Dissident's Song, v2

[RiverNotch]

Dissident's Song


I remember it well,
the right side's incandescent rays
a wall of plastic shields against

the sticks and stones, the battle-cries and songs,
the bottles and raw bodies hurled
by the seeming reckless stars.

Efficiency code for avarice,
I would have asked him if those same pliers
after he wiped them clean with his rag

then washed them, more thorough, in soapy water
and applied a fresh coat of grease,
he brought home to grip a leaky pipe

or work on some faulty wires,
if ever they came within inches of that
with which daily his kids washed their hands,

by which nightly his wife watched the kids,
but it's hard to hold on to any such questions
when someone pulls out your nails.

In fact, it's hard to say anything at all
whenever it's time for such interrogation,
not least because the clipboard carried

by his adjutant was blank,
the pen empty, the pair of eyes
and what lay behind them the same.

Thank God for his newly hired Kapampangan
that, for the whole week, he could not bear
to spoil his want for Dinuguan

with the pus-ridden shit stinking up the whole ward
whenever he'd slip barbed wire up my ass,
there was only what by that point

bored him to death, the Holy Trinity
of Meralco, Nawasa, and DENR,
throughout which one could plainly see

how the fixtures overhead
flickered when he clamped my chest
to his twelve-volt battery,

how the bulbs dimmed as I hurled
gore and the sea with which he stuffed
my stomach well past bursting,

and how they all could not but die
with the rising of the sun,
the bruises dealt by his kamagong rod
my orphaned children's birthmarks.

I remember it well,
the right side's incandescent rays
a wall of plastic shields against

the sticks and stones, the battle-cries and songs,
the bottles and raw bodies hurled,
seeming reckless, by the stars.

Efficiency code for avarice,
I would have asked him if those same pliers
after he wiped them clean with his rag

then washed them, more thorough, in soapy water
and applied a fresh coat of grease,
he brought home to grip a leaky pipe

or work on some faulty wires,
if ever they came within inches of that
with which his kids would wash their hands,

by which his wife would watch the kids,
but it's hard to hold on to any such questions
when someone pulls out your nails.

In fact, it's hard to say anything at all
whenever it's time for such interrogation,
not least because the clipboard carried

by his adjutant was blank,
the pen empty, the pair of eyes
and what lay behind them the same.

Thank God for his newly hired Kapampangan
that, for the whole week, he could not bear
to spoil his want for Dinuguan

with the pus-ridden shit stinking up the whole ward
whenever he'd slip barbed wire up my ass,
there was only what by that point

bored him to death, his Holy Trinity
of Meralco, Nawasa, and DENR,
throughout which one could plainly see

how the fixtures overhead
flickered when he clamped my chest
to his twelve-volt battery,

how the bulbs dimmed as I hurled
gore and the sea with which he stuffed
my stomach well past bursting,

and how they all could not but die
with the rising of the sun,
every bruise dealt by his Kamagong rod
a birthmark red, blue, and white.

[dukealien]

Dissident's Song


I remember it well,
the right side's incandescent rays
a wall of plastic shields against

the sticks and stones, the battle-cries and songs,
the bottles and raw bodies hurled,
seeming reckless, by the stars.

First two stanzas:  good image.  Concerning "it," see below.  "incandescent rays" - tracer bullets, or flashing police strobes?
"[b]y the stars" is a bit confusing:  does this scene take place at night, or is this a continuation and a bit of an oath - "I remember it well, by the stars?"

Efficiency code for avarice,
I would have asked him if those same pliers
after he wiped them clean with his rag

then washed them, more thorough, in soapy water
and applied a fresh coat of grease,
he brought home to grip a leaky pipe

or work on some faulty wires,
if ever they came within inches of that
with which his kids would wash their hands,

by which his wife would watch the kids,
but it's hard to hold on to any such questions
when someone pulls out your nails.

