Something I have realized in this class is that one element that draws me into poetry is my ability to immediately connect it to my personal life. The first time I read "Washing My Father" by Hayan Charara, I started out feeling sad for the man who had to watch his father's demise and I was caught up in the similarities to my life.
I washed where
he could barely reach.
When he was ready,
I filled a jug with the bath water
he sat in, poured it over
the nape of his neck,
over his shoulders,
Then lines six and seven of the last stanza jolted me,
I was ten years old.
He was a young man.
These lines caused me to read the poem a second and a third time -- I would have anyway, but I did it immediately because I felt I had missed something. I wondered if the boy was being abused. My additional readings put me at ease regarding sexual abuse because it was clear that the father was not allowing the boy to see his penis. The first lines of the poem read,
His cupped hands hid the space
between his legs.
and later, Charara writes,
...Gently,
I locked the door behind me,
his back still turned away,
So even as the father drys himself, we know the ten year old boy is not in the room. We know he is not forced to watch or to see his father's genital area. And even after my logical mind tells me that this poem is not about sexual abuse, I am still unnerved. I wonder if the speaker in the poem is traumatized by this experience of having to bathe his father.
I did some research to see if maybe this is a cultural expectation or understanding that young boys bathe their fathers as a rite of passage, but I could not confirm (or deny) this, but after sitting with the poem, I was able to find lines that gave me a clearer understanding of their relationship.
In the first two lines of the last stanza,
This is not about pity.
I did not yet know that kind of love.
I found it interesting that Charara calls pity a kind of love, but I can relate to it. I've been there -- that place where you are so sorry for someone that your love for them bleeds into your pity for them. Charara uses the first two stanzas of his narrative to show us the setting and invite us to watch a son caring for his father. [I must interject here how the words "washing" and "watching" are so close in sound and in look that they could almost be interchangeable -- kinda creeps me out further.] Then, in those last lines, we are left just as confused by this interaction as the speaker,
Plain and simple,
my father made me.
It is what he did.
He never required a reason,
and nobody ever asked why.
We too want to know why, but have no way to ask or to know.
That last line does make me wonder who else knows of this bathing. Is the speaker the only child? Is he the only one able to bathe the father or the only one the father trusts to bathe him? Is it an honor like washing the feet of your guru?
One could argue that there is still an element of abuse here -- a ten-year old boy being forced to bathe is able bodied (as far as we know) father and not being told why could be seen as abusive. Again, knowing more about the culture and family obligations/expectations would be helpful here.
The form Charara selects is free verse with three stanzas 16 lines, 12 lines and 12 lines. His line breaks are extraordinary throughout, but in the first stanza, they are exquisite. He chooses short lines with powerful images. Starting with the father and his cupped hands. The description of the silence in the bathroom in relation to the father's breathing and the steam and the droplets from the faucet is provocative and powerful. I am there, watching this washing and, like the speaker, wondering.
peacelovelight
Kiala
Showing posts with label Week 7. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Week 7. Show all posts
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Who is Pinero with NYC Hard Times Blues
Miguel Piñero’s poems stood out to me this week, particularly when considering first WHO is writing and then the work itself (except I kind of did it backwards). The piece that pulled me in most was “New York City Hard Times Blues.” When I first decided to write about it, I didn’t have a plan, just read it back through a couple of times to try to make sense of why it stuck with me, why it played out like a song, why I felt more present in New York and then L.A. and then New York than I have in reading many other poems (even though these are not always views of the cities I know from experience).
I pulled out lines that were
visceral: “the sun was vomiting itself up…”; “melt the icicles/from the tears in my eyes”; “…each cold day becomes like a brick wall/and you’re the bouncing ball”; “spreading spiritual bad breath”;
lyrical: “…stumble bum blues band”; “L.A./laid back/L.A./kick back/L.A.”; “as westwood camaro rides very slow very low”; “refugee from a leprosy colony hotel”
stark/political: “…my ashtray became/the cemetery of all my lost memories”; “I should know it’s very rare when/a prayer/gets the boiler fixed”; “12% alcoholic aluminum/recycled viet nam horror stories”; “welfare afro hairdos sprout out/of frye boots”
And there are more and more. Why did I feel I could read this poem over and over, always finding a different rhythm to its lines, new connections between its flashing scenes, another gut reaction to the “hard time/sad time/bad time” Sunday morning blues? It’s a blues song, so it is filled with sorrowful moments, the underbelly of the cold New York street scene and the hidden tragedy of the frenetic L.A. flashbacks—and yet it is so seductive, as the blues often ends up being.
