#forché

[theshatterednotes]

Carolyn Forché

[ceejayheff]

the colonel

WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went   out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them- selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.                                                                                     May 1978

Carolyn Forché

[beththebizarre]

The Colonel By CAROLYN FORCHÉ

“This poem contains an obscenity, actually, I believe it contains two obscenities.”

WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went   out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them- selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.                                                                                     May 1978

All lines from “The Colonel” from The Country Between Us by Carolyn Forché, Copyright (c) 1981 by Carolyn Forché. Originally appeared in Women’s International Resource Exchange. Used by Permission of HarperCollins Publishers. Additional territory: Virginia Barber, William Morris Agency, 1325 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019Source: The Country Between Us (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1981)

[liliesofpur-i-ty]

“It is playing chess with us.”

[liliesofpur-i-ty]

It is never night when you die.

[liliesofpur-i-ty]

le silence de Dieu est Dieu

[lunnule]

reasons for wanting. or maybe simply wanting.

I want a tattoo on my left forearm, next to my elbow. I want it to look like a feather. or a leaf maybe. actually, I want it to look like it could be both. I want it to look like somebody carelessly drew it with black ink and a paintbrush. I want it to be medium sized. no: big. noticeable  - wait ...

anyway. the details have time to work themselves out.

I want a tattoo because I want to take a risk. is that a stupid reason to get a tattoo? maybe. but it's me who gets to decide what a good reason is. 

I want a tattoo to mark the fact that I have finally understood something - or several related things. a coming of age thing. isn't that what tattoos usually mark? historically I mean? in other cultures? does that matter? do I need that justification?

anyway. what I've learned is that I need to be gentle. with me. with others. or maybe what I've really learned, is that there is a right way to be pushing myself. with honesty. and patient persistence. open stance and raised chin. 

why am I even writing this? understanding is in the bones, not in the eyes. it's living.

so in the spirit of being gentle, here's a thing I wrote yesterday. I normally wouldn't let it stand on its own, adding a self-deprecating comment to make sure nobody misses how much I despised myself for being so corny. but this stops now.

/

I want fingers to trace constellations between the stars on my skin

I want my cells to bloom in their wake

// 15 May 2014

.

also partially inspired by this:

The heart is the toughest part of the body. Tenderness is in the hands. - Carolyn Forché

[darkling--i-listen]

THE COLONEL ; CAROLYN FORCHÉ

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.