The Poems I Want to Write

In Mary Oliver’s poem “White Heron Rises Over Blackwater”, she puzzles over her work of writing poetry and how to capture the world on the written page. She ends by beautifully describing a heron’s flight out of a dark swamp, and concluding, “He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.”

One morning last week, Pat and I were reading this poem together, and upon finishing it, I looked up to see a woman walking past our gate, a 20 liter bucket of water balanced nonchalantly on her head, a baby strapped to her back.  She walked with more grace than I could muster while carrying nothing but myself.  I thought to myself, “She is exactly the poem I want to write.”

My first month in site has been full of these images.  Some of beauty and grace, some that could break hearts.  My camera was destroyed by Mbour, the city of sand, so I have attempted to capture these images mentally.  And if I were a poet, these would be the poems I would write.

The broken jelly shoes on the feet of all of the students in the students versus teachers soccer game, and the same shoes on the feet of some of the teachers as well.

The henna-decorated feet of a bride sticking out from where she is crouched with brilliant fabric covering the rest of her body on the day of the wedding where she does not show her face.

The young men crushing rocks into powder in the all-consuming quest to for the gold that brings money and numerous health problems.

The rhythmic pounding of women crushing grain to prepare for a baptism, three women alternating pounding into a giant mortar and pestle.

The ceremonious pouring of tea from one shot glass to another in order to create the foam that must not be drunk when the glasses are passed around.

The stack of three plastic chairs, each missing a different leg, arranged carefully to create a functional sitting space.

The speed with which plants sprouted up and covered our yard in potential snake habitat after only three rains.

The old men who spend their days sitting on the side of the road, moving only to find shade on the other side, their teeth stained from constant tea and cola nuts.

The babies who reach out and touch my white skin and then burst into tears when I turn around and display my white face.

The young girl who continues to gag as she shields herself from the teacher who is hitting her with a rope for refusing to take the remainder of her de-worming medication after vomiting up the first pill.

The lightning that spreads across the entire sky in a storm’s display of power.

My host brother’s little girl reaching up and kissing the angel figurine my mom gave me as I was leaving the states, the closest thing to a doll she has ever beheld.

These are exactly the poems I want to write.