The Om sequence against the bilingual prayers to J.C. show the speaker’s desperation but constant effort, through fitful energy, to get through the moment, dipping into one ideology and then the next. The short lines of the Oms, the hard/sad/bad times, the flashback to L.A. and the four punctuating yeahs give this poem breath. The tension, the visuals, the memories build and build until we need a breath, a scene change, or a break down. The “yeahs” rock the narrative back into introspection, back into focus on place, on the crucial NOW.
The ending lines made me really want to know who this poet was, as he inserts himself into the poem. We learn this is about him, or some version of him or experience he knows personally: “I wish I could cop a bottle of muscatel/stroll through the bowery with a pocket/full of wino dreams/but Sunday morning in New York City/for the junkie there ain’t no pity/we just walk the streets with loaded dice/and hear people say there goes miky/miky piñero/they call him the junkie christ…” The final image is so beautiful, tragic and hopeful—to trade loaded dice for wino dreams. New Yorkers know this man, the “junkie christ”—the image portrays him as a kind of phrophet.
The first thing I noticed when looking for information on Miguel Piñero was that he died tragically young, at age 41 (1947–1988). He wrote a dozen and a half plays, wrote for television, acted, wrote poems, co-founded the Nuyorican; his first play “Short Eyes” was nominated for several Tonys and won and Obie & other recognitions. His New York Times obit reported that he died of cirrhosis of the liver; other sites reported that he had a lifelong herione addiction. Hard to know what facts are facts when you are looking into a someone’s life twenty years after his death. But all the sources agreed that the man was a standout voice in poetry and drama. He also knew what it was to be a child in prison, a child hustler, a child gang member. Writing his breakout, award-winning play while he was in Sing Sing prison, he knew what it was to live & work in the glow of the literary community, but he also knew what it was to be “in New York City/crying the junkie blues.” When considering Piñero, I don’t want to slip into a stereotypical view of his life—the street kid/dealer turned poet/playwright who never could escape the shackles of his junkie past and died young because of it.
There is so much power in his story—he left a physical legacy of work as well as a venue for others. But there is also a tragedy here. And it resounds from the poem “New York City Hard Time Blues.” He writes with seductive, impeccable lyricism and rhythm, offering an insider view of two seemingly opposed worlds sharing similar sorrows (NYC & LA). This is clearly someone who has studied and honed a craft. But the main character is alone on the freezing, early morning streets, looking from caffeine to meditation to Jesus Christ for a fix. I wonder when this was written, and if that matters. How can someone so talented, who has achieved such critical appeal, still find himself in the bowels of a cruel, forced-sober morning? It’s a foolish question. It’s so easy to live in two worlds, or carry one with you into another. Is Piñero’s poem a story of his past or a story of his present? And what is he hoping to teach us by singing it? Piñero calls himself the junkie christ but his colleagues, the editors, call him the Philosopher of the Criminal Mind.
I pulled out lines that were
visceral: “the sun was vomiting itself up…”; “melt the icicles/from the tears in my eyes”; “…each cold day becomes like a brick wall/and you’re the bouncing ball”; “spreading spiritual bad breath”;
lyrical: “…stumble bum blues band”; “L.A./laid back/L.A./kick back/L.A.”; “as westwood camaro rides very slow very low”; “refugee from a leprosy colony hotel”
stark/political: “…my ashtray became/the cemetery of all my lost memories”; “I should know it’s very rare when/a prayer/gets the boiler fixed”; “12% alcoholic aluminum/recycled viet nam horror stories”; “welfare afro hairdos sprout out/of frye boots”
And there are more and more. Why did I feel I could read this poem over and over, always finding a different rhythm to its lines, new connections between its flashing scenes, another gut reaction to the “hard time/sad time/bad time” Sunday morning blues? It’s a blues song, so it is filled with sorrowful moments, the underbelly of the cold New York street scene and the hidden tragedy of the frenetic L.A. flashbacks—and yet it is so seductive, as the blues often ends up being.
