SCORCHED BIRTH
a
poetry cycle
by John Curl
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book
Selections From Scorched Birth
CONTENTS
THE TRAGEDY AT THE
CORE
MUTED SHADES OF BROWN
THE CLOUDS UNDERSIDES
OUR LIVES ON A SUMMER
BREEZE
THE SUN ROSE ON A
FOGGY
SHEET METAL FLAPS IN THE
BREEZE
ALL OF OUR MEN ARE
GONE
VEIL OF MIST AROUND THE
SUN
A FEW OLD MEN HAVE FOUND SHELTER
IN THE BASEMENT
TOWERS SILHOUETTE AGAINST THE
SKY
FALLING FROM THE
CLOUDS
A ROW OF HILLS
IN EARLIER ATTACKS
VIEW FROM THE BARRED
WINDOW
THE RAVEN SPOKE ABOUT THE
WAR
THE TRAGEDY AT THE
CORE
Information on what's going
on
on the ground is
sketchy.
They only show us the bomber's
eye view.
Reverberations of shelling bounce
off
the mountain sides.
The nervous ladies
chatting
about fashionable
colors.
A pale thin moon circling the
ring.
Misty peaks sink into the
dark surface of the
bay.
Light rippling.
While the mountain passes are
littered
with decomposing corpses
lying
as they died.
No one approaches.
Except a bulldozer driver and
six
jumpy soldiers. He
dumps
dirt on top of the pile.
Yet
in the midst we try
to lead decent lives, create
a
just society, even love and try
to
purify our human soul.
Maybe
we have to just accept
the
contradictions.
Nearby,
a gray wolf with frightened
eyes
dashes across a moonlit
stream.
MUTED SHADES OF
BROWN
walk along the park at
night,
past the small fountain in the
school yard where
women once washed
clothes.
Moonlight filters through
foliage
past the distant
barking
of a beaten dog.
Later that night
multi-colored jasper and the
essence
of trees were reduced to
eating
bark and leaves,
twenty six homes were
burned,
police put an automatic rifle to
her cheek,
a stream of battered cars
crawled
to the outskirts of town
where
hundreds of drunk
soldiers
blocked the road. The civic
center,
an ancient market, now
no longer exists.
An old carpet, frayed
along
the path to the door.
Tropical fish in deep pools
in
the eyes of Emiliano
Zapata.
Strange rhythms beat on a clay
drum.
Sky and earth become
one.
THE CLOUDS'
UNDERSIDES
were dark and ragged
while
their tops shined and
billowed
above the bare hills,
almost
devoid of vegetation
while
not far away, in the grass
by
a whispering stream at
the
very spot where
wilderness
holds back
civilization,
the ruins of an ancient
temple
wince from shrapnel
wounds.
The state of human consciousness
in
our darkest age.
Vehicles scatter in charred
twisted
heaps. Unsafe to go
outside.
They refuse to identify the
bodies.
A small girl with a redhaired rag
doll,
left for dead, at nightfall
crawls away.
Is this our purification by
fire?
OUR LIVES ON A SUMMER
BREEZE
we have nothing but our
hands.
Some fifty thousand
refugees
stream out, the report
states,
independently
confirmed.
Rocket-propelled grenades
punch
holes in all the barn
roofs,
looting rampages along main
street,
no food or medicine getting
through,
she picks up the baby,
cluster bomb explodes,
you prick yourself on a
thorn:
your lover is lying to
you
one drop of blood sits on your
fingertip.
a huge antlered stag silouettes
for an instant
against the night sky.
Rebuilding shattered
dreams.
THE SUN ROSE ON A
FOGGY
rain-soaked rags in the
gutter
chalk drawings of disturbed
children
living in abandoned
houses
blackened roof shingles scattered
across
floors inlaid with precious
stone
piles of broken toys
sinking
into moist earth at the bottom of
the pit
charred dismembered dreams lying
where they died
mass graves strewn
with
rotting hearts and burnt
minds
roof beams lying across the
kitchen table
their village still off
limits
until its goals are
acheived
the ten American
corporations
which own the media
ordered them to leave or be
shot
when she realized that she had to
live bravely
and the sun shines darkness
too
SHEET METAL FLAPS IN
THE BREEZE
jets strafe the country
road
packed with the day's
refugees
fireballs over the vegetable
market
a premature greenness haunts the
fields
blind men wash the
streets
magpies wing above the
ruins
sprouts still encircle the
stump
the eldest would have been eight
years old
she haunted recesses of his
mind
all those wasted years
nothing at the scene
evidenced
a military target
ALL OF OUR MEN ARE
GONE
a rain of frogs
broken pitcher
the point at which hope is
extinguished
muffled explosions echo from the
mountain sides
a cousin shot dead
he thinks they are in
hiding
endless chorus of loss
nestled in the folds of the
valley
the old thatched roof
lumps of black earth in plowed
fields
a clean bare room
walking along the empty
shore
an early spring rain
girl who dreams great
dreams
VEIL OF MIST AROUND THE
SUN
movement of light through the
leaves
her glove in his hand
the pool surrounded by willows,
lilacs, gladioli, irises
city burning for the fifty-fifth
day
tourists replaced by
terrorists
launching a major new
offensive
the vast majority out all night
in rain
impossible to confirm casualty
figures
as air raid sirens sounded again
at mid-morning
along with his two
sons
on the ground is
sketchy
she has the look of a
madwoman
a starry night with
cypresses
I wish you could fill your lungs
with it
A FEW OLD MEN HAVE
FOUND SHELTER IN THE BASEMENT
What kind of love did I feel
ten days hiding in the woods
smoldering tractors and trailers
spinal fractures, every degree burns
allowed to return to the rubble of my home
the roof of the freight depot scattered on the
sidewalk
many crows circling about
the trail along the inlet from the sea
street lamps reflected in puddles
view from the school window
woman beside a cradle
an abundant growth of green moss
