Listen:
There is a different sound from each bedroom in this house.
Upstairs, you can hear the conversations next door,
Loud voices speaking Kreyol,
Cajoling, joking, insulting,
Sometimes shouts, and a few times, even a gunshot.
There are parties and vodou ceremonies,
Music and drumming through the night.
From the other window, church wafts in;
Singing, preaching, microphone-amplified.
From the daughter's room, the vodou drums.
(Hers is the best view of the outdoor kitchen
Where workers roast the party pig.
The best smells, too.)
And also, accordion music
From the maid's quarters
Where her husband plays in the night,
Paris cafe meets Caribbean hymn tunes.
From the son's room, the other neighbors,
The quieter ones, who have fewer parties.
There's the occasional argument,
And howling when someone dies in the ravine,
Home to huddled masses behind the house.
But clearest from this room, you hear
The whooshing of the water pump
When the electricity comes on after a blackout.
The night guard's radio from outside sends
News and music into the kitchen
As cars pass on the bumpy road,
Coating the house with dust.
In the daytime, the merchants pass by, crying out their wares,
(Do you want vegetables? Batteries? Candles? Flowers?)
Or a water truck, blaring, out of tune, the theme from Titanic,
Or the cacophony of a rara band,
Or ads on a loudspeaker.
You can hear the roosters from anywhere
And the pigeons, and the doves:
A frenzy of birds.
Often the roaring of a generator or two,
Powering the neighborhood
When city power fails,
Drowns all
In an tsunami of noise.
One evening in January,
Just before 5 PM
There was a rumbling,
A crashing,
For thirty-five seconds,
As the city fell.
This house didn't fall, though,
But heard the crying out to God,
The singing of praises,
Rejoicing in survival.
And in the days that followed, everyone telling stories
Of where they were when that rumbling came,
Goudou Goudou, the earthquake,
Never to be forgotten.
And soon enough the other sounds began again
As life continued.
Children playing in the tent city down the street,
People laughing or fighting,
A radio, a song, a shouted joke.
La vie.
Listen:
Sometimes now,
If you are very quiet,
Before the day begins,
You can almost hear the whisper of dreams,
Dissipating as the sun comes up
Over thousands of tents, over acres of concrete,
Over two million people,
Over this city,
Over this one house.
There is a different sound from each bedroom in this house.
Upstairs, you can hear the conversations next door,
Loud voices speaking Kreyol,
Cajoling, joking, insulting,
Sometimes shouts, and a few times, even a gunshot.
There are parties and vodou ceremonies,
Music and drumming through the night.
From the other window, church wafts in;
Singing, preaching, microphone-amplified.
From the daughter's room, the vodou drums.
(Hers is the best view of the outdoor kitchen
Where workers roast the party pig.
The best smells, too.)
And also, accordion music
From the maid's quarters
Where her husband plays in the night,
Paris cafe meets Caribbean hymn tunes.
From the son's room, the other neighbors,
The quieter ones, who have fewer parties.
There's the occasional argument,
And howling when someone dies in the ravine,
Home to huddled masses behind the house.
But clearest from this room, you hear
The whooshing of the water pump
When the electricity comes on after a blackout.
The night guard's radio from outside sends
News and music into the kitchen
As cars pass on the bumpy road,
Coating the house with dust.
In the daytime, the merchants pass by, crying out their wares,
(Do you want vegetables? Batteries? Candles? Flowers?)
Or a water truck, blaring, out of tune, the theme from Titanic,
Or the cacophony of a rara band,
Or ads on a loudspeaker.
You can hear the roosters from anywhere
And the pigeons, and the doves:
A frenzy of birds.
Often the roaring of a generator or two,
Powering the neighborhood
When city power fails,
Drowns all
In an tsunami of noise.
One evening in January,
Just before 5 PM
There was a rumbling,
A crashing,
For thirty-five seconds,
As the city fell.
This house didn't fall, though,
But heard the crying out to God,
The singing of praises,
Rejoicing in survival.
And in the days that followed, everyone telling stories
Of where they were when that rumbling came,
Goudou Goudou, the earthquake,
Never to be forgotten.
And soon enough the other sounds began again
As life continued.
Children playing in the tent city down the street,
People laughing or fighting,
A radio, a song, a shouted joke.
La vie.
Listen:
Sometimes now,
If you are very quiet,
Before the day begins,
You can almost hear the whisper of dreams,
Dissipating as the sun comes up
Over thousands of tents, over acres of concrete,
Over two million people,
Over this city,
Over this one house.