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ELISAVIETTA RITCHIE
In the Balkan Hotel			

On the prickly red plush
of the Balkan Hotel
I wait for your call.
Like cries in nightmares,
it can't reach over oceans,
cross barbed wire.

I meet Mr. Abdul Hamil,
Sea Captain, Alexandria, Egypt, 
ship due in Varna, Black Sea,
not until Sunday.
He invites me to lunch,
supper, and dancing.

We both know sepulchral hotel
meals alone, the shiver of icy sheets
beneath brocade spreads,
the echoes when radios listen,
and midnight thirsts. He snatches 
the tab for my Turkish coffee.

I give him my map of the city,
mention the melon and fruity wine
ripe on my window sill,
but insist I am busy for lunch.
And perhaps by tonight
your call will come through.	


["In The Balkan Hotel": as "Unfinished Journal" 
in The Poetry Review vol.2, No.1, Fall l984. Copyright 1984 
by the author Reprinted in The Arc of the Storm, Signal Books, 
copyright 1998 Elisavietta Ritchie. Reprinted by permission of the 
Poetry Society of America.
poet: ELISAVIETTA RITCHIE prose poet: CHRISTINA PACOSZ PoetryRepairShop navigation
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CHRISTINA PACOSZ
Letter from Haiti to the Dead           
                                                     
for Walter and Sophia
Who are always with us. Just beyond a curtain of belief/disbelief. Beyond reach of a hand certainly. I miss you in this hot country, this troubled island in a blue sea where I am trying to see. What do I understand with my northern eyes I must peel like a grapefruit. Then the juicy flesh between my teeth. I want to tell you the story of legendary breadfruit growing plump, green loaves in this difficult city. I want to whisper of mangoes, ripe, and sorrow, too. Here backbone and belly do a scraping dance. Two boys stand barefoot in a dirt courtyard, slippery and wet from a Sunday bath. Where does poetry come from, all gardens and green growth, but the dirt, which is lost to the sea without strong roots? Dirt, poetry, gardens. These you gave me. Never mind the sweet scent of incense you said, breathe the sewer stench until the whole world grows holy and all people are fed. I am far from the northern woods where your ashes are scattered but what does distance matter? Dirt is dirt. In that glacier-licked l and the sun stirs the first soup of spring. Here it bakes everything. Rest first teachers and friends, while I root my heart in the earth and breathe the sandalwood permeating the street.
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poet: ELISAVIETTA RITCHIE poet: prose poet: CHRISTINA PACOSZ PoetryRepairShop navigation