I Used To Write Poetry
Featuring: A Self-Portrait of sorts
Sometime in my teens, I had a friend. Her name was T…well, that is not important. She was kind yet stern, full of laughter but not funny—she was most unlike me. Her loves were the arts, her family, and the pursuit of holiness. She wrote often: essays, poems, and correct answers. She was brilliant like that and elegantly so. How we became friends, God only knows.
She inspired my first poem. Sorrows, I called it. I wrote it over a meal of yam or beans porridge. Somehow, I forget.
She is a memory I am fond of.
There are three people in today’s photograph: A gentleman, his wife, and my rather spirited self.
If you follow my @photoofthegreybytam account on Instagram, you have probably seen this photo. It was the first one posted; still my favourite one now. Of course, I like it because it is an incredible shot, but I love it more so because it is enough.
There are two photos of its kind, taken minutes apart. One is a memory, and this one is art. I fancy them both, but I might never share the other. That moment is for us, not you & I, my dear reader.
Today, I will confess because it is about that time. As long as I breathe, most of my work will remain unseen. An audience is a gift, but so is reticence. My cameras & I have been privy to many moods: loss, lust, and a lot of longing—too many L's. Thankfully, with a bit of love and laughter every now and again. The photograph above is one of the latter. A place in their story, an invitation to laugh with.
I have seen it in many eyes, that invitational look. It is never loud but always clear. Did you catch that? They ask. No? They briefly fear. They cannot do it again: smile as they walk away, stare at them a certain way, ring-a-ring-a-roses, or dance to a song only they know. In that moment, they are infinite, unbothered by my not-so-stealthy frame and lens in their face.
When I was younger, my reaction would be to write about these things: to tell people what I saw, who I was with, and how it felt. I needed it to rhyme, make sense, and look good on a blog. I thought that was poetry. I am glad I was wrong.
I still make poetry; I just never write. When I need to say the words, they find their way and swiftly leave. I cannot do it twice. I am no poet, it seems. God gave Caravaggio a canvas and me a camera—what I do with my words is an exception, not the gift. Perhaps, I hope, I will be wrong again.
Last Time: Stories Not Told
A Barely In-Focus Photograph; of a Cup of Tea
To the right, just outside the frame, my brother sits sombre and quiet as his tea no longer makes the room warm. No words were exchanged; none were needed. We mourned differently, he & I.
One day, I’ll finish writing one of these well before Sunday. I would have, but I spent last week taking L’s and working harder on my professional future. If you’re curious, follow @tamandfaces on Instagram, the gist is coming.
I have a bone to pick with the dodo lovers, but I’ve also got hundreds of edits to wrap up by Wednesday, so I’ll postpone our beef till next Sunday. Bye now.
Be kind to yourself,
Tam Olobio
Your work is beautiful. The photos and the words together.
The creating and not sharing is something I can really relate to
Thank you for sharing.