There’s something about old photographs. The faded ones tucked into drawers, books, or wallets. They don’t just hold an image—they hold a mood. A question. A whole world that was, or might have been.
In poetry, photographs often act as symbols for just that: loss, memory, longing. They’re little portals where time stands still—but emotions keep moving. In several of my poems the photograph becomes a way to give shape to things that resist being named.
In “What Have You Lost?”, there’s no neat answer to the question. Instead, we get glimpses: travel trunks with cracked leather, books with torn covers, porcelain that shattered anyway. And photographs—softly fading into time. The photo becomes a metaphor for everything we can’t quite hold onto, but still carry inside.
What Have You Lost?
“What have you lost?” you ask
I no longer know.
It sank away years ago —
behind old travel trunks with broken seams,
clothes still scented with time.
Books with torn covers,
faded photographs,
leather cracked by light.
Newspapers wrapped around porcelain so fine
that still got shattered
when the wind slipped by.
So don’t ask me
what is no longer here.
Take me to the window
where I can breathe fresh air —
and silence holds
something new.
In “The Box”, a closed container hums with quiet tension. It holds a letter, a scarf, and yes—a photograph. One that isn’t described in detail, but we know it matters. The image is almost too powerful to face. Here, the photo becomes a vessel for all the unspoken things.
The Box
In my bedroom drawer
there is a box I never open.
It waits in silence,
whispering my name.
It speaks of moments
tucked away —
of claims unspoken,
and photographs
long laid to rest.
A locket of gold,
a letter folded twice,
a scarf I wore
when my hair
fell freely down
At night,
it hums in my ears,
a presence
I never invited.
A part of me
still fears the lid —
yet something waits
for the day
I let it breathe.
“The Photo” takes us right to the moment. A single captured scene, frozen mid-motion. It’s less about what’s in the frame. It’s more about what the viewer feels. The world has moved on, while this one image hasn’t. It’s the stillness that stings.
The Photo
I found a photo of us
in my childhood home,
tucked inside the journal
I kept at nineteen.
Locked in the drawer beneath my bed,
where dust had softened the corners
and time had frayed the edge.
Your arms rested on my shoulders,
your gaze still,
skin sunburned at the cheeks—
summer pressed into your face.
I held the picture gently,
afraid to scratch its surface
with the edge of a nail.
And I remembered how it felt—
that endless summer
when we believed
it would always be you and me.
So why do poets keep returning to photographs?
Maybe because they give us something tangible to hold when everything else feels hazy. Or maybe because, like poems, they capture something fleeting—a split-second truth.
Or maybe it’s just this: sometimes, in the middle of all the noise, we need to stop… and look. At a picture. At a poem. At a version of ourselves we almost forgot.
A poet who beautifully explores the intersection of memory, loss, and image is Ocean Vuong. In his poetry collection Night Sky with Exit Wounds, Vuong uses photographs in unique ways. He employs them as literal and metaphorical portals. These portals lead into family history, trauma, and tenderness. His poem “Notebook Fragments,” for instance, captures fleeting impressions like snapshots, each moment fragile yet vivid. You might want to check out Poetry Foundation’s page on Ocean Vuong if you’re curious. It delves deeper into his lyrical approach to memory and imagery.
Another tip is to read my earlier blog post about the passage of time.
Do you have a photograph that still lingers in your mind—one that holds more than what’s in the frame?
I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
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