The Friday Poetry Cottage #2: Disaster
Suffering is a part of life that pertains to all of us, at least sometimes. Poetry has been thought to mitigate the pain associated with mishaps and hollowness that we often feel. However, it happens that the pain is actually quite sudden, and there's no easy way to respond to it. Thus, let's focus on the subject of disaster that can unexpectedly turn our lives upside down. The guests of the today's Friday Poetry Cottage are: Mathew Harris, Neha Basnet and William Stafford.
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Haiti by Mathew Harris
January twelfth two thousand and ten
witnessed near annihilation and destruction
of the Haitian nation
whereby countless/ nameless individuals
e’en the strongest Herculean type men
crushed by humungous slabs of building facades
practically demolishing every creation
since this island settled, which indigenous tribes
sought safety in any geologic den
seeking solace and salvation from wrath of nature
by paying obeisance via oblation
perhaps giving credence to clear water
in tandem with rooster and hen
that laid a golden egg,
especially as encroaching savages affected violation
particularly when Europeans foisted
forfeiture of land with primitive implement like pen
no matter that travesty, trickery, mockery,
et cetera wrought humiliation
pleading invaders to forsake such actions
that rent asunder culture beseeched god when
these brutish, nasty and (shortish) simians to cease desecration
yet the peoples of this dominion rose
from the ashes like the phoenix like bird
no mattered genetic pool
underwent white washing from scouring influx
from western thumping proselytizers,
which alien beliefs hard to swallow like curd
and basically bribery (with lustrous trinkets)
and those coveted legal tender bucks
foisted/ forced the unpleasant alternative
(wanton slaughter) to be clearly heard
yet within the very fiber of tropical man grove persons
patiently lined up their ducks
and declared as the first African American peoples
INDEPENDENCE to be the word
whence adulation, elation, inspiration akin to the sound winged fowl clucks
until the advent of the major earthquake
composed by this aging hippy type nerd
whereat remote control san voodoo affect every bloody word!
When we suffered, you just scrolled down by Neha Basnet
Did you see the photos on Facebook
Of Children crying besides their Mothers’ dead body
Sickly patches on their clothes slowly drifting
Then forgotten, like pies in the sky?
Image of children with limbs spilt
Sleeping on the ground in cold winter,
sheets stretched unto their waists
It was an earthquake – a scene difficult to imagine
An unfriendly wave, a sin.
You needn’t imagine. There were photos and videos
Shared abundantly on social networking sites, your life!
You saw? You felt sorry briefly? You too wrote RIP?
Then scrolled down to like the earthquake pouty selfies?
Their lives have turned into insipid speech
And poverty and haplessness;
Half-naked children laughing, flies flying over their sore
Their suffering couldn’t be subsided,
Photos taken and then left, alone.
November by William Stafford
From the sky in the form of snow
comes the great forgiveness.
Rain grown soft, the flakes descend
and rest; they nestle close, each one
arrived, welcomed and then at home.
If the sky lets go some day and I'm
requested for such volunteering
toward so clean a message, I’ll come.
The world goes on and while friends touch down
beside me, I too will come.
Before you go...
Don’t forget to check out the previous editions of the Friday Poetry Cottage: