Love Poem For Haiti

One of my sisters sent me the link to this last week; Nelly Lambert, the author, is the daughter-in-law of a friend of ours, she's  a Ph.D. student in English and American literature at Catholic University who lived in Haiti as a child, from 1983-1987. The poem was published last week on Politics Daily. I was so deeply impressed, moved and  delighted by this:  the images, the language, the feeling of the love of a sensual child for the place that formed her, that I wanted to share it here.  Another of my sisters who is a historic preservation architect went to Haiti last week, with a team assessing the historic government buildings for restoration, and her comments to me about the resilience and strength of the Haitian people at this moment in time echo Nelly's words in this poem.  Haiti's people are indeed stronger than her buildings. 

LETTER TO HAITI: A LOVE POEM

Desire....The opposite is death. So do you wonder? How could you possibly wonder!
-Blanche DuBois

Dear Haiti,

I thought I would write you as

A beautiful but destitute woman:

Everyone wanted you; no one would marry you.

No one dared marry you,

Not that you cared for marriage.

But you are not that woman.

So, then I tried Hemingway-

No, better Graham Greene-

Breakfasts of kumquats and rhum-coke calm;

A strange epoch in which time stood still

Save for the slow decay of the gingerbread porch.

But that was all just picked up from what I read later.

Next, I looked for something in your shapes:

There was your physical form, a Siamese twin

Trying to wrest herself free, to be on her own;

Or, there was the way your name sounds like Hades in English,

And in French, like high,

And when you say it, like I.

But no accent or point of view quite captured you.

The truth is I don't remember you in a word or a story.

And, being away from you for so long,

My memory has had to filter through all the talk

Of impatient longings to write your ending.

I thought I would write you tragically,

But that too was a borrowed impulse.

Still, there is a tone, a quality of sound,

Of air, a sensibility that stays with me.

You taught me to see colors

I cannot find anywhere else.

The closest I've come-

A dusty turquoise, let's say-

Is always slightly too muted or too dark.

The pinks are too aggressive - not your pink.

But sometimes, when the daylight is warm and wide,

I'll notice I'm wearing your colors,

Painting the streets with them,

Giving them away to friends.

You are a gorgeous one. Everyone agrees.

I remember your beasts and your flowers,

Though I can't recall their names.

I can still hum pieces of your lullabies,

Though I couldn't sing them from start to end.

Even now I can ask for ice cream in your creole,

But I wouldn't know how to write it down.

And, after all this time, I can still picture

Your steamy mountains,

Your beaches of black sand

Sparkling like powdered onyx,

Your women carrying

Heavy loads on their heads. No hands!

In your care, I learned to do it too.

Now I see you. There you are

Walking up the hill

Balancing a basket of fruit on your head.

You cannot find your children.

You will keep looking, I know.

I was a sensual child in your lap.

We are all like that with you.

We all love to touch your world.

You will keep walking up the hill.

I have seen you do it before.

You are stronger than your buildings.

Your head is level. Your babies are laughing.

(Photo of painting by Carlo Valtrain, Girl With Water Jugs, from  Haitian Art Online.)