An Introduction
Frank Stewart is a respected and honoured poet. His early work, for which he won the Whiting Award, is inspired by his vast reading of Thoreau and the ecological imagination and his abiding interest in two crucial questions: How does one define a moral imagination and its concern for the pain of others who are different and what is the responsibility people have toward all sentient and non-sentient beings? I am fascinated by this new volume of poems by Frank, Still-at-Large (Berkeley, California: El León Literary Arts, 2021), because it refuses to let us forget that since the beginning of the 20th century we, in India and elsewhere, have been living in times of relentless and unashamed national, religious or economic violence; that killers have walked our city streets and villages without remorse and with the confidence that there is no law which can prosecute them. Frank does so with the minimum of words surrounded by blank white spaces. This method of printing forces us to pay attention, even it is only for a moment, to the voices of those who have suffered and survived. It also leaves us bewildered when we are confronted with the heartlessness of those who kill remorselessly. Of course, as those of us who are familiar with either Coleridge’s, ‘The Ancient Mariner’, Paul Celan’s, ‘Death Fuge’ or Yevtushenko’s, Babi Yar’ know, poetry or speech of such remembrance brings no relief, clarity or consolation and yet must be uttered. In his note to me Frank says: “I don’t know how we can write about suffering. Perhaps no one does. But I think that we cannot avoid writing about it, even in a way that ultimately fails, as all our efforts must.’ It is this refusal to stay silent, to speak about the atrocious, however briefly, which makes these poems worth reading and commenting upon.
The illustrations are from works by Marc Chagall. Frank Stewart uses some of them in his volume of poems. Alok Bhalla
Frank Stewart
Still at Large: Poems / Fragments: A Selection
One should be thankful, nowadays,
each day the sun shines
and one is still at large.
Etty Hillesum, The Netherlands, 1942
In order for your own voice to be heard again,
nearer and more vividly,
I link your language to mine from time to time,
inserting in quotes some of the phrases
taken from your writings.
May these portions of your posthumous message,
brought together and presented by me,
serve to open the heart and the mind
of the one who reads them!
Emanuele Artom, Turin, Italy, December 20, 1940
It’s good to know everything.
Shmuel Rotem Czerniaków, Poland, 1930s
Author’s Note
In his notebooks in 1941, Camus wrote, “Everything is decided. It is simple and straightforward. But then human suffering intervenes and alters all our plans.” The majority of poems and fragments here are moments when plans and suffering meet in the lives of inconsequential men and women—that is, ordinary people whose lives are like everyone else’s. All lives and experiences are significant and consequential to the person who experiences them, of course; they become meaningful to us when we see how tightly significance and insignificance co-exist.
A few of the pieces here are nearly verbatim from the sources where I found them; those sources are noted at the back. Almost all have been shaped and sharpened by me, but none of them are wholly mine.
They are arranged, with few exceptions, chronologically, as their historical context may be helpful to understand the feelings and experiences expressed in them. However, the pages here could be scrambled and have the same coherence; reading them randomly, which I suggest, accomplishes the same effect. History is no more or less than a collection of such moments like these, given coherence when fleeting, insignificant lives are held up to the light. The light is at the bottom of the sea of moments we swim in, and all that’s required to make that light shine is a few words in a solitary, recognizably human voice.
Prologue
For Now
What is that which we hang onto
And which is snuffed out in a second?
I have not yet found a poem that
Encompasses what is happening here—
Much must remain forever unsaid,
Saved up for the hour when
it is handed down to people,
without mediation.
The Russian front, May-June, 1940
I Tell You
The Turks conscripted my father
And this saved us from being rounded up.
You see, the governor in Homs
Sent the village prefect an order
To “poison all the dogs,” which meant
Us Amenians. But the prefect,
Djemal Pasha, knew us.
He ordered the police
To kill all the stray dogs in the streets.
So we were saved. Then he ordered
All the Armenians to change their names.
Homs, Ottoman Empire, 1914
Mother
That night there was nowhere to sleep
Mother slept on the ground
My sister, Khatoun, and me
Sitting near mother
Braiding her hair. A woman passing
Looked at us said
“Why, the poor darlings,
They don’t know their mother has died.”
We were children, how could we know that?
Homs, Ottoman Empire, 1914
Wake Up
You don’t seem to understand what we want.
We want an Armenia without Armenians.
Ankara, Ottoman Empire, December, 1915
The Feast of Vardavar
After the Turks lit the church
Packed with villagers
Intoxicated and merry soldiers danced
Swinging their sabers, beating their chests
They sang
yürü yavrum, yürü!