The Om sequence against the bilingual prayers to J.C. show the speaker’s desperation but constant effort, through fitful energy, to get through the moment, dipping into one ideology and then the next. The short lines of the Oms, the hard/sad/bad times, the flashback to L.A. and the four punctuating yeahs give this poem breath. The tension, the visuals, the memories build and build until we need a breath, a scene change, or a break down. The “yeahs” rock the narrative back into introspection, back into focus on place, on the crucial NOW.
The ending lines made me really want to know who this poet was, as he inserts himself into the poem. We learn this is about him, or some version of him or experience he knows personally: “I wish I could cop a bottle of muscatel/stroll through the bowery with a pocket/full of wino dreams/but Sunday morning in New York City/for the junkie there ain’t no pity/we just walk the streets with loaded dice/and hear people say there goes miky/miky piñero/they call him the junkie christ…” The final image is so beautiful, tragic and hopeful—to trade loaded dice for wino dreams. New Yorkers know this man, the “junkie christ”—the image portrays him as a kind of phrophet.
The first thing I noticed when looking for information on Miguel Piñero was that he died tragically young, at age 41 (1947–1988). He wrote a dozen and a half plays, wrote for television, acted, wrote poems, co-founded the Nuyorican; his first play “Short Eyes” was nominated for several Tonys and won and Obie & other recognitions. His New York Times obit reported that he died of cirrhosis of the liver; other sites reported that he had a lifelong herione addiction. Hard to know what facts are facts when you are looking into a someone’s life twenty years after his death. But all the sources agreed that the man was a standout voice in poetry and drama. He also knew what it was to be a child in prison, a child hustler, a child gang member. Writing his breakout, award-winning play while he was in Sing Sing prison, he knew what it was to live & work in the glow of the literary community, but he also knew what it was to be “in New York City/crying the junkie blues.” When considering Piñero, I don’t want to slip into a stereotypical view of his life—the street kid/dealer turned poet/playwright who never could escape the shackles of his junkie past and died young because of it.
There is so much power in his story—he left a physical legacy of work as well as a venue for others. But there is also a tragedy here. And it resounds from the poem “New York City Hard Time Blues.” He writes with seductive, impeccable lyricism and rhythm, offering an insider view of two seemingly opposed worlds sharing similar sorrows (NYC & LA). This is clearly someone who has studied and honed a craft. But the main character is alone on the freezing, early morning streets, looking from caffeine to meditation to Jesus Christ for a fix. I wonder when this was written, and if that matters. How can someone so talented, who has achieved such critical appeal, still find himself in the bowels of a cruel, forced-sober morning? It’s a foolish question. It’s so easy to live in two worlds, or carry one with you into another. Is Piñero’s poem a story of his past or a story of his present? And what is he hoping to teach us by singing it? Piñero calls himself the junkie christ but his colleagues, the editors, call him the Philosopher of the Criminal Mind.
The poems for this week seemed to me to be mostly about ejaculations and explosions. In Hayan Charara's "Usage," I am thinking of the line, "Maybe then, metaphors-- not bodies, not hillsides, not hospitals, not schools-- will explode." Though I'm sure he meant the explosions literally, I couldn't help but think back to Langston Hughes' "Dream Deferred." In "Dream Deferred," the last line is a metaphor ("or does it explode?"), linking the dream to the bomb, and therefore the metaphor to the bomb. Charara follows the same linkage in calling attention to the explosion of the metaphors. The slashes present in the poem seem to represent the outward movement of shrapnel and debris following an explosion, and the interruption of the dashes between words signal an interruption, possibly even a seismic event. At the end of the poem, the explosion of words absent syntax serve the purpose of speeding up the dialogue and ending on an almost frantic note. The words that Charara has chosen to italicize throughout his poem call attention to their two-faced uses. Particularly brilliant and ironic is the choice of “altogether” compared to “all together.”
