Once in awhile, I get lucky:
After losing ALL of my unpublished work in The Great Expansion Drive Crash of 2013, I thought I'd go and at least copy my published work off the internet, to help get my bearings and start rebuilding my portfolio. Unfortunately, a couple of the literary journal websites had closed, leaving no archives behind, and that published work was lost forever. I understand, though--I know that editing a literary journal is tough and often thankless work, and being an editor is not something I could ever do. Sites close down all the time. I've seen journals pop up and then disappear within a month, even. It's not a business for the faint of heart, for sure.
Anyway, the editor of one of the longer-standing journals, the respected Hobble Creek Review, made the decision to close its doors recently, as well. HCR held the only copy of my poem, "Chinese Pastoral", but I didn't get to it in time before the site went dark. My expansion drive crash had wiped out all my written work--now, the site with the only copy of the poem was closed, as well (ouch!). But, it's not the editor's job to make sure writers have copies, or to keep archives active, or even to notify writers a site is closing, so I just resigned myself to the fact that the poem was gone. That's why I was so surprised when HCR editor Justin Evans was able to retrieve it, and I'm so grateful to him for going out of his way to get it to me.
A spot of good luck! Who'd have thought, after all that? I'm posting the poem here, which originally appeared in the July, 2012 issue of HCR. I'd also like to thank Justin and wish him the best in his future endeavors--I'll certainly miss HCR.
Chinese
Pastoral
(a trptych)
i. Guangxi
Long-haired Zhuang women are
singing,
clapping, stomping feet to the
drumbeat
in the wooden village house,
bells
of their silver headdresses,
chiming.
Stopping, they raise hands in
unison,
driving it up, past the
corn-draped rafters,
up, into the hoary skies, their
spells
cast far, to the fickle ears of
harvest gods.
Their men don't interfere, but
watch
and smoke, as brown as the rice
terraces
ribboning the hills, weathered,
as the dormant fields of dragonfruit.
The drum sounds again; again the
women
pound the boards, their
wool-wrapped legs
jumping, voices ringing over all
of Guangxi,
as they conjure the planting
season into being.
ii. Jiangsu
Aromatic
tea fields sparkle in neat rows.
Women in
straw hats bend in a ballet, spry
as the
bushes they scratch around, the happy
animals of
their bodies, moving in sunshine.
Beans twist
up bamboo stakes, the pinch
of manure
and soil baking in the nostrils,
play of
tomatoes, herbs, and birdsong,
names of
every plant on the tongue.
Tractors
rumble by, and whistling men
with
shovels, who stop to urinate
in the
woods. Often, a violent burst
of
afternoon clouds, rain tamping dust.
They laugh during tea breaks. They work
long and hard. They work long and hard.
Their young have left for the cities, forgetting
the songs, the land, but sending money.
iii.
Sichuan
Before
leaving for the upper pastures,
the women
are tossing flour to the wind,
toasting
skies with strong barley beer,
chanting prayers,
singing for the crops.
Men are
readying the mills, fixing carts,
slapping
backs, and singing their own
kinds of
songs. The mules stamp
and snort,
game for their bundles.
Husbands
and wives bicker, shoot
glances and
mutter curses, their hands
raw with
work, a cruel sun pushing them
to move fast.
All day, the loads roll in.
Tomorrow,
the next day, and the next;
these
shining meadows of sunrise,
awaiting
the songs, the caress of hands
in the
soil, with all the loyalty of a lover.
