John’s commentary has such a terrific punch in how he describes what may happen ‘at the threshold’, the place where, as he says, ‘the language/outer reality disjunction collapses, and where the “new” may appear. The trick for all of us is to figure out how to cross that boundary without fear and meet the ‘other’ as easily as does Fex and Coo. And I agree with John that how we see the other depends on meeting the other with love and not fear. But that is a mighty task for most of us. Because it depends so much on whether we accept these images, these ‘ghosts’, as both real and in search of an answer from us. If we fail to answer, we suffer more and more. But do they suffer as well? John and Russ say yes. As John so eloquently reminds us: “The suffering becomes more intense the more we cling to time…” In my more simplistic imagery, I have always felt these figures, these images, if held at bay, act as if they were condemned prisoners begging for an audience with the ‘judge.’ And if this audience is not granted, they do not go quietly into that good night but magnify their suffering onto our souls until embraced with Eros, as both Russ and John suggest. I send this poem as an expression of what I am trying to say.
LOS DESAPARECIDOS (The Disappeared Ones)
Creeping come the condemned.
Like droplets of deep indigo spreading across the earth,
like planchets of bubbling silver,
hardly are they born into existence
then they are entombed in the tight necklaces
of man's determined justice.
For the cost of a carp
they were betrayed.
Sold into oblivion
with the ease of a lie.
Sentenced in absentia
always to exile
and always in perpetuity.
And so down the road
come the disappeared ones-
los desaparecidos.
By ones and twos
their strident steps break
the ground clutching at their feet,
claiming for themselves what they already own.
And like grass withering under the endless drought,
no one sees the brown burned leaves
from the impenetrable earth.
No one sees the door closing upon the dead.
But there is always an end,
a termination,
a denouement.
And then there is just as always-
a beginning.
Oh the tyranny of that.
Each night those who sink from view
to immerse themselves in the past
leave behind oily shoes and stained gauze,
terrible glances and identical twins
to take their place, to fall right in line
without missing a step so that the only change
is the numberless increase in misery.
Like dead whales in the afternoon
and hungry kingfishers searching the failing light
and sad hawks flying, flying,
the disappeared ones come trailing across my eyes
asking me questions,
saturating me with doubt
as to where I belong, for or against
those moody ghosts, unrelenting
in their passion to know why.
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