When using the word altogether in the first part of the line, Charara is seeding doubt through the idea of coming together, thus creating a rift, a kind of lingual explosion. However, the word altogether is presented in the English language as one cohesive word. The words “all” and “together” in this phrase are so close to each other that it is like one word has begun to eat the other; or like the two are conjoined twins that cannot survive if separated. Ironically, the phrase “all together” becomes the inclusive term, yet it is separated by a space that reinforces the true differences between all of us that prevent us from actually coming together. Charara did not invent these words, obviously, nor is he using them out of context. However, he is pointing out within the confines of one small, brilliantly-crafted sentence, the derisive power of the terms and the huge problem of unity/disunity that they attempt to conceal. The words sound alike when spoken, but they have entirely different meanings, while the second term takes longer in the breath because one must allow the space between the words to exist in order to properly convey their intent.
Charara’s and Hughes’ poems deal with explosions metaphorically; however, the entire section, "When the definition of madness is love" in Bum Rush the Page, is about explosions, mostly sexual. In “8 ways of looking at pussy,” Letta Neely uses explosions to represent the orgasmic experience. Explosions become orgasms, become ejaculations. In this poem, we have passed the point of metaphor and wandered into the land of the real. Now, the pussy is the pussy; the cum is the cum. It is obscene and delightful to read the words outright, as if I am a teenager again, my dad discovering me beating off a boy. It's dirty, yeah. But exciting, too. It’s not the same type of liberation that Hughes was talking about when addressing the nature of his dream for people of color. It is, however, the liberation of humanity from the straightjacket of moral subject matter of what has been traditionally considered “allowed.” Is sexual liberation a stepping stone to other kinds of liberation?
I am not altogether sure we can all together come (Inclined, 76).
When using the word altogether in the first part of the line, Charara is seeding doubt through the idea of coming together, thus creating a rift, a kind of lingual explosion. However, the word altogether is presented in the English language as one cohesive word. The words “all” and “together” in this phrase are so close to each other that it is like one word has begun to eat the other; or like the two are conjoined twins that cannot survive if separated. Ironically, the phrase “all together” becomes the inclusive term, yet it is separated by a space that reinforces the true differences between all of us that prevent us from actually coming together. Charara did not invent these words, obviously, nor is he using them out of context. However, he is pointing out within the confines of one small, brilliantly-crafted sentence, the derisive power of the terms and the huge problem of unity/disunity that they attempt to conceal. The words sound alike when spoken, but they have entirely different meanings, while the second term takes longer in the breath because one must allow the space between the words to exist in order to properly convey their intent.
Charara’s and Hughes’ poems deal with explosions metaphorically; however, the entire section, "When the definition of madness is love" in Bum Rush the Page, is about explosions, mostly sexual. In “8 ways of looking at pussy,” Letta Neely uses explosions to represent the orgasmic experience. Explosions become orgasms, become ejaculations. In this poem, we have passed the point of metaphor and wandered into the land of the real. Now, the pussy is the pussy; the cum is the cum. It is obscene and delightful to read the words outright, as if I am a teenager again, my dad discovering me beating off a boy. It's dirty, yeah. But exciting, too. It’s not the same type of liberation that Hughes was talking about when addressing the nature of his dream for people of color. It is, however, the liberation of humanity from the straightjacket of moral subject matter of what has been traditionally considered “allowed.” Is sexual liberation a stepping stone to other kinds of liberation?
There are some things that don't belong to me as a writer. I am obviously not a poet of color. I come from semi-privilege (comparatively speaking). But some subjects belong to everyone and become a place where we can come together. Sex, music, lust, passion, love. Here, the explosion becomes a unifying force, standing out in stark contrast to the explosions of Hughes and Charara. As the eruption of Mt. St. Helen's proved, though the explosion is a destructive force, it is also a deliverance. It releases an environment from the shape of its past, it allows a new terrain to be shaped. I do believe that at some point, Langston Hughes’ dream did explode, and with that explosion came a new landscape, a new aesthetic, and the ability to fashion a new dream, one in which we can all participate.
H.K.
