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Archaeologist on a Bad Day In exile from exile, her bronze skin gleams pallid with stress, that thin mouth loses its sensual tension, heavy liner over-shadows eyes whose fire could melt snow from Mt. Hebron in mid-winter. Walking, she hunches her frail body into the wind, hugs herself in case nobody else will - they will. In company, her quips, not wrapped in their usual velvet laughter, find too many targets. Alone, this woman of shards dives deeper, darker into herself, where she has diligently, desperately, sorted, numbered, classified and stacked kaleidoscope fragments of her life, as if to outlast the khamasin roiling within, as though to dispel austere shadows from her past. Yet to be with this woman when her defences have softened makes life worth suffering; for when she connects, two of you alone exist: all else, mere shadows. © Bryan Murphy |
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Commentary: When I wrote this, I was crazy about a Palestinian woman who, unfortunately, was married to someone else. After turning out a few of the usual songs of praise, I resolved (and promised her) for the sake of contrast to write a poem about her on one of her less felicitous days. Despite working as an international civil servant, she was an archaeologist by training. Hence the title and the references to archaeological objects and processes in stanzas 5 and 6. I portray her as self-alienated to the extent of taking an archaeologist's approach to her own life. Having offered the promised negative portrait, I felt obliged to explain part of her fascination in the last two stanzas. The abundance of /d/ sounds in stanza 5 is primarily playful, though I find that strategically placed plosive consonants help impart rhythm when reading to an audience. Bryan Murphy Bonfire contributor |