Bird Eight: Look at Me

I first stumbled on Look at Me about three years ago (I think). I was discovering the joys of "found" art/objects at the time, and I found a photograph at the public library -- I planned to send it in, but I wasn't sure if it was old enough (I will send it now). I love the rules: the photos must be candid shots of at least one (unknown) person looking at the camera, from at least 25 years ago. (So, in one sense, Look at Me is the opposite of Running from Camera -- dontcha love it?) Frederic Bonn, owner/originator of the site, describes the collection:

"These photos were either lost, forgotten, or thrown away. The images now are nameless, without connection to the people they show, or the photographer who took them. Maybe someone died and a relative threw away their photographs; maybe someone thought they were trash..." (MORE)

These photos are ordinary, comfortingly familiar, surprising and heartbreaking all at once. Expect several birds. (Thanks very much to Fred Bonn for permission to "borrow" from his wonderful collection).

Image 177

Hansel Poses by the Oven, 1919 After weeks of plying the wretch with sausages and sticky buns, meat pies, potatoes and puddings, of daily squeezing the brat’s spindled finger to gauge its certain plumpness – the nearsighted hag grew suspicious. She groped between the bars with a gnarled claw, cooed as she was able, as to an errant pet, finally seizing upon a frayed woolen stocking, a chubby ankle, dragging it to her across the burred floor of the dirty cage. Suppertime, she sighed, as she caressed the dumpling flesh between her callused paws. The oven would be lit. The girl was called to clean his face, to mend and tuck his shirttail, to take his tender photograph: portrait of a memorable meal.

Bird Seven Revised: My Friend Robin is Right

My friend Robin was right, I think (see her Feb 19 comment on the original post -- I can't make it link here). I struggled with this part in the initial writing, was originally going to stop after "...so I can miss you," but it seemed to make the end come too abruptly. Now I see I could have stopped shorter, trusted the reader more. Thanks, Robin.

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying, scrubbing the paella pan, and she felt it coming on -- the terrible need to chase him away. This became a game. She stole up behind, sockfeet padding percussively in place, clawed hands poised like a hungry bear, a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab. "What are you doing?" he asked, and she answered, "I'm chasing you, of course. You've just forgotten to run away." "You're crazy," he laughed. "Please," she insisted, "Run away."

I promise, my love, that one day, I will run away for you.

---

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing
at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying,
scrubbing the paella pan,
and she felt it coming on --
the terrible need to chase him away.

This became a game. She stole up behind,
sockfeet padding percussively in place,
clawed hands poised like a hungry bear,
a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab.

"What are you doing?" he asked,
and she answered, "I'm chasing you,
of course. You've just forgotten to run away."
"You're crazy," he laughed. "Please,"
she insisted, "Run away."

I promise, my love, that one day,
I will run away for you.

Bird Seven: Running from Camera (a Valentine)

Bird Seven is the result of a collision between Poetry Thursday (Idea = Prose Poem) and something my friend Tim linked to his blog, namely, this guy who takes photos of himself running away from his camera. I am absolutely drawn to the idea of exploring variations of a simple premise. I am also reminded again of an idea from Understanding Comics -- these photos straddle the balance between unique and universal beautifully... As a "reader," I can simultaneously view him as a specific individual and easily put myself in the photo. I love it.

So here's a prose poem (I think).

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying, scrubbing the paella pan, and she felt it coming on -- the terrible need to chase him away. This became a game. She stole up behind, sockfeet padding percussively in place, clawed hands poised like a hungry bear, a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab. "What are you doing?" he asked, and she answered, "I'm chasing you, of course. You've just forgotten to run away." "You're crazy," he laughed. "Please," she insisted, "Run away. Run away so I can miss you. Run away so I can feel for a moment how it would be if you weren't here."

I promise, my love, that one day, I will run away for you.

---

Here's the not-prose version. (Just want to state for the record that I wrote the prose/paragraph version first, and added these line-breaks after). Same words, same order, but I like this much better. Guess I'm not a prose-poem gal.

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing
at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying,
scrubbing the paella pan,
and she felt it coming on --
the terrible need to chase him away.

This became a game. She stole up behind,
sockfeet padding percussively in place,
clawed hands poised like a hungry bear,
a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab.

"What are you doing?" he asked,
and she answered, "I'm chasing you,
of course. You've just forgotten to run away."

"You're crazy," he laughed. "Please,"
she insisted, "Run away. Run away
so I can miss you. Run away so I can feel
for a moment how it would be
if you weren't here."

I promise, my love, that one day,
I will run away for you.