Concerning these four stanzas, the buildup to the final killer is effective.  Discursive, and more impressionistic than simple recounting - which fits with the speaker's mental state.  The first line ("Efficiency code for avarice") I mentally place in quotes and with a question mark as what the speaker would ask the electrician/torturer... if he could remember it while being subjected.

In fact, it's hard to say anything at all
whenever it's time for such interrogation,
not least because the clipboard carried

by his adjutant was blank,
the pen empty, the pair of eyes
and what lay behind them the same.

A bit flippant in these two stanzas, making the point that these were props... as Orwell put it in "1984," the purpose of torture is torture.  Well expressed, slightly over the top in a gallows-humor way.

Thank God for his newly hired Kapampangan
that, for the whole week, he could not bear
to spoil his want for Dinuguan

with the pus-ridden shit stinking up the whole ward
whenever he'd slip barbed wire up my ass,
there was only what by that point

bored him to death, his Holy Trinity
of Meralco, Nawasa, and DENR,
throughout which one could plainly see

In these three stanzas we get down to specifics:  that, with "my," the speaker is the actual subject of torture, that it's taking place in the Philippines (references to ethnic group, blood stew, the electric and power companies, and a government department).  Without looking it up, an American reader wouldn't get the connection between the victim's excretions and the black offal-based stew.

how the fixtures overhead
flickered when he clamped my chest
to his twelve-volt battery,

Since the battery isn't connected to the mains (except, perhaps, with a charger) the flickering must be in the victim's eyes.  A subtle connection.

how the bulbs dimmed as I hurled
gore and the sea with which he stuffed
my stomach well past bursting,

and how they all could not but die
with the rising of the sun,
every bruise dealt by his Kamagong rod
a birthmark red, blue, and white.

Unless "Kamagong" is a trademark rather than just the name of the tree,  it should probably not be capitalized here - something like old-style US police nightsticks were referred to as "rosewoods."  "They all could not but die" is confusing:  is the torturer regretting that the subjects don't last, or that some of them do?

More to the point, where is the speaker at this point?  He's inside the torturer's head, but apparently has also survived.  What he's doing, in fact, is presuming the torturer's thoughts (or lack thereof).  Or else he's omniscient, or simply dead.

It might be irreverent to characterize this as "visceral," but that's the level at which it works.  Unfortunately, it can - for the wrong reader - serve as a sort of torture-porn, but for others it should shock and, perhaps, cause outrage.

But only if they understand the context (which is clear enough without translating the details).  In intensive, I did look them up, and they add depth to the work.  But for casual readers they'd be like references to POUM, FAI, and CNT in the Spanish Civil War.

In general, a degree of confusion is appropriate - the teller is being tortured or at least recalling it.  I'd normally cavil at use of "the," especially in the first few stanzas, but it does amplify the telling and stress how singularly important the events are to the teller.  Each "the" is otherwise a missed opportunity for a more descriptive, impactful word.  But replacing *all* of them with artful words, or removing "it" from L1,  would not be suitable here - it's a gut poem.

That's all I have.[/b]

[RiverNotch]

thanks for the feedback,

slight edits to make the general idea in s2 clearer, plus to suggest -- idk if it's better necessarily -- the idea i first had about the speaker's fate, as per your feedback. before posting, i tried to incorporate more the idea that the speaker had completely disappeared at some point, but i couldn't find a smooth-enough way of wording it. alternatively, i could retitle the piece to "The Disappeared": what do you think?

[dukealien]

thanks for the feedback,

slight edits to make the general idea in s2 clearer, plus to suggest -- idk if it's better necessarily -- the idea i first had about the speaker's fate, as per your feedback. before posting, i tried to incorporate more the idea that the speaker had completely disappeared at some point, but i couldn't find a smooth-enough way of wording it. alternatively, i could retitle the piece to "The Disappeared": what do you think?

Perhaps, given the first-person point of view, it could be titled "My Disappearance" or "Song of My Disappearance."

The edit ideas sound good.

Update: on further reading, yes, the edits help.