poem: What if the Cynics are Wrong?A Chapter by Marie Anzalone"What if the cynics are wrong?" was whispered first... under the breath, by a weary great-grandma in Detroit, watching a new mom of just 14 summers hold the hand of a newborn in preemie clothes, on tubes and ventilators, and before the papers were notarized.
then a little louder, by a young man working his way through school in Sri Lanka upon receiving the notice about his father and the damage from rebels while his test scores reflected bias of the owners towards the owned knowing his feet could not retrace bloody steps in forsaken ground.
It was asked aloud, in a quiet tone, by a working mother in a board room in Great Britain shortly before notice was given and the layoffs, supposedly impartial, began with the nonconformist.
It was written by a blogger in Argentina when a story of another land's disaster was ridiculed by the new bourgeois of American sensibility and the viewpoint was crucifed upon an altar of indifference a sacrifice to the gods of impartiality and economic doctrines.
It was inquired wondrously, in different words by a Native child in Alberta; of her elders, upon overhearing discussions by men who negotiate brick and wood and the price of a bottle of whisky balanced on the edge of a blackjack chip. and her voice was lost among the hoots and hurrahs, but was carried on the wings of a trumpeter swan.
And the swan met a tern met a stork, and the words traveled to India where a farmer in desperation made preparations for his family to receive a death payout, then, inexplicably, turned back towards the house when the bird's cry struck a chord which only believers in dignity have ever, in the history of the world, been able to discern among the background din.
In Australia, it was then picked up, and shouted from the desert In Israel, from the strip, by one who chose not to pull a trigger, In Germany, a physicist asked it over drink; In Iran, an engineer from irrigation fields, Mexico, from an old man in communion New York, from a refugee, and finally, Sudan, from a doctor, tending the dying newborn of a girl of just 14 summers.
and Detroit and Sudan shared a bittersweet moment for just a moment, but maybe that moment was, for a second
nearly enough to make the sublime, human.
© 2012 Marie AnzaloneFeatured Review
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Added on January 23, 2011Last Updated on August 25, 2012 AuthorMarie AnzaloneXecaracoj, Quetzaltenango, GuatemalaAboutBilingual (English and Spanish) poet, essayist, novelist, grant writer, editor, and technical writer working in Central America. "A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to ta.. more..Writing
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