On Troubling Inspiration

I think it was Keats who said that if poetry didn't come as leaves to the tree, then it shouldn't come at all. In the days following my listening to an NPR segment, a new poem has been coming, and in some ways, I wish it wasn't. The segment talked about the execution of homosexuals and alleged criminals in Kabul. On the top of aptly named Swimming Pool Hill, the condemned were led out onto a diving board 30 feet above an empty concrete pool and pushed off. The pool was full of blood and bodies.

Kabul's teenagers now skateboard across the pool's smooth surface.

Afghanistan still plays host to those in search of adventure. Backpacks are replaced by flak jackets. Guides are tough and street-savy, not bearded and beaded a la Bali.

Having spent much of the late 80s and early 90s backpacking Asia and Europe, I think I know danger. The leering threat of a full body search at Ovda, a two-hour detention at Kunming airport, a fishing smack and a storm off the coast of Cambodia. I can "travel back" and write about those. But Swimming Pool Hill?

I've tried to feel that board under my feet, the wind, the prayed-for blindfold, the noise of the jailors behind me. I've considered the possible freedom on the jump but I cannot stay with the process to the concrete of the deep end.

I suppose leaves don't necessarily come easily to the tree. Who can know how difficult it is for the tree to produce the things it needs.