Friday, May 30, 2003

MEDIA TOOL

Last week NPR had a story on in the morning about a family from somewhere in Africa, slaves and refugees, who had been resettled in Denver (having been rejected by Massachusetts); the only things in dad’s new world from his old world had to do with farming, which was once what he did.  I couldn’t stop thinking about this guy, how disruptive, how isolating it must be for him.  And I couldn’t really imagine it, but I wrote a poem about it anyway to quiet the voices.

Then this week NPR had another story on in the morning about a woman in Mali, or near there, who had to sweep all day to keep the desert sand out of the old family house which was far, far out into the isolation of the wastelands.  She too got under my skin and took up residence in my tender cranium.  Another poem resulted.  And here they both are.  And they say advertising doesn’t work.

Both my parents lived in bondage
I have always hunger known
the past three years I lived in camps
that no one ever called a home
They turned me back from Holyoke
Because their people have no work
I packed two bags, we rode a plane;
so this is what it’s like in Denver
Christian woman screaming for her
translator and someone laid
out napkins for us but no food
it’s so unreal
gave my boy a hideous
toy doll - a bear they say -
of cloth that’s like the U.S. flag;
he looked at it and screamed - no wonder -
Don’t put metal in the micro
I won’t even touch the micro
in Denver there is much I find
unprecedented, tiring, hard
to understand, to be well understood,
to look or even, sometimes, just to feel
like the rest of them, my neighbors
yes I’m grateful every second for
my life here now but this is all
so very strange
they take me to the seven leven
pull up in the parking lot and
there she sits - a filthy tractor,
nicest one I’ve ever seen
my farm back then was such a dump
but I grew crops
and drove a tractor
just like this one
this I know
I go inside
the multiplicity of choices
never ceases to amaze me
I have too much to understand
but there they are - a barrel of
fresh ears of corn
exactly like my own from home
I cradle one with thirsty fingers
this I understand.

This is the house
that I was born in
the sun comes up here
every morning
this little hut
and so much sand
the desert sea
a lonely land
I have a task
I work all day
it rides my dreams
cant get away
I sweep the desert
from my door
It’s never done
I sweep some more
My mother did this
so did hers
here in this hut
so many years
I love my children
live my life
It’s all I know
it will suffice
we have some water
goats and sheep
at night I go
inside to sleep
my sandy little
desert hut
I sweep you while
my eyes are shut