Psalm 137 Poem—The Vulture Sky

Why should I beautify the place of my exile?

Andy Patton

Nov 11, 2021

Notes on the Poem

Chaim Potok’s masterful novel, My Name Is Asher Lev, tells the story of a gifted young Hasidic painter who tries to search for a symbol within Judaism that is powerful enough to convey the suffering he experienced in childhood. But he finds, much to the chagrin of his Hasidic community, that he must turn to Christianity instead. Only the crucifixion conveys the magnitude of the pain that is he trying to capture on the canvas.

Something similar is going on with the poem that I am pairing with Psalm 137, a Psalm of lament written by a people in exile.

When the Rwandan Genocide broke out in 1994, 10,000 people gathered in a small church in Nyamata. They locked themselves inside because they thought they would be safe inside a church. Instead, they were murdered there.

Today, the church is one of several sites in Rwanda that memorialize the atrocities of the genocide.

Poem—The Vulture Sky

I.
They came to Nyamata 10,000 wide
In search of a place to hide.
They died.

Our guide mimed taking a child by its legs
And sweeping it like a broom
At the low brown mark on the wall.
Until we understood the crescent stain
Was brains. I fled.

You can come and see - your
self, the skulls, the dust, the clothes,
the bullet holes, the pocked walls, the bits of bone -
where the murdered hid.
I did.

II.
The vulture sky
was dark and heavy.
The wolf fate
was fat and ready.
The bird of peace
was up and gone.
(She didn’t return before the dawn.)
The dogs of conscience
watched the show
and inside 10,000 people waited
for snake night
to swallow them whole.

III.
If what happened to me
Had happened to you,
How would you have survived it?
Why should I not rage at my killers? And rage
And rage and rage?

Why do the wounds remain
So long after they have passed,
Yet kindness is as fleeting as birdshadow?
Is the house of my anger real enough to live in?
Why should I beautify the place of my exile?
How much will it cost when the darkling comes due?
What would I do
If my enemy were here before me
In a land without law
Or consequence?

The questions clatter in my mind’s mouth.
They combust. They cut. I shout.
I chew them. I sicken.
I cannot spit them out.

IV
Other memories are flames, like the time
You accidentally burned the boy.
He rolled on the ground and shouted
but it went on burning.
And you realized: they were lying.
It doesn’t go out.
It wants to be remembered.
Oh, yes indeedy, it is always
On its way back.

You wake at night convinced you need to run.
You are already out of bed.
”Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Help me!”
Your wife says: go back to bed.
It is just the radiator.
Go to sleep. It is just the train.

But you know
Somewhere in the room, the snake is hiding.
Somewhere the boy is still burning.
Somewhere 10,000 people press together.
It is all happening again.

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