Poetry is an art that has flowed like a river through time. You can dam a river, you can divert a river but over time the river will wear down, circumvent or displace any obstacle.
You might have thought that football trumped poetry at American Universities, particularly at a football powerhouse like Penn State. But score a big win for the poets, as former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky has been replaced on a Penn State mural by, of all thing, a poet! Specifically, by Dora McQuaid, who is known for activist poetry relating to sexual abuse and domestic violence.
Now why would Penn State choose someone like that?
Here is one of Dora McQuaid's poems, which is posted on her website, and excerpted from her chapbook the scorched earth.
THE ONE YOU WERE AFRAID I WOULD WRITE
I still dream about you.
At night, my body remembers.
In my sleep, I cannot control
what it knows
of this house, this specific room,
the bed under the double windows,
the long hallway lit with night-lights.
At night, my body speaks
about what is still unresolved,
what my mind keeps seeing,
what brought on this shock.
My body remembers
trying quickly smoothly
oh my God how close is he
to be two steps ahead
of you, down the hall,
as it felt your anger start to crest.
My body remembers
being stuck in the corner
of the bathroom, on the other side
of the locked door from you.
It remembers your screaming,
your voice raising, and
raising, with intensified threat.
My body remembers
the closet door that,
in trying to get away from you
later
it went through.
It split the wood of the bi-fold
and felt the runner peg snap.
It remembers the sound of the peg
hitting the floor, right beside me,
as you said,
"That's YOUR fault."
My body remembers
getting up from the closet floor,
watching your feet Oh, sweet
Jesus don't let him move too fast,
my back already going numb where the pain set in.
It remembers trying slowly calmly
to get past you please God please God please.
It remembers how you shook,
the spit on your chin,
the unfocused eye,
how fiercely fast you grabbed me then.
It remembers your fingers between
tricep and bicep, the way my neck went wrong
when my body hit the bed.
It remembers the weight of you in the
struggle, how I went briefly beyond the realm
of prayer, entranced in your bourbon breath,
your cigarette stench, your soured skin,
your long low laugh.
My body remembers
hearing its own voice pleading
out loud, my left wrist feeling the start of
the cave in, the burn of broken skin, your
fingernails literally against the bone.
It remembers going slack then, the shut
down, some part of me going
away, the other part watching
my blood circle on the white
comforter,
feeling your body relax into its victory,
then get up, leave the room, breathing hard.
My body remembers
you going down that hall, walking
through the path of night-lights.
It remembers first hearing the
shotgun, police issue, riot,
being cocked in the silence.
It remembers floating
off the bed then, somehow standing
in the middle of the room when you
came back in, gun leveled and gaping.
It remembers your stocking feet, the sound
of the ice hitting the roof, your voice
telling me, "Get the fuck out now, bitch.
I just wanted to hold you,"
the gun waving tighter and tighter circles
around us both.
It remembers how slow the world got,
how small,
how I stared at you then
and prayed, voiceless,
to be protected,
for mercy.
My body remembers
you leaving the room then, walking
back down the hall. Later, you
followed me into the kitchen, found my
wrist under running water until the water ran
clear of my blood.
It remembers how you watched me,
watched the water, and
when I stopped to look at where
your fingernails took out the flesh, you
said, "What's wrong with you?"
When I said, "You hurt me,"
your response was, "Yeah?
Go write a fucking poem about it."
You slept that night.
I didn't sleep at night for months.
Now, when I sleep, I
still dream about you.
At night, my body remembers what it knows.
And the dreams of you all end the same,
with the image I remember the most from
the next day:
Walking stiffly slowly
oh, sweet Jesus
down the long hallway,
into that room again,
only to find your dog, positioned
between closet and bed,
licking the splatter of my blood
off of the bedroom wall.
--
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[h/t Dr. Saturday]
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