Brian Turner: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Bodies

 

The bodies lie along the shoulder of the road.

The bodies lie in an ambulance, a truck bed, a stretcher.

The bodies are strobed in flaring lights, color of fire, color of night.

The bodies rest within the fuselage of a plane at 36,000 feet.

The bodies contemplate silence as they wait in the morgue.

The bodies are moved from room to room, one hour to the next.

The bodies are bathed by strangers and by those who love them.

They are numbered and recorded with signatures and stamps.

They are forgotten by all save those who love them.

They are left to the fields, to the green embrace of earth.

They are given sunlight and storm, a shadow of wings descending.

They are given to rivers, to fire, to ash on the wind-driven rain.

They are carried on the shoulders of stone-faced men.

They are serenaded with tears, with the instruments of suffering.

They are eulogized in great halls and within the confines of loneliness.

They are lowered into the ground and into the vaults of memory.

They are disassembled and disbursed by the steady labor of time.

They learn more about compassion as they are lifted in someone’s arms.

They learn more about the sacred as voices call around them.

They learn more about grieving as their eyes are sewn shut.

The bodies are moved from room to room, one hour to the next.

The bodies are numbered and recorded with signatures and stamps.

The bodies are bathed by strangers and by those who love them.

The bodies contemplate silence as they await the mortician, and

they are forgotten by all save those who loved them.

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Brian Turner has a memoir, My Life as a Foreign Country (with W.W. Norton in the U.S., and Penguin/Random House in the UK), and five collections of poetry, from Here, Bullet to The Dead Peasant’s Handbook (all with Alice James Books). He’s the editor of The Kiss and co-edited The Strangest of Theatres. He lives in Florida with his dog, Dene, the world’s sweetest golden retriever.

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                                                     Timothy H. O'Sullivan’s On the Battlefield of Gettysburg, 1863

Comments

[Bill Nevins]

"and

they are forgotten by all save those who loved them." Brian Turner has long been on e of my favorite contemporary poets, and this is such a powerful poem. It resonates particularly with me for family reasons. Thenks, Brian and Terence.

[Cindy Hochman]

A very powerful poem using anaphora, a favorite poetic device of mine. And it will come in handy for a workshop I'm taking on "the list poem"—this is heartbreaking but inspirational. I love the diversity in styles and form of these Picks of the Week. Wonderful work, Brian, and thanks for sharing it, Terence.

[Geoffrey Himes]

I like that we can hear the incantation even from just the computer screen.

[Richard Giannone]

reading about the bodies is loving the bodies

[Terence Winch]

Cindy---thanks for the comment.

[Patricia Spears Jones]

as always Brian brings the observer's keen eye and the heart's pulsating desire to make sense of what should not be made sense of. A true warrior who writes out of love. Thanks Brian for the "love"

[Clarinda]

Tried to reply earlier

This poem devastated me in a great way—thanx

[Denise Duhamel]

This is one of the best poems of grief I have ever read! Bravo to the very talented Brian Turner.

[Stacey]

I've long admired Brian Turner. Thank you Terence for this selection. I'm gutted.

[Terence Winch]

Stacey---Thanks for the comment. I agree completely.

[Grace Cavalieri]

but the spirit of the bodies lives in this poem.

[CLARINDA]

PS TO MY EARLIER COMMENT: I TOO LOVE THE INCANTATORY FORM--WHAT A POTENT CHANT THIS POEM IS (SORRY MY COMPUTER IS STUCK IN ALL-CAPS MODE)

[Dr. Earle Hitchner]

I, too, relish verse relying on the rhetorical figure of anaphora. The challenge, of course, is to use the repetition of words or phrases at the onset of the lines with a delicate balance of finishing the lines dissimilarly or, perhaps more difficultly, with an echoic effect that’s still distinct. That’s why Brian Turner’s “The Bodies” is a model of the anaphora poem. Its incantatory rhythms sweep the reader along without sacrificing discrete meanings. A pause to reread is a pause to re-savor or re-plumb the richness of what’s there. Turner holds the tension of each unfolding line like a master fisherman, knowing when to reel in or out, seeking stasis without stirring up silt. In this 25-line poem, the first 23 lines constitute single-line whole sentences. The only two-line sentence in the poem is the last two lines: “The bodies contemplate silence as they await the mortician, and / they are forgotten by all save those who loved them.” Despite being longer, that coda counteracts more abruptly and, with intention, more impersonally the previously invoked culture of direct care expressed in single-line sentences using such words and phrases as “lifted in someone’s arms,” “sacred,” “bathed,” “serenaded,” and “eulogized.” The trajectory from cause or site of death, to morgue, to embalming is a devolving, clinical descent into being “forgotten by all save those who loved them.” In-between are moving, shuffling, numbering, recording, and stamping, all ultimately leading to silence. Moving and masterful, “The Bodies” is a singular achievement.

[Terence Winch]

Wow. Another brilliant comment. Thanks, Earle.