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Thursday, July 31, 2008


I came across this -- I guess it's a poem -- and thought I'd share it with you, my dear friends. It appeals to my darker, sadder, nature. What kind of story might this make?

This is a Photograph of Me
by Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
you will be able to see me.)


Anonymous said...

Brrrrrr! Weird for sure. On the lighter side it reminds me of an old joke about what some old -timers sitting and talking about what they would like folks to say at their funeral. One guy says I'd like for them to say "He was a wonderful family man, loved his wife, and children." Another one says "He was a pillar of the community, and left his mark here in this world." The last one says, All that is fine a dandy but I would just like for someone to say "Hey, look, I think he moved!"

Amy Deardon said...