Dance, children, dance!
I wish my eyes had become blind
So that I would not see.
We escaped but I swear
To me they looked like wild beasts.
Ottoman Empire, 1915
At the Train Station
At the train station, we saw them pleading,
“No! Wait! We will become Muslims! We
will become Germans! We will become
anything you want!” Then the train took them
to Kemah Pass where they cut their throats.
Outside Erzincan, Ottoman Empire, 1915
An Open Field
Farther from the town we reached
An open field. We saw all
The animals had been gathered there,
Our sheep, cows, horses, and so on.
My aunt jumped over the fence
And went over to our cows, hugging them.
But there were soldiers on both sides of
The road to make sure no one swerved
And everyone kept up.
Ottoman Empire, 1915
They Went to the City Hall
And a judge told him, “Child,
Your religion is very bad
And must be renounced. Do you
Renounce it?” He said, evet, effendi,
Yes, sir. “Do you accept the real religion,
The Muslim religion?” Evet, effendi.
The judge said, “Son, your name henceforth
Will be Abdul Rahman oghlu Assad.
Then they gave the boy a fez
And a turban so everyone would know
He was Muslim. Then he had to be
Circumcised, so a religious leader did that.
Afterwards, he could safely go out
On the street. But even then
The Turkish boys would taunt him,
Calling him dönme, turncoat.
Ottoman Empire, 1915
The Book
I had a leather water bottle
Containing about a cup full of water
The children near me were crying
Choor! Choor! Water! Water!
Without being seen
I held out the bottle quickly
Here and there to wet the children’s
lips with a few drops.
I think those drops
Were very precious, and that they were
Recorded in the book of heaven.
Between Marash and Dier el-Zor, Ottoman Empire, June 1915
Turkish Harem
They wore long, blue, sleeveless caftans
And scarves over their shoulders
To shield their faces against the desert winds
Some covered their heads with turbans;
Some had cushions on their heads
Which protected them as they carried heavy loads;
Some had babies in cloth bags on their backs;
Some displayed rings in their nostrils
And had garish, dark-blue tattoos
On their faces bosoms, hands, arms, ankles,
And even their kneecaps.
These women were the lucky ones.
Ras al-Ayn desert, Ottoman Empire, 1915
Beauty, the Oldest Sorrow.
By blackening their faces with dirt or soot
Many girls tried to make themselves ugly
Mama would caution me everyday
“Vergeen, don’t forget to rub dirt on your face.”
She was afraid a soldier would take notice
Of me. I was thirteen.
Ras al-Ayn desert, Ottoman Empire, 1915
Deportees
In the depths of the cedar forest
They came upon tents of black goatskins,
The shelters of Turkish charcoal makers.
“We would have been so happy,”
The priest wrote, “to stop here in that solitude,
To live simply and free
From the unbearable eyes of the police-soldiers.
“We envied those poor workers
But also the startled rabbits that
Jumped from beneath bushes and
Dashed away. And we envied birds
Free in the sky to fly wherever they wished.
“But we were going to the desert
To become handfuls of dust.”
Taurus Mountains, Ottoman Empire, 1916
The Afterlife
During the deportation
I spoke to the captain. “Bey,” I said,
“As a priest, I frighten my congregation
When I tell them their sins
Will make them suffer in the next world
If they won’t atone.
How will you atone for yours?”
“I already atone for mine,” he said.
“After each massacre
I spread my prayer rug and say my namaz,
Thanking Allah
For making me worthy for this jihad.
“My friends wanted me to retire
On account of my old age.
It’s a good thing I didn’t.”
Leaving Yozgat, Ottoman Empire, 1916
Friendship
After the French soldiers withdrew from Marash
We who had hidden were weak with hunger.
The town was full of Turks firing their weapons
Only Peter, my American friend living there,
Would go with me to the Turkish grain shop
to barter for food. A Turk suddenly ran toward us
And embraced him. “My friend!” he exclaimed,
“How fortunate you did not come to me
For protection! I would have had to kill you.”
Marash, Turkey, 16 February 1920
Beautiful
The way they acted was so proper, so magnificent, so disciplined; they command nothing but respect. The locals could learn a lot from them. Just look at them marching by, on foot or on horseback or with their guns, looking so beautiful, so healthy, and with such cheerful faces; they’re big and sturdy and very neat, making you think, inadvertently, such a pitiful army we have! The people here are so rude and impolite, while they are so proper and polite! It’s easy to see the difference. How dare we fight such a powerful, strong people? No wonder we had to give up fighting after four days, the difference was too great.
