haiti on my mind
“ooh georgia, no peace I find
just an old sweet song
keeps georgia on my mind”
— stuart gorrell
— for edwidge danticat
rooted in the same memory
and for arthur h., who loves this country
*
you don’t leave this country
you don’t leave it
one day you think you’re going far far away
going away for good
leaving the clouds behind
drunk on wandering
heavy with fragility
letting the towering clouds knot and unknot
arabesques in the sky
one day you think you’re going away
letting the city die
then revive
phoenix overfed with a thousand dreams of despair
rain uprooting the last conversation
between trees with the earth
one day you think you’re leaving
letting the sea
shrink
from so much sorrow and waste
letting the rivers fall silent
until they burn up
like the last note of a blues song
you don’t leave this country
you don’t leave it
one day the smells return to you
far off in the world
return from far away
one day the diverted smells
the smells one day resurge
from a distant past
those from childhood and those strong ones from today
mingled until you can’t stand it
hopelessly mingled
one day a woman’s allure
in the faraway world
as she wearily walks past the dust of her dreams
which drown one by one
born in low waters
one day her approach
that drains the futility of life
and majestic its fragrance entwines once more
this song of a bygone time
like a lost sob
you don’t leave this country
you don’t leave it
nor even go away
one day hope and hopelessness merge
like yesterday and tomorrow until you no longer know
like these echoes of day in sleep
sustained until you can’t stand it
these shreds of memory
childhood refrains to the night of the star
you don’t leave this country
nor even go away
from this land
from this woman
go out perhaps
and yet
liège, october 6, 2007
stagioni
now and again
my senses track childhood
behind the words
childhood of storms and scorching earthquakes
behind the unlivable
rooms of mist
with which rain should I write
the sounds striking my body
as the invisible draws near
with which extinct cloud should I say the being
stowed in his memories
c’era una volta
once upon a time
there was an eternal child of summer
who would have liked to know the man
of drizzle and silenced earthquakes
still this burst of being
in the beyond of myself
in the beyond of ourselves
imperceptible flow
interweaving the seasons of words
which word for this wrenching
which word for this man of winter
unknown to childhood
which word only one
to summon cyclones and fogs
to say bald mountains and eternal snow
like a single river
cold and abundant just yesterday
white and dry today
now and again
set above bullets
that waltz with unending insanity
a small chair of straw
at the foot of a parasol mahogany tree
paris, november 7, 1993
Translator’s note: Stagioni is the Italian word for “seasons.”
the skin I love
I love skin
cracked skin
stretch-marked skin
skin that splits
stretches folds and doesn’t break
that shamelessly flaunts
its wrinkles
skin that’s faced
a thousand and one wounds
and never surrendered
peeling skin
from so many struggles with life
I love skin as smooth
as a barely opened bloom
skin undefiled
by any scratch
skin with a jet-black smile in the dark
by turns dull and glowing
alabaster and rosy skin
skin restrained
by inexperience mixed with modesty
ready to change texture and hue
at the slightest emotion
skin showcasing the intimate
princess-like skin
in the filthiest mire
courtesan skin sprawled in silk
I love skin steeped
in curiosity and lust
skin that doesn’t make a fuss
that gets so dizzy with pleasure
it can’t save its own skin
creaky skin
that keeps moving
skin like an old carrosserie
seasoned with yesteryear’s luster
nostalgic skin
without bitterness
eternally thirsty skin
that says yesterday but thinks
today more than tomorrow
skin that lives believe me
hic et nunc skin
skin adorned with impatience
drunk always from stirring up the blood
I love skin
that smells of ylang-ylang
skin with the smell of lemongrass at daybreak
or when the day hesitates procrastinates
before tumbling into night
musky skin
smelling like mangoes from childhood
skin with the smell of exotic fruits
like simmering peaches or apples
green tea skin fragrant with elsewhere
skin smelling of sweat
then of bougainvillea
I love skin most of all
that has lived skin
that has joyfully rubbed itself
against a thousand other skins
skin that is skin
I love your skin
québec, april 13, 2012