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On Eliot Khalil Wilson’s “The Black-Shawled Widows of Castilla y León”

From “The Black-Shawled Widows of Castilla y León” in THE SAINT OF LETTING SMALL FISH GO

By Eliot Khalil Wilson

THE BLACK-SHAWLED WIDOWS OF CASTILLA Y LEÓN

step from clamorous hives of tenement houses
and walk the grafted sycamore alameda,
two slow, dark seasons of belief.

They’ve come out for the night’s paseo,
pulling their market carts, question-stooped, cobbled hand in hand,
with bread for the pigeons still, and spit for the bust of Franco.

They walk to the stork-priested cathedral,
and I’ve seen what walks behind them.

Two black-shawled widows step from the title into Wilson’s poem, taking readers into lines paved with sound: a scene enlivened by congested tenements and the rhythms of the multisyllabic clamorous, tenement, sycamore, alameda, and by rhythms that strike the ear like the hard click of a woman’s heel. Wilson’s sonic and visual imagery draws readers deeper into the poem, and foreshadows the poem’s later vision of the cathedral rising from its foundation, through references to birds: the hungry pigeons and the “stork-priested cathedral,” the black-and-white stork figuratively suggesting the black cassock and clerical collar of the priest and, symbolically, the “mother-love” of the priest for his church. The two widows wrapped in the shawls of grief, bent with questions, feed the emblems of home, security, peace and gentleness, while spurning with their spit (once the spill of tears) Franco and the honors given to fascism. The two women are dark seasons of belief: seasons and thus natural, changing, and yet constant. But the poet adds the modifier “dark” and so lightless and so meaning winter? Mysterious? Tragic? Troubled? Two widows who have held to their beliefs during troubled times. But what do they believe, the widows whose belief the poet will soon compare to the votive candles in the church? As their whispered prayers pull the cathedral, a “prismed balloon,” from its moorings,” their votive offerings bear more power than the “husk” of a “stork-priested cathedral” or the facsimile of a fascist dictator.

Eliot Khalil Wilson, The Saint of Letting Small Fish Go. Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2003.

JNH

On a photograph

A snapshot taken in the late 40s or early 50s. I thought of it while attending the Callaloo Literary conference last week and listening to the words of British filmmaker John Akomfrah. “Images,” Akomfrah said, “speak to the future.”photo-with-cane

I know the young man in the photo. I know that the picture was taken at Tuskegee University. I know that the young man is now dead. Akomfrah adds that images for people of color are typically set in the context of pathology. But there’s no pathologizing here. The man in the picture is dapper. He leans on a cane. He draws attention to himself and offers a smile that is large, unrestrained.

Akomfrah describes himself as a bricoleur: “I love the way that things that are otherwise discrete and self-contained start to suggest things once they are forced into a dialogue with something else.”

Let’s say Gordon Parks’ photo of Muhammad Ali on Staircase, then. Consider the casual drape of Ali’s body against the rail, his ease. His head lifted slightly, as if avoiding an unseen upper cut. Or take any televised episode where a black man leans against a brick wall or the side of a patrol car. Assume the position that any of these images suggests. Assume the position of the young man in the photo: cantilevered, balanced, an inclined plane.

The posing young man performs. He is an aerialist defying gravity, his body shaped into Hayden’s needful thing, wearing his unfettered confidence like a good suit. He doesn’t seem to care about falling or injury, only about his image, the image he is making. For? He can’t know. The future is a question he leans into. The question holds him up, supports him.

Akomfrah says, in another interview, “the distinction between what is ‘archival’—or elsewhere—and what constitutes an original image becomes blurred, in the sense that every time I bring a camera out I’m always aware of the unseen guests that are there, whether it’s other filmmakers, artists, or narratives. You’re aware that there’s a historical bleed into what you’re constructing.” I think about context: Alabama.

Montgomery . . . Selma . . . Anniston . . . Birmingham fire hoses. Young men and women leaning their bodies away from battering rams of water. It tore the bark from trees, they said. The snapshot of the young man shows nothing of this. Only his smile says it hasn’t yet happened. He hasn’t yet seen it.

JNH

On Angie Estes’s “You Can Tell”

From “You Can Tell” in TRYST

by Angie Estes

YOU CAN TELL

if fish are fresh by the way
their bodies arch, tails flipped up

like waves nearing shore or hands about to
wave, crests about to break, the shape

of a hand beneath a woman’s back
unhooking her brassiere, writhing

or writing the way Milton’s serpent
first approached Eve— . . .

 

How unfair ttrysto stop the cascade and rush of Estes’s poem. The images slip one into the other, from the visceral and earthbound fish, to the erotic sensuality of the body, to the spiritual reach of Milton’s epic poetry of evil and temptation. We can see no distinction, the poem suggests, among material nature, tidal energy, the sensuality and the vulnerabilities of a woman’s body, or imagination and spirituality. And yet the waves do not ebb, the hand does not wave, the brassiere does not fall, and Eve does not yet face temptation or exile. The images rush forward even while they also wait in suspension. But again that fish, the fish out of water, will die, though the poem does not allow its death in the poem. Instead the lines hurry away from the fish and its consumption, pushing instead into further waves of imagery and figuration. Maybe this is the work of images, to push us onward and to promise more. Merciful because of what they help us to deny, and because they confirm the binding connection of the natural, the sensual, and the imaginary.

Angie Estes, Tryst. Oberlin College Press, the FIELD Poetry Series, 2009.

JNH