tirsdag 22. september 2009
How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car
as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.
Litt om Billy Collins fins her! Og litt til på denne bloggen under juni, juli og november (alle i 2008).
(Stor takk til Kjersti Bjørkmo som gjorde oppmerksom!)
søndag 6. september 2009
Her er Patricia Smith´s UPI-innledning og skriftlige versjon av diktet hvor hun gir stemme til 34 av ofrene for orkanen Katrina:
ST. BERNARD PARISH, La., Sept. 7 (UPI) – Thirty-four bodies were found drowned in a nursing home where people did not evacuate. The more than half of the residents of St. Rita’s nursing home, 20 miles southeast from downtown New Orleans, died Aug. 29 when floodwaters from Hurricane Katrina reached the home’s roof.
I believe Jesus is hugely who He says he is: The crook of an arm, a shadow threatening my hair. a hellish glare beneath the moonwash, the slapping storm that wakes me, the washing clean.
The Reaper has touched his lips to my days, blessing me with gray fragrance and awkward new skin. What makes the dust of me smell like a dashed miracle, the underside of everything? What requires me to hear the bones?
Before the rain stung like silver, I had forgotten me. My name was a rude visitor, arriving unannounced, without a gift, always leaving too soon.
If you knew my alley, its stink and blue, if you knew dirt-gritted collard greens that are salt-pork slick and doused with Tabasco, then you knew me. I know that you’ve come with my engine, and the rest of my skin. You will rise me.
Son don’t rise, daughter don’t know enough to dial a phone. Gets harder to remember how my womb folded because of them, how all of me lumbered with their foolish weight. See what they have done, how hard and sweet they done dropped me here?
Clumps of earth in the rising and me too weathered to birth a howl. I sleep in small shatters. I climb the bitten left wall of my heart. In all the places I fall, it is dry.
We knew we had been bred for sacrifice, our overflow of yesterdays too wretched a nudge, our tired hearts borderless and already mapped for the Motherland. We reach for the past like it is food and we are starving. They scour our surfaces, prepare us, wrap us in white.
When help comes, it will be young men smelling like cigarettes and Chevys, muscled boys with autumn breath and steel baskets just the right size for our souls. To save us, they will rub our gums with hard bread. They will offer us
To cool fever, rub the sickness with wet earth. For swelling, boil a just plucked chicken and douse the hurt in the steam. Always from the position of the knees, create the savior you need. Then wait.
Jesus…both faith and magic have failed.
There is no light, no thin food moving through my arms. Even without machines, I feel my numbers have soared. I am a sudden second of soft leaving. I’m cold and I’m strapped to this country.
Daughter, son, I am bursting with this. I am straining to celebrate the links of blood. I am wide aloud craving something shaped like you.
There are no bridges.
We are stunned on our scabbed backs. There is the sound of whispered splashing, and then this:
The walls are slithering with Bayou spit, tears, the badness that muddies rivers. We flail in that sin, alive and bended beneath a wretched Southern rain. We sip our breath from that filthy ocean. Only some things float.
I ain’t scared of no wet, no wave. I done seen more than this. God is in all houses. Just balance the huge noun of Him on your tongue.
Wait with me. Watch me sleep in this room that looks so much like night. I’m gon’ wake up, I swear it, to some kind of sun.
Which art in heaven…
My name Earline and I’m gon’ say you my life-- sugar in my veins, a single cloudy eye, and blood when I pee. Half dead, I used to say, I used to tell ‘em Hell, I’m already half dead.
I have forgotten how to pray, cannot find my knees.
I want the man with my needles. I want that sting, those silver holes in my body, I want my needles, I want my sleep for days, I wanna cheat the Reaper.
I want somebody’s hand.
Hallowed be thy name
Hollow be our names. Call us running boards, the ice man, big band, hogshead, possum in stewing pots. Twist our heads on our snapping necks back to where we danced from. Call us names that are barely necessary. Call us those who do not need these days.
Big Easy. I ran your green, rolled in your red dust, and your sun turned the white of me red and the black of me blue. Funny how colored I got, how I absorbed your heat, and how you, without flinching, called me your child.
God, we need your glitter, you know, those wacky miracles you do for no reason at all?
I fight the rise with all the guitar left in my throat. Old folks got shit to say, ain’t got but a little time to say it. We don’t never die quiet.
A sudden ocean of everyone’s shoulders.
And this scripture: Leave them.
And I am left, no deity hovering, no black hair on my head, all of me thinner than when I began.
Fingers of ice climb me, reach my dimming light, and choke my only angel.
I had the rumble hips, I tell ya. I was slingback and press curl and big titties with necessary milk. I was somebody’s woman, I was the city where the city wasn’t. Louisiana, goddamn. You lied to me so lush.
I lost my seeing in that war. But I ain’t gonna need these old eyes for that resurrection.
That’s gon’ be one hell of a line.
I’ll be the one slightly off center. I’ll be the one facing the wrong way.
They left us. Me. Him. Our crinkled hands. They left our hard histories, our gone children and storytells. They left the porch creaking. They left us to our God, but our God was mesmerized elsewhere, watching his rain.
Thy will be done.
No more of us, stunned and silent on the skin of this sea, this thunderous wet. We bob and bounce and spin slow, draped in an odd sparkle.
The underearth turns its face to us.