To honor this date, I'm posting a few of my earthquake poems from the last ten years. At the bottom of the post, you'll find a new poem from this week.
These are about my own experiences. I wrote about what happened in prose here and here and here, and then rehashed it again and again through the whole rest of that year. There are many posts in my archives about the situation in Haiti and what was happening to other people, but my poems are very personal and don't reflect anybody else's views or experience.
In April 2010, I posted Earthquake Vocabulary.
In May I posted Morning, about missing my husband while I was in the US and he was still in Haiti doing relief work.
In November I was back in Haiti, still struggling with the emotional aftermath, and I wrote Wave. Later that month I wrote Ordinary, about how much I appreciated the normal day to day aspects of my life after being away from home for so long.
In January 2013, for the third anniversary, I shared This Quilt.
In December 2013, I posted Sounds from this House. This is an example of a poem that I didn't expect to be about the quake at all when I started writing it.
In January 2014, I shared my poem about being evacuated from Haiti after the earthquake, called How to Pack an Evacuation Bag.
In March 2015 I posted Tears. This one wasn't explicitly about the earthquake, but it's certainly one of the things I do still cry about, even now.
In 2017, I wrote Memento Mori and How Long Healing Takes in Port-au-Prince.
Last year, I wrote The Last Normal Day.
We thank God we survived. So many did not, and we grieve them.
Here's a new poem I wrote this year, after I read this anniversary article in the Miami Herald.
Tenth Anniversary
“This is not me,”
said the man,
gesturing towards the tin dwelling
where his family has lived for
ten years.
“This is not me,”
he said,
indicating the
tent city
with no name
and on nobody’s list.
“This is not me,”
he said,
of his home
where the earthquake
sent him,
the place
where temporary
became forever.
“This is not me,”
he said in surprise,
for who can understand
why time and chance
and tectonic plates
have brought him here
to this hillside
under this sky
on this tiny island?
Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com
I'm not sure who made this photo; lots of us use it on Facebook in the days around the earthquake anniversary.
Sally Murphy, in Australia, has today's roundup. Although the disaster they are going through there is very different from ours, to me it has a similar apocalyptic quality; it feels as though the world is ending, to us watching from a distance, and how much more so to them? Love and prayers come from us in Haiti.
12 comments:
I always appreciate your earthquake poems. You share a view that we might otherwise miss. So sorry that he is still not living a life he recognizes after ten years. You can put up with a lot temporarily, but nobody wants it to become forever.
Thank you for a chance to read your earthquake poems and to think about life in Haiti, so far from where I live, and to consider what it really like to be homeless for so long.
It astonishes me that so many are still suffering in uncertain situations so many years later. What an appalling lack of support and organization! Thank you for this haunting reminder.
"where temporary/became forever" is not the way it is supposed to be. I imagine you know this, Ruth, and it is a line that feels as if it could be so many people's words in our lives today. I appreciate your words that remind us.
Oh, my goodness. What a collection. If you haven't already, please consider creating a chapbook of just your earthquake poems. Today's poem really gets to the heart of it. So many of us end up in circumstances where we are crying out, "this isn't me." Beautiful post.
Strong poem Ruth, like Linda B. above I also was taken by these lines,
"the place
where temporary
became forever."
And how to find a way from there…
Your quilt poem weaves another strong remembrance story, thanks for linking to it.
I've started to write a comment multiple times, but each time am unsatisfied. I can't find the words. I keep thinking about your poem and about this man. About how easily we move forward and leave others behind. About how this man hasn't been able to move forward. “This is not me,”he said in surprise." I'm still not able to find the words, but wanted to let you know how much your poem moved me.
Love and prayers from all of us here to all of you there in Haiti.
Thank you firstly for your love and prayers for Australia, but also, thank you so much for sharing your journey over the past ten years. Your insight and observations really give a unique picture. The repeated 'this is not me' in this poem is so moving. You have captured how that idea that terrible things happen to other people that becomes so challenging when reality hits.
Funny how the cataclysmic breaking of everything concrete can leave souls frozen in a moment. I look forward to coming back and reading your earth*uake catalog. All my heart is with you and those who can never forget.
Oh, Ruth. Your poem made me teary-eyed, especially as we just Skyped with our daughter yesterday, who informed us that the family who had us into their refugee-camp home for lunch almost TWO years ago is STILL there. Even though they got refugee status, and the father has a job. And they had been living there 8 or 10 months before we met them. Four people, 1 tiny home made out of half a shipping container, basically. It's heartbreaking. Thank you for reminding all of us...
Ruth, thank you for sharing your journey from the earthquake till now. It is hard to find words, but your words move me and bring me closer to Haiti and the people who live there. Hugs and prayers to you and to Haiti.
Post a Comment