Hole Straight To The Heart
I had such a visceral response to Nancy D. Tolson's Bullet Hole Man I knew I had to write about it. The subtitle labels it A Love Poem and while that is what the poem's about it also touches on so much at the same time. Tolson isn't just talking about a love story she's touching on social elitism, police harassment, racism, the pressure and truths about gang life that a lot of mainstream media likes to misrepresent. Right there in the beginning the emotion of it is set up in the third and fourth lines:
i caressed his body, and i wept from the soul
when my hand first touched my man's bullet holes
The starkness of those lines, the positioning of bullet holes as belonging to the man as opposed to something inflicted on him. They are part of him, he owns them. The weeping from the soul is understandable, we feel pain when those we love are hurt but there's more here. She, the voice in hasn't seen/felt these wounds before, she is just discovering them, this is their first time together and that makes the pain a different sort. She's not just mourning because a person she loves was hurt or even because he's trapped in this life but also because had those bullets in the chest found their target she would never have meet this love. Those bullet holes are signs of what was almost taken from her without her awareness. The love the narrator feels for this man is apparent in so much of the language in the poem and especially her recounts of the things she goes through for just being with this man.
i sneak now to see him, he lives underground
i love a street man though i'm college bound
Tolson touches on a lot of things in those two lines. The narrator has to sneak out to see him and underground has numerous meanings, it could be a metaphor for the "other side of the tracks" so to speak or it could mean he's in hiding from the authorities. The next line adds another reason though, a perceived social difference, a questioning of the validity of their relation ship because of their different paths. There's an idea in that line, that someone who is going to college would be too smart to be with someone involved in illegal activity. It's repeated when she talks about the harassment she gets from the authorities:
they think i will tell, 'cause i'm just too damn smart to love this Black man they believe has no heart
She's reiterating the expectations of intelligence that are part of the pressures on their relationship. It's something our media promotes all the time, that those involved in gangs are violent and stupid people and no one but someone equal in stupidity would date them which is a such a vast simplification of a problem that has ties with institutional racism, government funneling of drugs into ghettos and non-protection provided by authorities. This is not to say that every person involved in illegal activity is a saint pressured by circumstance but the situation is more complex than a simple - "Gang members are evil and violent" and the narrator knows this. She doesn't shy away from the things they have to live with, the things he does and the effects of those actions.
It's in this space of this complexity that the narrator opines her love. She knows that no one is all saint or all sinner and she tackles this two times in the text:
it boggles my mind this heaven and hell
that i'm living between, two worlds that collided
and the end of the poem which is plea and prayer as much as wish:
this man who is both my heaven and hell
may the bullets never make it to his heart
The narrator is aware of the position she's put in not just because of the things he does but because of the expectations that plague them both and the constraints their relationship. It is through exploring this complexity of identity where she's able to confront the racism of the police who harass her:
they've called me a ho and a stupid street maid
and the fear she exist in while she's with him:
some nights it's so easy, while some are so hard
to think that they could just bust through the door
This poem which at times feels like a explanation for or a defense of her love is a way for her to expose and explore her feeling for this man. In the end her statement that she would give up her degree and pick up a gun if it became necessary, for him, and she's able to really subject the reader to a shock because that's not something that's supposed to happen. Someone "smart" isn't supposed to be willing to give it all up and pick up a weapon. That's one of the reason's I love this poem so much Tolson gives us someone who breaks convention, who doesn't pick the "smart" move but is undeniably "smart" and in doing so she not only shows us love but truth.
No one is simple, no one is a stereotype.
-Naamen
i sneak now to see him, he lives underground
i love a street man though i'm college bound
Tolson touches on a lot of things in those two lines. The narrator has to sneak out to see him and underground has numerous meanings, it could be a metaphor for the "other side of the tracks" so to speak or it could mean he's in hiding from the authorities. The next line adds another reason though, a perceived social difference, a questioning of the validity of their relation ship because of their different paths. There's an idea in that line, that someone who is going to college would be too smart to be with someone involved in illegal activity. It's repeated when she talks about the harassment she gets from the authorities:
they think i will tell, 'cause i'm just too damn smart to love this Black man they believe has no heart
She's reiterating the expectations of intelligence that are part of the pressures on their relationship. It's something our media promotes all the time, that those involved in gangs are violent and stupid people and no one but someone equal in stupidity would date them which is a such a vast simplification of a problem that has ties with institutional racism, government funneling of drugs into ghettos and non-protection provided by authorities. This is not to say that every person involved in illegal activity is a saint pressured by circumstance but the situation is more complex than a simple - "Gang members are evil and violent" and the narrator knows this. She doesn't shy away from the things they have to live with, the things he does and the effects of those actions.