The NetherlandsThe Hague, The Netherlands, 1940
His Eyes
A policeman came to their apartment
And wanted to take some of their things.
The woman cried saying
she was a widow with a child.
He said he would take nothing
If she could guess correctly which of his
eyes was the artificial one.
When she guessed the left
He asked her how she knew. Because,
she said, that one has a human look.
Warsaw, Poland, 8 November 1940
Father
I was the girl who played soccer with the boys.
I was the girl who rode a bicycle on the street
Which a lot of Jewish girls didn’t do that.
See, I was born a fighter. I am free. I was always free.
When I was a child my father used to say
That I am dangerous.
Lokov, Poland, 1940
Bridge of Ravens
The new women were holding onto the small bundles
They’d been allowed to take with them—
Curtains, a pot of lard, black bread, a coat.
They saw us as striped silhouettes without faces.
They didn’t know why this was happening to them
Or why they were here. They knew nothing.
At least we knew why we were here.
Ravensbrück, Germany, 1942
Obviously
Obviously it is
Inconvenient
To shoot everybody,
He explained.
Kiev, USSR, April, 1942
Sooner or Later
The wind squealed under the floor
The train had stopped
You could see a skinny horse beside a wire fence.
This time no one got off
to look for the missing children.
Central Europe, 1943
A Journey
From the train we moved five in a row
I was weak and someone put out a hand
I thought it was to help me, but
It was to hit me.
“Russian pigs! Russian bandits!”
Nobody could understand
Why they were being beaten.
We hadn’t learned yet
That this was just the way they behaved.
Ravensbrück, Germany, 1943
A Thin Ray of Brightness
Before dawn, it was hard to see the roads.
We had to concentrate to avoid driving
into the ditches.
At the top of a hill
we could see the outlines of Luxembourg.
The road extended through a forest into the plain.
Ahead the taillights of another column
were disappearing into the woods.
The most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
Outside Luxembourg, Belgium, 1944
More Light
Outside we saw ragged women pillaging,
Their shoulder blades thin as knives.
Some fell into the river,
Others twisted their skirts up to defecate.
We didn’t see no infants except
A red-haired girl with inflamed skin
Who looked like she was sleeping.
Villagers brought us hot broth and horsemeat.
Later, three of us got down from the train
To see if anyone was around,
The only light we had was some stolen candles,
Which wasn’t enough.
Central Europe, 1944
Abandoned
The sweet May rain
Runs down my cheeks.
In a rice paddy an artillery shell
Wallows in the mud.
Southern Okinawa, 1945
The Finest Thing
You must be attached body and soul
And with all the forces of your heart
And character to him.
You must regard yourself as his children
Whom nothing on earth
Could ever make waver
In their unconditional loyalty.
This is the greatest and finest thing
In a man’s life—unconditional
Loyal devotion to the great man
Who is his leader.
Radio broadcast, Berlin, Germany, 20 February 1945
Defiance
He was defiant at his trial.
When the judge asked him
How he’d been able to betray
His fellow partisans, he replied
“I think for a million bucks
you would have done the same thing.”
Prague, Czechoslovakia, 1945
Pancakes
They began wandering in circles
Because of the darkness and heavy snow.
Luminescent rockets streaked through the heavens.
One of them said he swore he could see
His mother carrying warm pancakes for
Everyone. Those who did not die of the cold
Were captured by the Chetniks because
Their feet were frozen, or because
A child would begin crying.
Birać Mountains, 1992
Foreigners
The children asked their teacher,
Who was from Algeria, why after
All her years living in Paris
She walked down the street zigzag.
“This is how you avoid a bullet,”
She answered. How strange they all
Had thought, until much later
When they returned to Croatia
And the bombing began.
Zagreb, Croatia, 1992
Dear Diary
I ran across the bridge today
To see Grandma and Granddad.
They cried with joy. They’ve lost weight
And aged since I last saw them
Four months ago. They told me
I had grown, that I was now a big girl,
Though I am only eleven. That’s nature
At work. Children grow, and
Elderly age. That’s how it is
With those of us who are still alive.
Sarajevo, September 1992
Precisely
Offended by the Dutch peacekeeper
who called him a Nazi, the Serb captain
said, “I understand his family’s story,
OK, but I don’t understand why
he’s making such a fuss,”
referring to the deportations.
