Writing by Susan Smith Nash, with podcasts. Works include poetry, creative writing, memoirs and writing from various places, literary theory, humanities, and responses to film, texts, and places
Friday, January 21, 2005
Play the Podcast.
It's night.
Do you hear the rustling of the mango trees?
They say they are a nuisance - with hard fruit
like me, falling down, yet
the tree still grows in spite of broken limbs,
of a core that is too tender to bear its weight.
Overnight, the breeze turned Antarctic --
we watch shooting stars under the Southern Cross;
Chill greeting for my tour of life behind bars,
thick bolted chain and the rust
of a Paraguayan mental hospital,
women I visit
mirrors or memory?
I feel most welcome here,
speaking a Guaraní-tinged language of dreams;
my destiny to see Self reflected in a woman
electroconvulsive therapy
not a cure but at least a way to forget
life means a long, extended negotiation
with oblivion;
beautiful young autistic boy
sitting cross-legged on the cement courtyard
staring straight ahead, body caught rhythmic & repetitive
like post-traumatic stress, like post-sexual assault, like
life in an incomprehensible world; waking up under a mango tree,
fruit falling like sorrow
softening up before spoiling
the morning's stroll
into another new day we only think is new...
the young man dying of AIDS in the prison told me
"I'm between life and death" tattoos stretched out over bones
needles are not good here, w/sharp sweet stench
at least he had a mattress & a wooden cot
how much better than sleeping under a bridge
in a crate, on a cold July night near the Río Paraguay
smelling the caldo de pescado of the Lido Bar w/
Mercedes parked on the calle, young girls leaning over old men;
doesn't it seem justified to steal from the rich?
I run shakily, high-heeled,
carrying my contraband of dreams, does that make me unique?
we've got big dreams.
we've all got big dreams.
what does it matter.
Let them move to the city, you say.
But at least in the country, they had free air & pecans falling
about in November, the bright orange of persimmons draping creeks
those dear, sweet nights of looking up at a full moon
putting up preserves, feigning self-sufficiency
where race, tribe, language, origin no longer matter,
you're not having to be a parasite to survive;
Castiglione's Art of the Courtier now in Governor's palace;
play god or play capricious Puck
mask over mask over mask so they know you by your roles
& not by the sad, bright pressure of oblivion
turning wood into bowls
bowls into a sad, young Paraguayan boy
living surrounded by women
gentle in theory not predatory
like dreams instilled in you
devouring you alive;
someone else's dreams
define slavery:
nother's values articulated w/electricity
strapped to the head, held down body by women
a kind of body you will soon forget
boy in the body of every bowl
turning turning turning turning
transformation is finite
that is the true nightmare
& you fill the hollow bowl
like body w/bright foil-wrapped distractions
sweet like what you're now denying yourself;
pecans fall from your trees like joy
crunching underfoot money
directed into the cycles
of/on dreams.
Those pecans are not pecans at all.
They're mangos, and they're raw.
Very very raw.
Susan Smith Nash
September 2000
Asuncion, Paraguay
Monday, January 17, 2005
Thinking "surlitudinous" thoughts, crossing a marvellous portal in
Tulsa, Oklahoma, for the Fringe Journal
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SURLITUDINOUS
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Play the PodCast
Barrels squandered palm and mango,
my hands are lovely, all squishy,
just the way you like it. Poof! she said, not growlingly
and I concurred. We have such soft polish, yes?
Sleeping is not easy, dear.
The road ahead sanded stinging nettles
Sedona and a little western-style saddle;
On the side and kinda angry
I started to cry when the man gave me
five crumpled $20s and a packet of new herring.
Angly, squarish, curvellicious, emblickled.
I have a ways to go before I awaken voluntarily,
unless, of course, I am in those arms.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
KOOLAU CALDERA, South of Kaneohe (poem). The vertical, emerald-green mountain side is, in reality, the edge of a caldera, and if you look closely, you realize that you're in the middle of a dormant volcano as you drive down Kamehameha Highway, or the newer H-3, from Honolulu to Kaneohe Bay. It is absolutely spectacular. One has to write a poem, so I did.
KOOLAU CALDERA, SOUTH OF KANEOHE
Thousands of years, or mere moments?