It's in this space of this complexity that the narrator opines her love. She knows that no one is all saint or all sinner and she tackles this two times in the text:
it boggles my mind this heaven and hell
that i'm living between, two worlds that collided
and the end of the poem which is plea and prayer as much as wish:
this man who is both my heaven and hell
may the bullets never make it to his heart
The narrator is aware of the position she's put in not just because of the things he does but because of the expectations that plague them both and the constraints their relationship. It is through exploring this complexity of identity where she's able to confront the racism of the police who harass her:
they've called me a ho and a stupid street maid
and the fear she exist in while she's with him:
some nights it's so easy, while some are so hard
to think that they could just bust through the door
This poem which at times feels like a explanation for or a defense of her love is a way for her to expose and explore her feeling for this man. In the end her statement that she would give up her degree and pick up a gun if it became necessary, for him, and she's able to really subject the reader to a shock because that's not something that's supposed to happen. Someone "smart" isn't supposed to be willing to give it all up and pick up a weapon. That's one of the reason's I love this poem so much Tolson gives us someone who breaks convention, who doesn't pick the "smart" move but is undeniably "smart" and in doing so she not only shows us love but truth.
No one is simple, no one is a stereotype.
-Naamen
A Letter
Sinan Antoon’s “A Letter” is so quiet in its approach, and devastating in its message. It expresses the “outrage” without being outrageous and re-humanizes the effects of a careless attack. There is much to be outraged about -- war, mass murder, the purposeful disregard of human suffering, classifying civilian casualties as “collateral damage,” the abandonment of democratic ideals, etc., etc., etc.
The first word of the poem is “silently.” This form of poem, “a letter,” is not vocal; it is a silent expression (unless it is read aloud). Our speaker is clear about whom he is addressing; he is addressing “[t]he dead Iraqis.” But in addressing them, which could be read as a passive position for them, he turns it around and focuses our attention on them. They are on center stage. By writing his poem, Sinan Antoon has given a voice to those who are no longer able to speak. There are “[g]ive or take a few hundred thousands.” The numbers alone are enough to cause our outrage. Why are the American people, in whose name the war is being fought, oblivious to the numbers of Iraqi people who are being killed in this war? During the Bush Administration, pictures of the coffins of American casualties were prohibited from being published in U.S. newspapers so it shouldn’t be surprising that we wouldn’t be made aware of the Iraqi casualties, but it doesn’t excuse the ignorance. This is all in the introduction, or salutation, of the letter.
The body of the letter, using the subjunctive mood, portrays the dead as “birds,” “trees,” and “words,” and concludes “[b]ut you are none of these/And you had to pass quietly and uneventfully.” As “birds” they “could have flown en masse” meaning they could have escaped, but they also would have caused a “natural” phenomenon that experts such as “meteorologists and bird-watchers surely would have noticed.” In other words, they would have attracted the attention of specialists who observe these kinds of things. Who are the equivalent people who are the “watchers” for the dead? We are, or we should be, but we don't see them.
If the dead “had...been trees/[they] would have made a beautiful forest/whose destruction would have been deemed a crime/against the planet.” The word “crime” here ends its line and emphasizes the horrific acts that have been imposed upon the Iraqi population. The growth of the trees is an appropriate comparison here. There are so many people concerned about the devastation of the planet’s natural resources, but where are the people who will “see the forest for the trees?” It’s a cliché, but it works; among the few hundred thousands is each actual individual whose life has been devastated. Each was living his or her life; each had a family, each was destroyed.
If the dead “had...been words,/[they] would have made a precious book/or manuscript whose loss/ would be mourned across the world.” Now we’re looking at the few hundred thousands as a group rather than as individuals, and they are valuable; they are worthy of notice and mourning. I’m reminded of the Taliban’s destruction of historical works of art, in particular the Buddhas of Bamyan in Afghanistan in 2001, and the world’s outrage at this violence. Where is the outrage at the devastation of the Iraqi people?
