Beyond a life of seeing, saying, being,
by sparest nudge or shimmer, I shall cease.
I ask what for, the dying, what the living.
I start recording. I collect and keep.
Étude: Perspective Photo Lyric
A gift received, suspended on my wall,
encased in glass and black metallic frame,
two mats of lavender and celadon,
the essence of the photograph I took:
encased in glass and black metallic frame,
two mats of lavender and celadon,
the essence of the photograph I took:
A
simple
garden tunnel,
mouth agape, extends
a lens, removed from palace
visitor and reached by rented bike
to lighten, quicken student tourist work,
a race against the shadows pressing into day,
to train these lenses over all things visible. Nearby
the former queen’s retreat from the retreat (Versailles),
the Trianon Petite, a sight to vantage telescoping, arbor pass
at once retreating like that distant afternoon. Rough hewn, the pairs
of green-dark slats and light-filled gaps hold frame and multiply, each half
a subtle arc, as eyelash line caresses cheek. This concave-convex-concave pattern
funnels sun-bleached gravel on its hard-packed, off-white footpath to one single point.
The scope and plane set with the camera say, “This is a site my eye and aim once met.”
simple
garden tunnel,
mouth agape, extends
a lens, removed from palace
visitor and reached by rented bike
to lighten, quicken student tourist work,
a race against the shadows pressing into day,
to train these lenses over all things visible. Nearby
the former queen’s retreat from the retreat (Versailles),
the Trianon Petite, a sight to vantage telescoping, arbor pass
at once retreating like that distant afternoon. Rough hewn, the pairs
of green-dark slats and light-filled gaps hold frame and multiply, each half
a subtle arc, as eyelash line caresses cheek. This concave-convex-concave pattern
funnels sun-bleached gravel on its hard-packed, off-white footpath to one single point.
The scope and plane set with the camera say, “This is a site my eye and aim once met.”
Detail, on close examination: Tufts of purple floral vines pull focus
to the foreground. Live green swags at apex and at cornice trail
down right, to middle distance. Horizontal bars along
the walls emboss the single-point perspective.
Hundreds of chevrons stratify the roof.
A spear of sunlight to the flank
to the foreground. Live green swags at apex and at cornice trail
down right, to middle distance. Horizontal bars along
the walls emboss the single-point perspective.
Hundreds of chevrons stratify the roof.
A spear of sunlight to the flank
at left reveals a lone
side passage-
way.
A photograph can be –
A scene for which my arms had raised,
my left eye shut, my finger pressed
the shutter on my Canon camera
with 35-millimeter film. Flush
to my face, my right eye set against
the optical viewfinder, compulsive gesture,
muscle-memory act. The shot withholds
this metadata log from all but me.
my left eye shut, my finger pressed
the shutter on my Canon camera
with 35-millimeter film. Flush
to my face, my right eye set against
the optical viewfinder, compulsive gesture,
muscle-memory act. The shot withholds
this metadata log from all but me.
– an island of a gaze.
Backdrop, lower left:
The tunnel framework halts;
a path I never trod concludes.
An archway circumscribes
this miniature surprise
beyond a gate of
wiry blue, a set
of cream stairs
to a sky-hued
hollow, ivory stone,
and recessed ivory wall.
a path I never trod concludes.
An archway circumscribes
this miniature surprise
beyond a gate of
wiry blue, a set
of cream stairs
to a sky-hued
hollow, ivory stone,
and recessed ivory wall.
A stroke of black calligraphy:
With long shirt sleeves and dark,
loose pants, a shadow-painted human
stands in profile, bowing to a likely door.
loose pants, a shadow-painted human
stands in profile, bowing to a likely door.
– a cord, a conduit, a catalyst.
I open through a touchstone photograph.
I shift the vantages, reflect, and tip
toward the light, away. Consider,
re-consider. Iterative process.
Convergence point: In cursive sweep of arms,
two hands extend to reach an unseen
handle, knob, or keyhole.
I shift the vantages, reflect, and tip
toward the light, away. Consider,
re-consider. Iterative process.
Convergence point: In cursive sweep of arms,
two hands extend to reach an unseen
handle, knob, or keyhole.