The fire is now emerald, hard, and as elusive
as roads winding through Colombian yungas --
but this is Hawaii, and the fire is internal;
smiles, elaborate signing, a stylized movement of hips and feet;
the drama is in the despair
the rainbow's end I saw terminating
in the Honolulu airport rental car lot --
treasure is something you take out and drive?
I don't think so ...
this is the season of rains and forbidden dreams
the images brush my consciousness
awakened by small, shy sharks
just learning to react to blood in water;
I really shouldn't wade in the shallows like this,
bleeding from so many emotional wounds --
the shield volcano erected walls;
glassy, shocking the eyes with lush, exotic heartache
and a moral compass spinning insane 360s,
trying to tell us not to worry too much
watch the waters cascading down the dark basalt
then let the cares sink into the same, quiet cave
where all our childhood friends slipped --
disappeared to heaven, or to the Eden we call "ring of fire"
because we are the eternal strangers here;
we, the migratory birds too exhausted by the beating of wings
to even think of singing, with feathers like
flat leaves dripping rain but no more tears:
you're here with me now
coconut fiber mats, fishbone and shell curtains,
platters of papaya, mango, and pineapple
a tropical cliche, except for the fire just beneath the surface:
this is life in a caldera --
dreaming, with drama, a hand outstretched, a bird singing
never lonely.
November 29, 2004
Kaneohe, Hawaii
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
CASPIAN SKIES (poem). I wrote this poem in January, 2003, while sitting in the rooftop restaurant at the top of the Radisson Hotel, which overlooked the Caspian Sea. It is one of the most beautiful views I can think of, and I love returning there as often as I can. From that point, you can see the gorgeous cerulean blue of the sea, offshore drilling platforms, onshore production platforms, the 'Old City' (Ichiri Sheher) with the Maiden's Tower, caravansarai on the old Silk Road, ancient walled fortress, and the palace of the Shirvan Shah.
When the edge of the sea
merges with the sky –
clouds or haze?
heart or mind?
Life, if I could manage it,
blended between sea and horizon...
Infinity is possible
when I bleed tears like this.
I drink air, breathe the ocean’s froth.
Boundaries only define themselves
when I try to deny their existence.
Philosophy is my favorite haze;
the artifice of self
or at least when thinking I’m inside
that small, little place of belonging.
January 6, 2003
Baku, Azerbaijan
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Play the podcast.
ASUNCION (ASCENSION)
the night is hot
unbearably hot
I sleep on the floor
no breeze enters the window
traffic noises 5 stories below & night sounds
from the brothel down the street, drunken singing
accompanied by harps & guitars & songs
played over and over from a pirated CD --
the smell of diesel exhaust
settling into the pores of the city
ozone & other supercharged ions
make me long for you more
my world is between dream and day
the mattress on the floor
shudders when trucks rumble down the cobbled streets
heavy with goods undocumented & untrackable
like my mind imagining, wakeful
my body trembling in response
to memories traversing this heart of hope
& still you're half a world away
I sweat in my sleep
my arms, my legs
involuntarily searching; I do not perceive
the half-heard sound of sobbing
a young girl realizing for the first time
her body is a vehicle driven by someone else
the moment she gives up dreaming;
water splashing in the courtyard
she tries to wash the smells from her hands
the rest she gives to the poinsettia tree
its star-like leaves and yellow blossoms
rousing that dismal corner of this once-grand house,
its history
created its own oblivion.
but I am asleep four doors away;
my sheet will not peel away
the pillow will not muffle your voice
remembered from a world & a lifetime away;
we have not yet met
but soon we will; now
our moments are still on the other side of dreams
enigmatic, immaculate, joyous & sad
like starlight behind a film of clouds
when I awaken I see the dawn
cast shadows on the paint peeling from my walls
the tears that have stained my ceiling;
the mattress is warm on the cool concrete floor
your breath is already inside me
my hands somewhere brushing your neck
flowers bloom in the trees outside the window
the trucks grinding gears, the brothel silent
the daylight scents are sweet & only mildly sad;
morning is, thankfully, what happens
every day
NIGHT TIDES
Play the PodCast....
surges and tides
terrible like salt or tears
its wake of foam and fears
suspended in the gelatinous seas
and that’s how you found me –
my skin peeled back
as though we had forever
as though we would be together
as though the sweet pain of newness
would clamp its hot, tender hand over mine
and my skin would smooth over
but after the dream was over you found me –
like water left behind
in one tide pool after another
kelp and brine and
driftwood intertwined
the occasional shell
soft pulp peeled back
and smoother than skin
still craving
the memory of those tides
my empty arms and impervious surge
suspended in my gelatinous nights
Play the PodCast ...