Antoon, in a news article (Democracy and Necrology – Al-Ahram Weekly 2005), said, “the dead do not vote,” and in the poem, he says, “No one will campaign for you/No one cares to represent you/No absentee ballots have been issued or sent.” The idea of the dead having an “absentee ballot” is such an evocative image. The Iraqis had elections in 2005; I remember the inked fingers of those who voted, and I remember those Iraqis who, by violence and other forms of intimidation, were prevented from voting. The spread of democracy was one of the rationalizations for the war in Iraq, but the freedom to vote was a charade. Even those alive did not have a voice.
Later, the writer of our letter says, the dead Iraqis will be acknowledged, but not now, not while it’s happening. It will take “decades” for a monument, a museum or names on a wall, and only if they are “lucky.” We’ve seen this happen before through other wars, genocides, holocausts. “Until then, [they] may welcome more to [their] midst.” The numbers will grow “and form a vast silent chorus/of ghosts,/condemning the spectators and the actors.” Again, the dead are silent, but they have something to say, as does the poet, to those who have watched this happen and those who have made this happen. We will be condemned.
The closing of the letter “Exeunt Omens!” is similar to a stage direction recognizable from Shakespeare – “exeunt omnes” – which means “all the characters who are on the stage leave,” but the variation in the spelling to “omens” expands the meaning. We see the disappearance of the birds, the rain forests, and precious works of art as harbingers of the world as we know it disappearing, and we protest, but this contrasts with the way the Iraqi dead have disappeared, i.e., have been destroyed, with the world’s tacit approval. Quiet, but powerful.
Sheila Joseph
The first word of the poem is “silently.” This form of poem, “a letter,” is not vocal; it is a silent expression (unless it is read aloud). Our speaker is clear about whom he is addressing; he is addressing “[t]he dead Iraqis.” But in addressing them, which could be read as a passive position for them, he turns it around and focuses our attention on them. They are on center stage. By writing his poem, Sinan Antoon has given a voice to those who are no longer able to speak. There are “[g]ive or take a few hundred thousands.” The numbers alone are enough to cause our outrage. Why are the American people, in whose name the war is being fought, oblivious to the numbers of Iraqi people who are being killed in this war? During the Bush Administration, pictures of the coffins of American casualties were prohibited from being published in U.S. newspapers so it shouldn’t be surprising that we wouldn’t be made aware of the Iraqi casualties, but it doesn’t excuse the ignorance. This is all in the introduction, or salutation, of the letter.
The body of the letter, using the subjunctive mood, portrays the dead as “birds,” “trees,” and “words,” and concludes “[b]ut you are none of these/And you had to pass quietly and uneventfully.” As “birds” they “could have flown en masse” meaning they could have escaped, but they also would have caused a “natural” phenomenon that experts such as “meteorologists and bird-watchers surely would have noticed.” In other words, they would have attracted the attention of specialists who observe these kinds of things. Who are the equivalent people who are the “watchers” for the dead? We are, or we should be, but we don't see them.
If the dead “had...been trees/[they] would have made a beautiful forest/whose destruction would have been deemed a crime/against the planet.” The word “crime” here ends its line and emphasizes the horrific acts that have been imposed upon the Iraqi population. The growth of the trees is an appropriate comparison here. There are so many people concerned about the devastation of the planet’s natural resources, but where are the people who will “see the forest for the trees?” It’s a cliché, but it works; among the few hundred thousands is each actual individual whose life has been devastated. Each was living his or her life; each had a family, each was destroyed.
If the dead “had...been words,/[they] would have made a precious book/or manuscript whose loss/ would be mourned across the world.” Now we’re looking at the few hundred thousands as a group rather than as individuals, and they are valuable; they are worthy of notice and mourning. I’m reminded of the Taliban’s destruction of historical works of art, in particular the Buddhas of Bamyan in Afghanistan in 2001, and the world’s outrage at this violence. Where is the outrage at the devastation of the Iraqi people?
Antoon, in a news article (Democracy and Necrology – Al-Ahram Weekly 2005), said, “the dead do not vote,” and in the poem, he says, “No one will campaign for you/No one cares to represent you/No absentee ballots have been issued or sent.” The idea of the dead having an “absentee ballot” is such an evocative image. The Iraqis had elections in 2005; I remember the inked fingers of those who voted, and I remember those Iraqis who, by violence and other forms of intimidation, were prevented from voting. The spread of democracy was one of the rationalizations for the war in Iraq, but the freedom to vote was a charade. Even those alive did not have a voice.
