Monday, May 5, 2014

'O' Lucie


In response to ‘Carrowmore,’ the first poem in Lucie Brock Broido’s book of poetry, The Master Letters. Below is the poem, ‘Carrowmore’ written by Lucie Brock-Broido. I’ve written a poem in response to hers, inspired by the poem, Hamlet, the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and thoughts I’ve been having about death.

*Carrowmore is a cemetery outside Sligo, Ireland. The cremated remains of the land’s original inhabitants are buried there, marked by the circumference of the stones

Carrowmore

All about Carrowmore
the lambs Were blotched blue, belonging.

They were waiting for carnage or
Snuff. This is why they are born

To begin with, to end.
Ruminants do not frighten

At anything--gorge in the soil, butcher
Noise, the mere graze of predators.

All about Carrowmore
The rain quells for three days.

I remember how cold I was, the botched
Job of traveling. And just so.

Wherever I went I came with me.
She buried her bone barrette

In the ground's woolly shaft.
A tear of her hair, an old gift

To the burnt other who went
First. My thick braid, my ornament--

My belonging I
Remember how cold I will be.




‘O’ Lucie

For the time you spent at Carrowmore
among the sheep
blotched blue and dying
watching how we enter
from where we leave

In the comfort of a womb
one dressed in flesh
and one in mud,

to stay so short a time between.

The trees here
will live on
longer than we will,

won’t they?

Bloom again in summer.
Close up, the veins
Of Commiphora trees/ are blue
like ours.

If/ when the earth grew warm
I cut a limb
would it
Stain my hand?
And does that mean it lives/ or dies?

We are all/ with dirty nails
digging our own shape
in the ground.

O’ Lucie,

We are carnage.
We are blotched blue.
We are snuff.
All else lives.

We are but travellers here.

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