More Poems I Want to Write

White Heron Rises Over Blackwater by Mary Oliver

I wonder what it is that I will accomplish today

If anything can be called that marvelous word.

It won’t be

My kind of work, which is only putting words on a page,

The pencil

Haltingly calling up

The light of the world,

Yet nothing appearing on paper half as bright

As the mockingbird’s verbal hilarity

In the still unleafed shrub in the churchyard-

Or the white heron rising over the swamp and the darkness,

His yellow eyes and broad wings wearing

The light of the world in the light of the world-

Ah yes, I see him.

He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.

In June 2012, I wrote a blog post inspired by this poem and by the images striking me at the beginning of my service. Now, a week before I leave my site, there are different images filling my mind, spilling out of me in the form of tears, bursts of laughter, and, now, words: the poems I want to write.

The wobbling legs of the crew of toddlers in my host family’s compound who race to greet me and be the first to throw their arms around my legs.

The two lines on the pregnancy test and the wide eyes of the young teenager who came to me in search of medicine for when you haven’t gotten your period.

The streaks in my vision for hours after standing in the rain to watch the lightning.

The circle of ash and rubble where my neighbor’s hut had stood just the day before.

The solemn face of the chief of Khossanto as he pronounced that he would make it illegal to burn mercury without the retorts we had extended there.

The bottle of water with floating sticks that I was instructed to drink to cure my stomach ailments.

The red rock of the Spires jutting out of the mountaintop as we approached and looked for a place to camp.

The flow of women with empty basins towards the water tower on days when the water cuts out extra early, their looks of desperation increasing with every dry faucet they pass.

Flakes of gold in an outstretched palm.

The seven-foot cobra literally snaking up the dry waterfall.

The sealed labia of a woman undergoing cervical cancer screening and her contorted face as the speculum entered her radically mutilated genitals.

Seny’s grin as I make a tricky shot on the basketball court.

The parade of men walking home from the mines at dusk in Kharakhena, the red dirt covering them a stark contrast to the gold they had been seeking.

The gang of girls singing in the neighboring compound, straightening up and switching to the national anthem once they realized we were filming.

My real mom and my host mom pulling away tearfully from an embrace that spoke the words they could not speak to each other.

These are exactly the poems I want to write.