Frederick Locker

Our Photographs

She play'd me false, but that's not why
I haven't quite forgiven Di,
Although I've tried:

Victorian hair jewelry

Victorians exchanged locks of hair as love tokens, often woven into bracelets or kept in lockets. The curl is physical proof of their intimacy.

This curl was hers, so brown, so bright,
She gave it me one blissful night,
And—-more beside!
In ''photo'' we were group'd together;
She wore the darling hat and feather
That I adore;
In profile by her side I sat
Reading my poetry—-but that

The vanity portrait

He's reading his own poetry to her—a self-absorbed romantic gesture that probably bored her to tears. The dash and 'but that / She'd heard before' is the joke landing.

The vanity portrait

He's reading his own poetry to her—a self-absorbed romantic gesture that probably bored her to tears. The dash and 'but that / She'd heard before' is the joke landing.

She'd heard before.
Why, after all, Di threw me over
I never knew, and can't discover,
Or even guess;
May be Smith's lyrics she decided

Smith the rival

Smith writes 'lyrics' (poems) too. The speaker's forced acceptance—'I acquiesce'—is pure sour grapes disguised as maturity.

Were sweeter than the sweetest I did—-
I acquiesce.
A week before their wedding day,
When Smith was call'd in haste away

Military promotion

'The Staff' means military staff officer—a prestigious appointment that would make Smith a better marriage prospect than a poet.

To join ''the Staff'',
Di gave to him, with tearful mien,
Our ''only photograph''. I've seen
That photograph.
I've seen it in Smith's album-book!
Just think! her hat—her tender look,
Are now that brute's!
Before she gave it, off she cut
''My'' body, head, and lyrics, but
She was obliged, the little slut,
To leave my Boots.

The final insult

She physically cut him out of the photograph before giving it to Smith, but couldn't crop out his boots at the bottom of the frame—absurd proof he existed.

Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

The Photograph as Evidence

CONTEXT Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895) wrote light verse for Victorian drawing rooms—witty, self-deprecating poems about romantic failures and social embarrassments. Photography was still relatively new in the 1860s-70s when he wrote, making posed portraits precious objects.

The poem's central joke builds on material evidence. He keeps a curl of her hair, proof of 'one blissful night' (the dash suggests what he won't say). He has the photograph showing them together. But all his physical evidence becomes comic when she literally cuts him out of the picture—the photograph he thought documented their love becomes proof of his erasure.

The boots are the payoff. Victorian photographs required long exposures, so subjects were carefully posed and cropped. When Di cuts the photo to give Smith, she removes the speaker's 'body, head, and lyrics' but can't crop tight enough to eliminate his boots at the frame's edge. It's physical comedy—he's reduced to footwear, literally footnoted in his own love story. The boots prove he was there while simultaneously showing how thoroughly he's been removed.

What He Won't Admit

Notice how the speaker performs forgiveness while demonstrating he hasn't forgiven anything. 'I haven't quite forgiven Di, / Although I've tried' sets up the whole poem's tone—wounded vanity pretending to be philosophical acceptance. 'I acquiesce' is particularly choice: it's a fancy word for giving up, dressed up to sound dignified.

The real wound isn't losing Di—it's losing to Smith. He circles back obsessively to that album: 'I've seen it in Smith's album-book! / Just think!' The exclamation points betray him. And calling Smith 'that brute' while calling Di 'the little slut' shows where his anger actually lives—he's madder about the professional rivalry (Smith's lyrics vs. his) than the romantic loss.

The poem's comedy comes from the gap between his tone (amused, philosophical) and his obsession (he's tracked down Smith's photo album). He wants us to laugh with him at the absurdity, but we're laughing at him—a poet so self-absorbed he read his own work to his girlfriend, now reduced to the boots in someone else's wedding photograph.