Because it's still National Poetry Month
Apr. 20th, 2010 08:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randy_byersThe Colonel
by Carolyn Forché
WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried
a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went
out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the
cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over
the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On
the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had
dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of
bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief
commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot
said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed
himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries
home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like
dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one
of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As
for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them-
selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last
of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some
of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the
ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
May 1978
by Carolyn Forché
WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried
a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went
out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the
cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over
the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On
the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had
dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of
bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief
commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot
said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed
himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries
home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like
dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one
of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As
for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them-
selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last
of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some
of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the
ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
May 1978
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 06:01 pm (UTC)I've begun a slow reading of Classical Chinese Poetry; wonderful collection.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 08:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 09:24 pm (UTC)In any case, that poem is as shocking and realistically horrifying now as it was when I first encountered it.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-21 01:02 am (UTC)Gathering Thorn-Fern
Date: 2010-04-22 07:32 pm (UTC)Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern still green, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Autumn's ending, and there's
no shelter for us, no family,
thanks to those dog-face tribes,
no time to sit, no ease for us
thanks to those dog-face tribes.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern still tender, all we
talk of is home, going home,
hearts grief-stricken, hearts
bleak and cold grief-stricken,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Frontier war drags on and on,
no hope they'll send us home.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern now tough, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Winter's begun, and still there's
no pause in the emperor's work,
no time to sit, and no ease for
hearts stricken sick with grief.
When we left, we left for good.
What's all this lavish splendor?
It's a plum flaunting its bloom.
And that, there on the road?
It's our noble lord's war-cart,
war-cart all harnessed up to
four stallions fiery and strong.
How will we ever stop and rest?
Three battles a month we fight,
four stallions all harnessed up,
four eager and strong stallions.
A noble lord driving them on,
we little ones shielding them,
four surging stallions attack,
ivory bow-tips, sealskin quiver.
We keep watch. Those dog-face
tribes -- they can strike so fast.
It was long ago when we left.
Fresh willows swayed tenderly.
And now we come back through
driving sleet tangled in snow,
the road long and deathly slow,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Grief has so slashed our hearts
no one could fathom our cries.
.
Re: Gathering Thorn-Fern
Date: 2010-04-22 07:54 pm (UTC)