It’s hard to encounter the present right now. Even though we must. Recently, I was scrolling the news on my phone—a habit I’m trying to break, somewhat unsuccessfully—and then a photo memory from over five years ago popped up. There I was in a color of lipstick I don’t wear anymore, with a look in my eyes I don’t recognize at all. Who was I? What did I think I knew?
Who were you? I didn’t feel like the same person in the photo at all. And yet, she and I are the same. As I stared at my face, I kept wondering about all the things I thought I knew and didn’t. And I wondered what I was thinking.
This month, I’m inviting you to look at a photo of yourself from the past (at least five years ago). You’re going to write a poem addressed to this self, using the second person (“you”). Does the past offer insight into the future?
While I was thinking about this month’s prompt, I came across this poem by Carl Sandburg. It’s from 1914, the year WWI began. Because I’m familiar with Sandburg’s work, I was expecting more a sardonic poem and found myself captivated by and moved by the final two lines:
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off."
My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive in the universe.