Do they open it
or close
it?
or close
it?
Annie Dillard sees a seeing “that involves
a letting go. . . . When I walk without
a camera, my own shutter opens, . . .
the moment’s light prints on my own silver
gut.” A grip relaxed and primed to catch
embraces facts once deemed unfortunate,
like this: that living moments can’t be kept.
– a tethering release, a freeing hold.
a letting go. . . . When I walk without
a camera, my own shutter opens, . . .
the moment’s light prints on my own silver
gut.” A grip relaxed and primed to catch
embraces facts once deemed unfortunate,
like this: that living moments can’t be kept.
– a tethering release, a freeing hold.
Okay, so testing that hypothesis,
let’s say a photo-worthy moment comes,
I put the camera down, tuck it away,
and my own shutter lets things penetrate.
What crack, once opened, doesn’t quake a p a r t ?
This fear must be, as all fear is, why masks
like pointing-clicking cameras shield the face.
let’s say a photo-worthy moment comes,
I put the camera down, tuck it away,
and my own shutter lets things penetrate.
What crack, once opened, doesn’t quake a p a r t ?
This fear must be, as all fear is, why masks
like pointing-clicking cameras shield the face.
A human silhouette belies
coordinates absorbing
pixels, focus, light,
beyond a name
or form or
frame.
pixels, focus, light,
beyond a name
or form or
frame.
– a proof of theft, (mis)representation.
Outside the scene, I knew an “I” intent
on capture. Now I chide her grasping so
and doubt the me beheld by others then.
Captured, I and later eyes, enthralled,
romanticize the gaze and pose the questions.
They shape me, all. We vanished without
seeing inverse views, the points of vanishing.
– ephemera ensconced in artifice.
on capture. Now I chide her grasping so
and doubt the me beheld by others then.
Captured, I and later eyes, enthralled,
romanticize the gaze and pose the questions.
They shape me, all. We vanished without
seeing inverse views, the points of vanishing.
– ephemera ensconced in artifice.
Beyond a life of seeing, saying, being,
by sparest nudge or shimmer, I shall cease.
I ask what for, the dying, what the living.
I start recording. I collect and keep.
My sight was never 20/20, but
it’s gotten worse, years since that foreign spring.
I feel no freer, no more wise, and not
a bit relaxed. My gut prefers its knots.
by sparest nudge or shimmer, I shall cease.
I ask what for, the dying, what the living.
I start recording. I collect and keep.
My sight was never 20/20, but
it’s gotten worse, years since that foreign spring.
I feel no freer, no more wise, and not
a bit relaxed. My gut prefers its knots.
And then I set the me I see aside,
suspecting I don’t know myself as well
as I had thought I did. It’s then I see
the me I set aside resurge. Renewed,
I start. I hope. I fight the record’s lie.
– and more, and less.
suspecting I don’t know myself as well
as I had thought I did. It’s then I see
the me I set aside resurge. Renewed,
I start. I hope. I fight the record’s lie.
– and more, and less.
These poems, photographs, and tunnels try
imprinting me like stamps on time. They might
as well go scattering, be blown apart
by speckling winds, then skyward ply for points
of warmth long gone, in constellation joined.
The only witnessed vanishing, a star’s.
imprinting me like stamps on time. They might
as well go scattering, be blown apart
by speckling winds, then skyward ply for points
of warmth long gone, in constellation joined.
The only witnessed vanishing, a star’s.
And yet,
three aspects of this scene become aligned:
the subjects—human, tunnel, blooming vine
—the vanishing of vantage by design,
and how each time I look holds me entwined.
the subjects—human, tunnel, blooming vine
—the vanishing of vantage by design,
and how each time I look holds me entwined.
Carrie Tangenberg has poems in The Wayward Sword and reviews of author services in The Hot Sheet publishing newsletter. She has written and photographed for her literature, arts, and nature blog Philosofishal. Her scholarly writing and editing appears in the anthology Sketches at Home and Abroad: A Critical Edition of Selections from the Writings of Nathaniel Parker Willis. She lives in northeast Ohio.
