Sample Poems by Suzanne Roberts
The Truth
Amazonas, Colombia
I follow the guide into the clearing,
leave the embryonic forest,
the green canopy, a quilt of shadow.
Blue butterflies as big as my hand
flit into the light. The ellipses
of scorched grass crackle underneath
our rubber boots. The noontime sun burns
in the sky, the air no longer burdened
with the weight of water, green vines,
and dreams. Cows wander across
the yellowed grass. White egrets follow.
Saw-chewed stumps of grandmother ceibas
hide among the banana trees, the plantains.
Muy feo, I say. Y triste. So very ugly. And sad.
Es la verdad, our guide says, It’s the truth.
Pero la gente no puede comer los árboles.
But the people cannot eat the trees.
Poultry Stall
Saquisilí, Ecuador
A stout woman holds chickens
upside down, swinging them
by their feet. They do not fight her.
Their almond eyes wide, open
to an inverted world, looking
at nothing. A potential customer
comes by, feels the bodies
under the white feathers, already
meat. While the women negotiate
a fair price, the customer ruffles
her fingers along the bellies.
Still the chickens do nothing,
as we often do, resigned already
to being dead.
The Dinner Party
New Delhi, India
Sharma waits for us until near dawn, shivering
and smoking apricot cigarillos I gave him to relieve
my privilege. But the dinner party guests
say, Stop being so silly. It’s a driver’s job to wait.
I try not to think about him waiting
outside in the cold, the threadbare
double-breasted coat. The January smog
spinning around the car like a web.
Our hostess serves imported red wine
with channa masala and palak paneer. She practices
the hula hoop in the small living room. Everyone
drinks and laughs. The famous writer says
His wife has never read his books. Says he enjoys
the company of Bill Clinton as much as the Queen
of England, says you might not know it,
but Margaret Thatcher is such a touchy person.
The famous writer ignores my answer to his question,
more intrigued by our hostess and her hula hoop. Who
wouldn’t be? No matter: I’m dazed by the 24-hour flight,
feel instead the tilt of the earth, as if I’m not really there.
Later, the writer forgets meeting me altogether.
The wife who never read his books leaves him.
Our young, lovely hostess dies suddenly. And Sharma
still sits in the cold, waiting for someone else.
Surely, something in us knows.
Like crickets singing on a log, floating
toward the waterfall, we choose to ignore
the sound of gravity.
Devotion
Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
The morning chants echo from the Gandan Monastery.
I approach the old monk. He is to read my sutras.
He takes both hands, turns the palms up.
Incense and sweat hang in the air. The monks silence
their chants, break for a bowl of porridge.
The old monk looks at me through tinted glasses,
says something. I look to the translator, she tells me,
“He says he can tell you, but only after you understand.
After more attention to your true work. Only then,
you must return.” He nods, turns to go, his maroon
and yellow robes sweep the floor. Outside the gates,
a homeless woman crouches on the street,
scooping rain water from the gutter into a thermos.
Old women offer small bottles of ablution.
Street children wearing plastic sandals,
their dirty socks drenched, sell bird seed, beg
for spare change. Mist falls now a steady rain,
pigeons lift into the cloud-pleated sky, the chants resume—
the flutter, the rain, the boundlessness of human song.
The Syntax of Gravity
Clark Canyon, California
The tug of the rope, reminding you
that the world holds together
by the superstition of safety—
today, you won’t fall. Today,
someone holds the rope below,
ready to catch you. Today,
you can defy the physics of gravity,
surrender to the chalky clouds,
the acrylic sky, the canvas of rock.
And, the rest disappears—the arms
and legs bent, then straight, hefting the weight
of their torso. The fingers and toes reaching,
uncurling, grasping, smearing, holding.
The scrape of skin against granite’s lips,
the unnoticed blood. You forget even
your breath. From here, you can harness
the wind, the yellow-flowered rabbit brush,
the sage, the lodgepole pines somewhere
below. Gone is the crevice of time,
the slack monotony of what’s next.
Imagination replaced by the ridge lines,
the cracks, the spine. The holds, the next
move, the quivering legs, the heart’s iambic
singing. Somewhere, the distant fear
of falling. Somewhere, street children sleep
in the sewers to keep from freezing,
a leper begs on the streets. Somewhere,
a father kisses his dead son goodbye,
a soldier shoots to kill. But not here. Gone
is the world and its cold-boned grief.
Ordering Information: Bookstores and Individuals