By her tail 49 has dragged my dad
from the barn to the farmhouse porch.
He rests a minute, stands, dust
of the gravel drive rising
from the gulleys cut by his heels.
She is not stupid; she knows the smell
of slaughter on that trailer. In seconds
she'll kick at his ribs and sprint again,
yank him over the volted fence, away
through the corn to the chicken coop.
Who is more stubborn, more animal?
She in an hour will climb the ramp
in her heaviness, beaten, he in a year
will running, bucking, be hauled
to the suburb, the factory, torn
by his heels from his earth.
But for now, each other's simple danger, they
go tensing, Homeric, bound
in their clash to the dust they rile--
as if such strife could undo
their fortunes, could settle their debts
in the books of men.
--Previously published in Seeds of Fire, Smokestack Books, 2008. Used with permission.
Bamboo Bridge
by Doug Anderson
We cross the bridge, quietly.
The bathing girl does not see us
till we've stopped and gaped like fools.
There are no catcalls, whoops,
none of the things that soldiers do;
the most stupid of us is silent, rapt.
She might be fourteen or twenty,
sunk thigh deep in the green water,
her woman's pelt a glistening corkscrew,
a wonder, a wonder she is; I forgot.
For a moment we all hold the same thought,
that there is life in life and war is shit.
For a song we'd all go to the mountains,
eat pineapples, drink goat's milk,
find a girl like this, who cares
her teeth are stained with betel nut,
her hands as hard as feet.
If I can live another month it's over,
and so we think a single thought,
a bell's resonance.
And then she turns and sees us there,
sinks in the water, eyes full of hate;
the trace broken.
We move into the village on the other side.
--Reprinted with the permission of Doug Anderson; previously published in "The Moon Reflected Fire" by Doug Anderson, Alice James Books, 1994 and "Seeds of Fire," Smokestack Books, 2008.
I am from workers, fishers, swilers
by Andrew Taylor
I am from workers, fishers, swilers* --
my grandma's father was called "Dawe Gunner"
a sharpshooter he picked off old harps
from afar
Swinging his father’s musket to the left or right…
But born and bred
away
from the open seas
those hungry seasons-
like the Dirty Thirties
of my great uncles and aunts
when they say some ate grass
under the faithless Union Jack,
I was nursed on their ruin,
Their dark sweet stories…
Descending from their line
I saw life through their lenses
those eyes of dark
or light complected Newfoundlanders
the restless Scots,
of the unmentionable ‘Labrador Wives’
(we are robbed of our Metis history to this day)
of those gentle workmen, oppressed apprentices,
good churchmen bound to heartless merchants,
communists of the heart without theory,
an ancestry stretching
back
back
into
the guts and holes of devon and cornwall,
in the first Elizabeth’s reign,
those English
southwest counties,
and later more yet arrived
hungry and afraid
from the irish ports, old Waterford,
fleeing famine
into the dream-time of the new found land's
fiddlers and swilers:
their plankerdown "Times"
the only time they could legally dream;
into the present
the kitchen refrains of the women:
who tell me "we either laugh or cry, my son,
yes, we either laugh or cry".
and did I forget to say
I had a fierce grandma
who solemnly told me:
“I’d rather be home on a meal a day
than live high in godless Canada”?
*A “swiler” is the old Newfoundlander’s term for a seal hunter who “goes out to the ice.” Until the mid 20th century the Newfoundland fishers worked for merchants who operated on a solely company-store basis.
Hiroshima
by Sherwood Ross
I am the Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto
A graduate of Emory College, Atlanta,
Pastor of the Methodist Church of Hiroshima
I was in a western suburb when the bomb struck
Like a sheet of sunlight.
Fearing for my wife and family
I ran back into the city
Where I saw hundreds and hundreds fleeing
Every one of them hurt in some way.
The eyebrows of some were burned off
Skin hung from their faces and hands
Some were vomiting as they walked
On some naked bodies the burns had made patterns
Of the shapes of flowers transferred
From their kimonos to human skin.
Almost all had their heads bowed
Looked straight ahead, were silent
And showed no expression whatever.
Under many houses I heard trapped people screaming
Crying for help but there were none to help
And the fire was coming.
I came to a young woman holding her dead baby
Who pleaded with me to find her husband
So he could see the baby one last time.
There was nothing I could do but humor her.
By accident I ran into my own wife
Both she and our child were alive and well.
For days I carried water and food to the wounded and the dying.
I apologized to them: “Forgive me,” I said, “for not sharing your burden.”
I am the Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto
Pastor of the Methodist Church of Hiroshima
I was in a western suburb when the bomb struck
Like a sheet of sunlight.
--copyright Sherwood Ross. The above poem is based on the content of the book “Hiroshima” by John Hersey. Sherwood Ross is a Miami-based reporter and publicist. Reach him at sherwoodr1@yahoo.com.