We pulled ourselves away
from the shrill tangle of lies and guns –
a small bench, a twist of roses –
the smell of sweet, green grass
and a fire burned down
into the rocks and sand
Your eyes, hot and wet,
singular coins, unblinking,
end-over-end
sinking into the depths of my waters
cool and clear like a first encounter
untinged by disappointment
ropes still coiled and fresh
smelling of jasmine and rain
under twists of roses
we pull ourselves further
away
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Listen to the PODCAST of "Lake Swimming"
LAKE SWIMMING
The technique is different.
You ease in, trying not to slip on rocks,
then you feel the mud slip between your toes,
the muck and slime clinging to your feet
and the possibility of leeches
goose-fleshing you to go chest-first
into the cool, yellowish liquid,
thicker than pool water
thinner than the blood
you feel throbbing up through your chest,
your belly, your face
and while you’re catching your breath
you imagine fish swimming in parallel schools
beneath you, each layer of water
colder and darker than the one above
like memory
the surface is still warm and bright
after all, it is still happening
you’re 55 kilometers northwest of St. Petersburg
swimming in a lake not far
from the Finnish border, fairy tale mushrooms and ferns
softer than a newly-hatched chick
the kind they used to dye and sell for Easter
in the local TG&Y store in your Oklahoma home
and then just one layer down,
water like the Vermont lake where you’d dash in
swimming back and forth to the swim buoys
Quebecois French blaring from radios
and noisy boats, piloted by teenagers
laughing and throwing beer cans at you
if they noticed you at all –
a layer lower – wind warnings in flooded Arizona arroyos
canyon edges carved from orange-red Navajo sandstone;
you turn for breath and there is only water –
geology feels like that sometimes
your father’s maps are faded,
the lamp at his drafting table flickering and uncertain
and deeper, the fish are larger
the images massive, dark, and poorly defined –
a moonlit night in Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania –
you, swimming alone across a small lake,
cabin lights flanking the shore,
your classmates telling you
it was wrong to swim alone
(but you always do) –
and finally, that dark, bright Nevada day at Donner Lake –
Jane looking thin and radiant
only a year before the schizophrenia
took her nights from her days,
her days from her arm, tracked with pain
and self-lapses she called “finding God”
or simply “her religion” –
and your face
innocence and self-assurance
were the same thing those days;
she would hit & run –
you would keep swimming
The unbearable cold
makes you prefer lap-swimming
in pools these days.
Friday, January 07, 2005
I descended into the fire; my personal fear comes alive
in this ravine curling sidelong the highway
flames leap from the asphaltic shale
an artesian well of fire
I think Johnny Cash & Zarathustra;
did my dad & Nietzsche have so much in common?
Ring of Fire & Self-Overcoming –
gales cannot extinguish this blaze of glory
& associated smells; Oklahoma oil in a jar from the Hunton formation
my dad talking about the well near the Wynnewood refinery
& my brother sneaking charred hotdogs off the backyard grill
all the while, I'm here in the Absheron Peninsula, knowing
I’ve been here before; many times
We are nearing an ancient temple
Zoroastrians worshipped this same eternal flame
two thousand years ago, muffled by paisley carpets
Good vs. Evil
weavers repeated flames with brilliant wool and silk
in infinite tones of scarlet, burgundy, & simple red
thousands of miles away, my aunt served her daughter's wedding cake on silver
saved by an uncle who said Berlin was like Dresden –
fire bombing was a terrible way to discipline a city
some streets burned for days, asphalt ignited
where water had been long supplanted by dirt & defoliated dreams
my heart burns
my head erupts in paisley
just that small fact that history changes
but the same earth burns
the true good is in the flame itself
purity comes from the inner core of fire
thousands of years, we sometimes discover the ancient truths
sometimes not –
it’s just that now I see the way history was & will always be…
& my bones weep
like wax
passed close to the flame