TOWERS SILHOUETTE
AGAINST THE SKY
towers silhouette against the
sky
opening the prison
of a three-headed bird
wiring bridges and mountain
tunnels with explosives
a wedding party in front of the
door
a small demon with an insect
body
his face, peacefully radiant,
remote from his torturers
the acrid smell of smoke filling
the streets
hide indoors or get out of
town
many arrived shaking and in
tears
the top floors had
collapsed
an ancient woman sweeping away
the glass and debris
the shrub-covered hills at dusk,
the evening star rising
FALLING FROM THE
CLOUDS
Falling from the clouds like a
swarm of insects
forces were extorting on a
maximum scale
his body a broken egg
shell
sitting alone at the bay
window
sad red roofs with smoking
chimneys
a mass of refugees mulling
along
near the chemical
factories
stray missile hits a large white
drawbridge
under which a barge
passes
an old man at the
tiller
autumn trees in spring
A ROW OF
HILLS
a row of hills, blue in the
evening mist
a few geese pecking at
grass
a woman, hands calloused from
hard work,
bends and picks up
a huge fire raging at the
hospital
a deep crater blown out of one
corner
a stray bomb between a school and
a farmhouse
plunging down from the roof to
the first floor
as firetrucks converged
on
the smoking residential
district
damaging railways and
watermellons
watermains shooting like
geysers
a small globe of earth placed
carefully
upside down on a
gallows
devoured by birds
flashes of catastrophes at
sea
poisoned by the magician's
wand
we seem to be imprisoned in some
cage
these bleak winter
days
lilac hues in the evening
sky
like a field of young tomatoes,
inexpressibly pure
dew appears in the
grass
a sow with a litter of
sucklings
in the twilight of that deep
shadowy elm
how much light there is in
darkness!
IN EARLIER
ATTACKS
in earlier attacks
yesterday
a flame shot out of a swan's
beak
the expression of a sleeping
baby
took refuge in a hole in the
wall
thick black smoke filled the
streets
closer to madness than to
childhood
some bleeding from shrapnel
wounds and others
from the glazed look of
exhaustion
firefighters trapped
inside
the weight of a fabric
while an old fool, fascinated
by
the tricks of the
illusionist,
does not see the blue
demon
next to him playing a
clarinet
VIEW FROM THE BARRED
WINDOW
1
the clouds stayed red long after
the sun had set
over the massive explosions at
the dental clinic,
injuring at least twenty seven
memories
of plants and crustaceans like
gnarled
trees with fantastic roots,
while
the vast majority spent the
night
in the rain, huddled along the
road
cutting through fields of young
green corn
2
the entire side wall was blown
away, leaving
the TV studio with its two top
floors
collapsed, a charred ruin, while
an owl sat
on the withered branch of a
hollow tree and
watched the river, as calm as a
pond,
reflecting light of the gibbous
moon
3
sunset behind clouds
the dreamer tripped over the long
shadows
and fell into a well while the
tide was
out, the water very low, but
twisted hawthorne
bushes, their branches bent low
to one
side by the wind, hampered rescue
efforts, so
the doctors amputated his sense
of compassion
to free him
4
chunks of concrete and broken
glass
scatter over the ground; on
the
horizon a strip of light, above
it immense
dark clouds and slanting streaks
of rain;
many trees lie about uprooted; a
man
leans against the bridge rail,
looks into
the dark water; birds begin
to
sing at the first hint of
dawn
THE RAVEN SPOKE ABOUT
THE WAR
under conditions of
anonymity
1
white-crested waves as far as the
eye can see
killed by
paramilitaries
writers and schoolteachers,
executed yesterday,
shed a golden light over the
fields
a red brick house covered in
ivy
blames the flight of wild
ducks
while an elderly walled
garden
blooming with lilacs and
hawthorn
exhausted, in a state of
shock,
sleeps in doorways and on
sidewalks
2
babbling brooks are caressed by
the spiral of violence
air raid sirens sound confessions
of love
smooth thighs praise grim
pictures
children stare out of windows,
solemn and gloomy,
egrets charbroiled beyond
recognition
food medical supplies glide over
pools of mother's milk
anti-aircraft missile kissed
beyond exhilaration
bodies of foxes crash into
forgiveness
3
first robin of spring balancing
funerals
lawyers pound earthworms for a
sixth day
extremist groups rejoice under
cottonwood trees
spreading sweet nothings like
propaganda on the dance floor
pearl necklaces surround thousand
of refugees
as terrorists hurl passionate
melodies on violins
engulfing the buildings in a
balmy afternoon
4
sparrows whisper about the
troubled province
hydrangea shake the city with
strong intimations
red peonies hit by surface-to-air
missiles
carousels executed on
Sunday
fantasies of crystal shot dead by
police
ethnic hatred snapped the
turtle's endurance
gas masks dumped into corn
flowers
reliable sources
reported
5
pounding the southern city with
strange haunting pictures
featherless birds launch new
attacks against targets
dozens of missiles strike the
tree shaped like a hand
as a parade of naked men seated
on animals of every kind
fire missiles at three-fifteen
a.m.
on the populated part of the
city
helicopters and snipers augment
the usual security forces
with laws of color, unutterably
beautiful
while a grove of olive trees,
dark against the glimmering sky
announces it is sending
additional troops
and jets pummel a broad
swath
across the disturbing tranquility
of a woman
Copyright © 1999, 2001 by John Curl.
All Rights Reserved.