LA Smith wrote this ekphrastic poem after seeing the photographs of Yosuke Yamahata. Mr. Yamahata was one of the first photographers to arrive at Nagasaki on August 10, 1945, early in the morning the day after the atomic bombing. His photographs from that day were shown publicly for the first time in 1952 and they live online in an archive here.
Yet the Arch Still Stands
By LA Smith
By LA Smith
Grey-scale grips the past with poignancy
Like a charcoal rubbing of a gravestone:
Taboo, yet necessary, preserving the point
Before the winds erode it,
Before the world wonders at the debris
And begins to sweep it away
Apologizing for the inconvenience
As the locals–their color lost–disappear
Beneath the wood and splinters
If they were ever there at all,
If a forest of honest houses
Ever grew around that lonely arch,
If the mutilated mosaic of white roof tiles
And porcelain was ever anything
But a contrast to that shriveled little doll
Burnt and bent, awkward arm
The question mark, trailing whispers of why …
Of all the refugees, camped
On familiar soil with foreign features,
Only one smiles,
Only one emerges from the darkness
And tells us that it’s okay to breathe
This is a very powerful poem. I see and hear more every time I read it.
Apologizing for the inconvenience
As the locals—their color lost—disappear.