth grade, surrounded by strangers. I had to write a FIVE-PAGE essay on “Why I Should Not Talk in Class.” I didn’t feel like I had any friends in the new school, but my essay had everyone laughing – no, actually, they were roaring!  Who knew?

In junior high and high school, I began writing for the school papers, but didn’t care for journalism. Instead, I began writing short stories and plays for fun. I figured I might become a novelist one day, but simply loved all the arts.  My family had no interest in art, so seeking out art books in the library was my first personal passion. When in doubt about a topic for a school paper, I turned to the French Impressionists, especially  Monet.  I still wanted to major in art, but my Depression era parents weren’t about to pay for a frivolous art career, so I became an English major instead (University of Virginia, first coed class). I still sneaked in a few art history classes to ease my heavy course load of long novels. It turned out my art history professors loved my papers analyzing paintings even more than my English profs did.

My professional career began in rather tedious technical editing jobs, then branched into creative writing. Taking a number of workshops from top American poets eventually convinced me that I could be a poet. Thanks to Naomi Shihab Nye, Ed Hirsch, Ted Kooser, Mark Doty, Jane Hirschfield, Jo McDougall, Bob Hicok, and others, I finally embraced my calling.

My early poems were a look back at my family history. I was writing a few ekphrastic poems, but found them difficult to place in poetry journals. Readers prefer to see the art with the poems. Then I discovered The Ekphrastic Review online. It soon became my home away from home. Thank you, Lorette C. Luzajic!

 

Only the Sky Cries

 Inspiration: The Umbrella by Marie Bashkirtseff (1883)

 

 Some mourners mistake raindrops
for her tears. I know better.
I’ve been her, recognize
when the heart has emptied
everything, when the mind
can imagine no future.

Many will hold her tight, try
to paint a rainbow
on this colorless day.

Nothing can touch her.
She must wait,
                      wait,
                            wait

for time to unveil
a new life.

 

 Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands) 1888 

Time Stood Still

Never had much use for art museums,
but what did I know? We were simple country
people when we married. There were no
museums, restaurants, or even stores aside
from roadside stands and the dry goods place.

After selling the farm and moving to Chartres,
we decided to celebrate our good fortune
with a weekend in Paris. We visited the Musée d’Orsay.
Jacques reached for my hand, drew me to the first
Van Gogh I’d ever seen.

But I didn’t see a painting. I saw our honeymoon.
Still there after ten years, the vision I thought
danced only in my head. We spent one night
in a quaint inn, right on the Rhone.
Stars burst into fireworks, while street lights
spread gold carpets across the harbor.

We bought a print to take home.

 

Above the Magic of Paris

Inspiration: Boulevard Montmartre by Camille Pissarro (1897)

 Boulevard Montmartre below me, I can see
the allure ¬– the romance, sparkling
with wealth – but only if I lean far out
my too-tiny-to-fall-from window
under the eaves.

My view nearly the same angle M. Pissarro
captured, my ears hear almost as little
as his canvas. The light clink of silverware
and murmur of French hide beneath
the clip-clop of hooves, jangle of reins.

Tonight joy wafts up to my level –
to one who never gets a champagne toast
or gentleman down on one knee. This view
makes me sad – until I hear an explosion
of laughter, shouted table talk.

Les Américains don’t keep pleasures to themselves.

 To read more about Alarie:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/04/storyteller-of-week_8.html