Asuncion (poem). From 1996 to 2000, I traveled to Paraguay approximately three times per year. Part of my enthusiasm was motivated by the desire to get to know Paraguayan women poets, their work, and their contexts. I was also motivated by the desire to bridge the cultures -- American and Paraguayan -- by setting up programs that encouraged partnering. As a result, I became involved with many programs, including educational exchanges, film festivals, art, culture, trade, and developing a free trade zone. It was a fascinating time, and I was lucky to have been able to gain an appreciation of Guarani culture, and the unique dialect of Spanish spoken there, which also reflected a certain mindset, unique to the world.
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
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
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Night Tides (poem). This is a poem written about the concept of North Africa and immanent out-migration to France, or to a state of mind that speaks to extreme despair.
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
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
Twists of Roses (poem). This poem was written when contemplating the similarities between roses, rose stems, rose thorns, and barbed wire.
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
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
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