Snapshot

From early in our relationship, I've penned numerous poems, most for Patty. I'd suggest this makes her a muse, but that would by default mean I'd be willing to call myself a poet.

 

I'm certain some of my guy friends have grimaced at the notion a buddy expressed himself through verse; so be it. I'm perhaps fortunate few beer buddies will read this, because they may also grimace at the notion a friend is also trying to express himself through prose. Again, so be it.

 

To be honest, I grimace at some of the stuff I've written. I've never professed an aspiration to be the second coming of Robert Frost, nor have I answered the question, "So, what do you do?" with, "Oh, I dabble at information design, but I'm really my neighborhood's poet laureate." For me, poetry will never win me any fame, and may inspire plenty of unintended snickers. And yet, during some of my rougher moments, poetry has proven cathartic. I sit down, throw open a few heavy doors, set pen to paper and, through a nifty sleight-of-hand-and-mind, tangle some of my tougher demons in serifs, swoops and risers, if only for an instant. The demons almost always come back.

At the time I wrote "Snapshot", below, we were in the thick of doctors' efforts to reduce Patty's antibodies enough to make her a viable transplant candidate. Patty was feeling run-down much of the time. I felt a burning need to amass a huge gallery of photos of Patty, because I was imagining life as a young widower. Unfortunately, at the same time I was feeling this compulsion, Patty was feeling less and less like being the subject of photos, because few at that time captured her in the best light. This poem was my response. Be gentle.

 

 

SNAPSHOT

 

Why would you guard your essence

From my camera's yearning eye

As it begs to author a history?

In every frame a narrative

An instant of you, your presence

An emotion, a realization, a moment

A frozen whisper

Selfish, I blur out the periphery

Keeping the shadows gently from focus

Only this, for now, to grace my lens

This hint of then, of this, of what

Of chapters unwritten, images unseen

Of cautious promises of you

 

For Patty

July 25, 2006