SIXTH OF AUGUST

SIXTH OF AUGUST

The personality of the dead woman in the storage room escapes
from boxes of silk scarves, photographs, letters
cellulose toys, yellow mother of pearl buttons and cloth scraps.
Inside her white plastic purse;
a checkbook, unclaimed raffle tickets,
a tiny snapshot of a girl who still sends her love;
an envelope dated 1937,
some eight-cent stamps and a life insurance policy.

On this 40th anniversary of Light,
I pull stamps of Einstein and Eisenhower apart.
Glued on top of a glib Eisenhauer grinning seven times
a haunted Einstein broods in purple; the color of mourning.
Beneath them, postage stamps of Apollo on the moon,
black-wreathed earth against the sun;
the birth of Man in space.

When I was three, the linoleum to cover the stairs
was put in the storage room to change it from green to red,
my uncle told me. And so it did.
I admired the miracles that happened in darkness.
In that same darkness, copper pennies
dropped into the piggybank turned into steel.
Dressed in khaki-green, my uncle tossed me into the air
and the known world spun past my forehead.
He held a suitcase of darkness in his hand.

Now, I've gone and brought the dead woman's things into light.
A photograph of her husband holding a silver-plated trophy
by the tall grey horse at Longacre track:
He stares at me with such frankness, that with his passing
I feel the loss of an intimate stranger.
The bent and tarnished trophy rests in thick dust.

When I wear the clothing of the dead,
they see glimpses of light again.
The poet's shirt gives me strange dreams
but I forget the words by morning.

Rotted with age, the boxes of yarn
in this half-light makes tufts like the manes
of cloth horses I ride in my dreams
where the landscape grows wilder with each visit.

August 6, 1985
rev. 1986

1987 San Francisco Bay Guardian, 2nd Place
         Thread Winding the Loom, CPITS anthology
         The Paper
 1995 Atomic Ghost: Poets Respond to the Nuclear Age, ( version 2, below)

 see my post,  Atomic Ghost


The first two stanzas are from John Oliver Simon's back house. The roof had caved in and we were cleaning out debris, and it found its way into the poem, so I con;t have the first draft. Only this one which is really re-envisioned enough to be moved to September. Oh well. Or maybe it was written in 1986?


NOTES: SIXTH OF AUGUST

In a writing workshop, poet Carolyn Forché once asked, "How do we render the subject of war intimate?" While cleaning a storage room in the ramshackled backhouse where John and I slept in Berkeley, I came upon boxes of rotting debris—the remnants of a woman long since dead. From those boxes, the personality of the dead woman emerged. That dank room with an ivy-covered window open to the elements and a corner of the roof caving in—was like the subconscious: dark, fertile and cluttered. One night I dreamed the wall opened up and light flooded that room; it was August sixth, the anniversary of Hiroshima. This American-as-Apple-Pie woman—I wondered how she would have felt in retrospect? This poem is a list of what survived her, of the ordinary daily things we take for granted. As I wrote the poem, I found myself crying; images of my own family emerged. My uncle in khaki, the Korean war, steel pennies, a relative who worked on the Manhattan Projectóall images/metaphors from the perspective of a pre-literate three-year-old. The grown-ups, the guardians of information could shed no light onto these mysteries.

Maureen Hurley
Forestville, CA
9 March, 1987

6 August 1986

SIXTH OF AUGUST, II

The personality of a dead woman is trapped

in the boxes of silk scarves, photographs, letters

cellulose toys, yellow mother of pearl buttons and quilt scraps.

Inside her white plastic purse:

a checkbook, unclaimed raffle tickets,

a tiny snapshot of a girl who still sends her love,

an envelope dated 1937,

a life insurance policy and some eight-cent stamps.

On the 40th anniversary of Light,

I pulled stamps of Einstein and Eisenhower apart.

Glued on top of a glib Eisenhower grinning seven times,

a haunted Einstein brooded in purple: the color of mourning.

Beneath them, postage stamps of Apollo on the moon,

black-wreathed earth against the sun.

When I was three, my uncle told me

the linoleum to cover the stairs

was put in the storage room

to change it from green to red. And so it did.

I admired miracles that happened in darkness.

In that same darkness, copper pennies

dropped into piggybanks turned into steel.

Dressed in khaki-green, my uncle tossed me into the air

and the known world spun past me.

He held a suitcase of darkness in his hand.

But I brought the dead woman's things into light.

A photograph of her husband holding a silver-plated trophy

by a tall gray horse at Longacre track:

He stared at me with such frankness, that with his passing,

I felt the loss of an intimate stranger.

The tarnished trophy rests in thick dust.

When I wear the clothing of the dead,

they see glimpses of light again.

The poet's shirt gives me strange dreams

but I’ve forgotten the words by morning.

The boxes of yarn are rotted with age.

In this half-light they make tufts like manes

of cloth horses I ride in dreams

where the landscape grows wilder with each visit.

 1995 Atomic Ghost: Poets Respond to the Nuclear Age, version 2

SEIS DE AGOSTO                                                             

La personalidad de la difunta en la covacha escapa

de cajas de chales de seda, fotos, cartas

juguetes de celulosa, botones amarillos de madreperla y pedazos de tela.

Adentro de su bolsita blanca de plastico:

una chequera, boletos de rifa nunca reclamados,

una foto instantánea de una muchacha que todavía manda su amor,

un sello con fecha de 1937,

sellos de ocho centavos y una póliza de seguros.

En este cuadragésimo aniversario de Luz

separo estampillas de Einstein de las de Eisenhower.

Pegado sobre un Eisenhower fácil siete veces sonriente

un Einstein atormentado medita en morado, el color del luto.

Abajo, sellos postales de Apolo en la luna,

de corona negra contra el sol;

el nacimiento del hombre en el espacio.

Cuando yo tenía seis años, el linóleo para cubrir las escaleras

fue puesto en la covacha para cambiarlo de verde a rojo,

según me dijo mi tío. Y asi fue.

Admiré los milagros que ocurrieron en la oscuridad.

En esa misma oscuridad, los centavos de cobre

metidos en el cochinito se volvieron de acero.

Vestido en verde olivo, mi tío me lanzó en el aire

y el mundo conocido me daba vueltas alrededor del frente.

Tenía una maleta de oscuridad en la mano.

Ahora me he traido las cosas de la difunta hacia la luz.

Una foto de su marido con un trofeo plateado

junto al caballo alto y gris en la pista de Longacre.

Me mira con tanta franqueza, que con su fallecimiento

siento la pérdida de un íntimo desconocido.

El trofeo doblado y deslustrado reposa en el polvo.

Cuando me pongo la ropa de los muertos

otra vez, vislumbran la luz.

La camisa del poeta me da suenos extraños

pero olvido las palabras por la mañana.

Podridas con la edad, las cajas de hilaza

en esta media luz hacen copos como las crines

de los caballos de trapo que monto en mis sueños

donde la tierra se vuelve más salvaje con cada visita.

6/8/86                              —traduccion John Oliver Simon y Juvenal Acosta


(From the Dead Woman)