NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 18 Issue 1 - Winter 2018 - Page 94

From TRANSFER, written in echo with Different Trains by Steve Reich. 3. After the War in coldest Europe end of that war frozen domes iron railings frozen stoves lit in the streets memory banks of cold. — Adrienne Rich, Victory, Midnight Salvage.  …inside the park, the dog still warms lifeless feet, much as he accompanies those who camp out in the city underground or on subway ventilation grates. Insistence, disbelief, and then vision of nature, at that time, the time of our childhood, that you recognized in these harmonies. Streams, mountains, and sap, fruit in the bushes, gentians, lilies, and in the cities, other possible lives. How to believe, with these wounds, that the birds… The return to the flooded countryside, the memory of blood, work resumed still with, in our eyes, the high flames that devour the horizon. Another dispersal l.a. l.a. New York New York the voice, on the radio, and a certain deep green. The happy song must be sought deep in the past, farther, a song from before, changed, is it possible? You can’t be sure, you will no longer be, in hope, the sob remains, the rounded voice, recorded on this ode to musical autumn because it is autumn on the earth and the new pathways, these former destinations. 1 Translation Michael Russell, http://thelastdaysofmankind.com/the-preface.html 2 William Cullen Bryant, “The Death of the Flowers.” Peace? Day deepens the suffering and we can visit the former bunkers given over to the sea and buried in the sand saturated with water; they are still resisting the waves’ assault, having become caves no future after these embraces, these collapses, these floods, the discovery of heaps of thin corpses… you are sure? and nevertheless, in the heart of cities, the Grand Ball is given where you are costumed, speech muffled beneath the mask, open mouths, full of snow, grimaces, bodies mangled, used up, human chain, pulled into the dance, and the strained voices speak, strangled… — He did not want that end, this legacy of a stillborn spring; — a sudden harmony? — yes, born on the rails, of crossed wires; the news spreads from an understanding, spread not by sirens, — but a desolate countryside…