Vanessa Place

No more lines on the luminescence of   light, of   whatever variation. No more elegies of youth or age, no polyglottal ventriloquism. No more songs of raw emotion, forever overcooked. No more the wisdom of   banality, which should stay overlooked. No more verbs of embroidery. No more unintentional phallacy. No more metaphor, no more simile. Let the thing be, concretely. No more politics put politically: let the thing be concretely. No more conditional set conditionally — let the thing be already. No more children pimped out to prove some pouting mortality. No more death without dying —immediately. No more poet-subject speaking into the poem-mirror, watching the mouth move, fixing the thinning hair. No more superiority of the interiority of that unnatural trinity —you,me,we— our teeth touch only our tongues. No more Gobstoppers: an epic isn’t an epic for its fingerprints. No more reversals of grammar if as emphasis. No more nature less natural; no more impiety on bended knee. No more jeu de mot, no more mot juste. No more retinal poetry.

Miss Scarlett, effen we kain git de doctah w’en Miss Melly’s time come, doan you bodder Ah kin manage. Ah knows all ’bout birthin. Ain’ mah ma a midwife? Ain’ she raise me ter be a midwife, too? Jes’ you leave it ter me. She warn’t dar. Well’m, Dey Cookie say Miss Meade done got wud early dis mawnin’ dat young Mist’ Phil done been shot an’ Miss Meade she tuck de cah’ige an’ Ole Talbot an’ Besty an’ dey done gone ter fotch him home. Cookie say he bad hurt an’ Miss Meade ain’ gwin ter be studyin’ ’bout comin’ up hyah. Dey ain’ dar, Miss Scarlett. Ah drapped in ter pass time of de day wid Mammy on mah way home. Dey’s doen gone. House all locked up. Spec dey’s at de horsepittle. Miss Elsing ober at de horsepittle. Dey Cookie ’lows a whole lot of wounded sojers come in on de early train. Cookie fixin’ soup ter tek over dar. She say—Yas’m Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett! De Yankees ain’ at Tara, s dey? Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett! Whut’ll dey do ter Maw? Dey’s fightin’ at Jonesboro, Miss Scarlett! Dey say our gempumus is gittin’ beat. Oh, Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Whut’ll happen ter Maw an’ Poke? Oh, Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Whut’ll happen ter us effen de Yankees gits hyah? Oh, Gawd—Ah ain’ nebber seed him, Miss Scarlett. No’m, he ain’ at de horsepittle. Miss Merriwether an’ Miss Elsing ain’ dar needer. A man he tole me de doctah down by de car shed wid the wounded sojers jes’ come in frum Jonesboro, but Miss Scarlett, Ah wuz sceered ter go down dar ter de shed—dey’s folkses dyin’ down dar. Ah’s sceered of daid folkses—Miss Scarlett, fo’ Gawd, Ah couldn’ sceercely git one of dem ter read yo’ note. Dey wukin’ in de horsepittle lak dey all done gone crazy. One doctah he say ter me, “Damn yo’ hide! Doan you come roun’ hyah bodderi’ me ’bout babies w’en we got a mess of men dyin’ hyah. Git some woman ter he’p you.” An’ den Ah went aroun’ an’ about an’ ask fer news lak you done tole me an’ dey all say “fightin’ at Jonesboro” an’ Ah— Is her time nigh, Miss Scarlett? Is de doctah come? Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Miss Melly bad off! Fo’ Gawd, Miss Scarlett— Fo’ Gawd, Miss Scarlett! We’s got ter have a doctah. Ah—Ah— Miss Scarlett, Ah doan know nutin’ ‘bout bringin’ babies.