Later, the writer of our letter says, the dead Iraqis will be acknowledged, but not now, not while it’s happening. It will take “decades” for a monument, a museum or names on a wall, and only if they are “lucky.” We’ve seen this happen before through other wars, genocides, holocausts. “Until then, [they] may welcome more to [their] midst.” The numbers will grow “and form a vast silent chorus/of ghosts,/condemning the spectators and the actors.” Again, the dead are silent, but they have something to say, as does the poet, to those who have watched this happen and those who have made this happen. We will be condemned.
The closing of the letter “Exeunt Omens!” is similar to a stage direction recognizable from Shakespeare – “exeunt omnes” – which means “all the characters who are on the stage leave,” but the variation in the spelling to “omens” expands the meaning. We see the disappearance of the birds, the rain forests, and precious works of art as harbingers of the world as we know it disappearing, and we protest, but this contrasts with the way the Iraqi dead have disappeared, i.e., have been destroyed, with the world’s tacit approval. Quiet, but powerful.
Sheila Joseph
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Hayan Charara on "Thinking American"
Hayan Charara’s poems “Thinking American” and “Washing My Father” from Inclined to Speak moved me the most this week. My first reaction to his work was an appreciation for his ability to write using plain, everyday language in a deeply personal, captivating manner. In “Washing My Father” Charara writes a quiet poem that is intimate and loving. In “Thinking American” the tone is the opposite; he bitingly highlights difference throughout the poem and a clear lack of belonging or wanting to belong to American culture. In the beginning of the piece Charara immediately locates himself when he says, “Take Detroit,” making place central. He is also explicit that Detroit could be a city anywhere when he says toward the end of the piece,
“Detroit is a shithole, it’s where
you were pulled from the womb
into the streets. Listen,
when I say Detroit, I mean any place....”
Due to his metaphor of being “pulled from the womb into the streets” this makes me think that Detroit could symbolize any city that is not likened to a feeling of community, where one is generally nurtured or feels safe, which could also be a reference to boundaries beyond the U.S. Perhaps where his family’s original home was/is. Many people come to the U.S. from war-torn homes and may not feel anywhere is where they can call home because they do not feel relief in either place of turmoil. A feeling of cultural estrangement may resonate with Charara who was born in the U.S. and is Arab-American, belonging to a group that is often treated in a hostile respect by many Americans.
I remember about four years ago when I worked at a middle school, a student I counseled had been reprimanded by school officials for making racially derogatory comments and I was asked to talk with him about this. It was sad to hear one of my Native youths had made such hurtful comments about Arabs, referring to them as “rag heads” and such. Knowing how powerful and destructive the media and individuals can play in negatively distorting a young person’s development, it was important for me to roll up my sleeves and strategize on human connectedness and social consciousness development. So of course I first tried to ask my student why he was saying such things and it turned out he had no personal problem or experience with Arab people. He was seeking negative attention for a void of unhappiness he wanted to fill. Then I had him read an article on an Anti-Arab hate crime that had occurred and we talked about it and the commonality of Native people being attacked by mistake. He still acted nonchalant, so knowing his Salvadorian background I decided to surprise him by asking him about his family history. I had his attention because he knew little about his ethnic and cultural background. Then I shared with him my recent learning at the time, that there are many Palestinians that now live in El Salvador. He didn’t believe me so I had him look up information on his family’s country of origin on the internet and he read it for himself. Then I told him, “See you may be part Middle Eastern and you don’t know it and you could be making fun of yourself!” He yelled and laughed at this and seemed genuinely embarrassed for his behavior. After our long conversation, I never heard any complaints of him making racial epitaphs again.
This experience is a great example of how rampant miseducation about various racial groups is taught in the U.S. but that the potential for youth to be untaught such stereotypes and learn acceptance of difference is still high, given we take the time needed for our youth. I also think it is important we “check” our own communities, since it is most likely we will be heard and have an impact. Charara’s poetry does call for change of the current unequal, second class citizenship treatment of Arab Americans. If I had been exposed to his and other poets thought-provoking work earlier, I probably would have used it as an educational tool for my middle school and high school students because poetry can be just as effective as a news article or more so, sometimes. When I teach college classes I will for sure!
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