SCORCHED BIRTH

a poetry cycle

by John Curl

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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.

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