“I understand why he gets emotional,
but they’re not Jews, they’re Muslims.”
Near Bratunac, Bosnia, July 1995
On the Bus
On the buses as they drove past
I could see the women.
Pressing their faces to the windows,
eyes wide, they saw the men
lying in the grass by the road,
pools of blood under
their slashed necks. The women
forced themselves to look
in order to see if any of the men
were their husbands, fathers, and sons.
Outside Srebrenica1995
I Told Them
“Look at me! You haven’t killed all of us!”
Srebrenica, 1999
Music
The medic jabbed him with something
Then we both looked over the trench.
It was a seventeen-year-old girl soldier
Named Jacky, blonde ponytail, small Koran
On a leather strap around her neck. Some said
She was the commandant’s mistress,
But in her small tough voice she said
She was there to fight. Running with a box
Of ammunition beside a friend with short,
Spiked hair, holding a Walkman playing hip-hop.
They left the music on during the shelling.
Near Kosare, Kosovo, 12 May 1999
Look, Look
He stood near the tent
On sentry duty, his helmet on,
An old Kalashnikov slung on his shoulder,
A cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
He was staring at the sky, bright blue
Flecked with pink and orange.
A perfect Turner landscape.
He was talking to himself, mumbling,
Excited as a child. “Look, look at
The light,” he said. “The beautiful light!”
Then he saw I was awake and
Turned to me with joy. “Look,
At the sky! We’re still alive! Isn’t it
Wonderful! We’re still alive!”
I fell asleep again and when I woke up
Someone said he had gone to the front.
Near Kosare, Kosovo Border, May 1999
For the Record
Much later, when she met with the Dutch
Researcher, he seemed unaware
That children had been killed at Potočari.
“There were no children at Potočari,”
he said. She showed him
the documents that proved there were:
“Then,” she asked, “did I kill my children?
Did I undress them?”
“There were no children,” he repeated.
“No one knows where you women hid them.”
The Hague, The Netherlands, 2004
Be
Ruthless without anger
Aggressive without anger
Meeting violence with greater violence
Void of emotion
Not hindered by potential death
Be the loving father, spouse, and friend
As well as the ruthless killer.
Louisville, Kentucky, 2013
Sugar
I was so afraid I wanted to throw up.
I hugged my doll tight, saying “Don’t be afraid,
don’t be afraid, I’m here with you.”
My parents gave us sugar, saying
it would help us be less afraid…
but I found it didn’t change anything for me!
Aleppo, Syria, 2013
Graffiti
Brother do not worry
the Belgian police have released me
for the 23rd time. Back to the lorry…
**
Remember put the tube in your mouth
and the other end out of the lorry’s tarp cover
so you can breath
**
be careful that dog a lot
put oil on you & the dog cannot scent
**
Just look yourself and come yourself
as soon as possible. I am with Pichiu
there is much of control in the streets and
dangerous. If you have read this take the way
to Italy be careful what you doing
**
BE CAREFUL THEY DO CATCH YOU WITH DOGS IN THE PORT!!!
**
I am Sonu Kumar age 17
Brother don’t worry moreover
I have possess a paper of Greece
**
Tomorrow we will try again — we will also …
**
I am Arash in Zeebrugge I have been sent back again
The one from the UK has deceive me
And also Belgium didn’t mean anything
The human trafficker is Asad
**
Have try 12 times without success
Saw it too late left the assholes behind
Port of Zeebrugge, Belgium, 2014
Decency
He had called his parents in a rush on Aug. 8.
“Mama, Papa I love you! Hi to everyone!
Kiss my daughter for me.” His mother was told
Nine days later by an emissary of the Russian army
That her son Konstantin had died at the Ukranian border
In “army exercises.” When she asked,
“Do you believe the words you are telling me?”
He had the decency to reply that he did not.
Russian–Ukranian border, 13 August 2014
********
Frank Stewart has been editor of Mānoa: a Pacific Journal of International Writing since 1989. He is an essayist, translator, and the author of four books of poetry. For his poetry, he was awarded the prestigious Whiting Writers’ Award in New York in 1986 and other awards, including the Hawai'i Governor's Award for Literature. He has edited eight anthologies on the contemporary literature and environment of Hawai‘i, Asia, and the Pacific. He represented American writers at the Asia-Pacific Conference on Indigenous and Contemporary Poetry, in Manila; was a U.S. representative to the Taipei International Poetry Festival, in Taiwan; the American representative to the Commonwealth Games/Literature in New Delhi.
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