Mother of the term "poetry of witness," Carolyn Forche has long maintained her position as one of America's (and perhaps one of the world's) most
aware poets. She dares to delve into global political and social issues, presenting storylines based on her own experiences as well as those of others to whom she has spoken.
Her 1978 poem "The Colonel," found below, is known for "centering on her
now-famous encounter with a Salvadoran colonel who, as he made light of human
rights, emptied a bag of human ears before Forché."
"'At
their best,'" remarks one critic, "'Forché’s poems have the immediacy of war correspondence, postcards
from the volcano of twentieth-century barbarism.'" Forche has done an impeccable job of melding her talent, profession, and concern for the condition of humankind into pieces like this:
The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern.
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone,
tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on
the floor were pressed to the ground.
Biographical information courtesy of
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/carolyn-forche
The above poem was pulled from
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/
