Trethewey



Incident
We tell the story every year—

how we peered from the windows, shades drawn—

though nothing really happened,

the charred grass now green again.
We peered from the windows, shades drawn,

at the cross trussed like a Christmas tree,

the charred grass still green. Then

we darkened our rooms, lit the hurricane lamps.
At the cross trussed like a Christmas tree,

a few men gathered, white as angels in their gowns.

We darkened our rooms and lit hurricane lamps,

the wicks trembling in their fonts of oil.
It seemed the angels had gathered, white men in their gowns.

When they were done, they left quietly. No one came.

The wicks trembled all night in their fonts of oil;

by morning the flames had all dimmed.
When they were done, the men left quietly. No one came.

Nothing really happened.

By morning all the flames had dimmed.

We tell the story every year.
■


Hello Friends,
The former U.S. poet laureate Natasha Trethewey is a master at picking the perfect poetic form for her subject matter. The form above, wherein the 2nd and 4th lines of the preceding stanza become the 1st and 3rd lines of the next stanza, is called a pantoum — and it is absolutely perfect for conveying a haunting incident that gets told over and over again.
Sometimes the incidents that haunt us the most are those where "nothing really happened" — If this has happened to you, consider trying to write a pantoum about it.
Enjoy.

Ellen

P.S. Natasha Trethewey has also been featured for Meet Me in 811's Poem-A-Day April 29, 2014, Poem-A-Day April 18, 2010, and Poem-A-Day April 16, 2009.

Hello Friends,


There is a special little group of poems that are about a slip between words, misreading or miswriting, and today's poem-a-day by Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello belongs to that group. See also Natasha Trethewey's "Letter" or Sherman Alexie's "Psalm Like It Hot."
Enjoy.

Ellen


Above the Thin Shell of the World
I fell in love with a North Korean
by falling asleep on his shoulder
in a South Korean subway.
Later, perhaps because of that,
I misread the Arabic word gurfa,
not as the amount of water
that can be held in one hand,
but the amount of wonder.
As if one's entire history could be
measured one handful at a time.
As if we knew another way.
■

Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello's "Above the Thin Shell of the World" can be found in The Quarry: A Social Justice Poetry Database, maintained by the DC-based poetry organization Split This Rock.