PATRICIA SMITH: Very strange.
I'm going to do I think three three poems of--
back in 1994, I went to South Africa
to cover the first all inclusive elections.
And there was a series of bomb blasts in attempts
to disrupt the elections.
And one of the biggest ones was about two blocks from my hotel.
And if you've never heard a bomb go, I mean,
it's just it's the most devastating thing.
We heard this, and didn't know what had gone on.
There's all these journalists in this hotel.
And we run down to where we thought the explosion had come
from, and it was a car bomb.
And you couldn't see much.
They had cordoned off the area.
You can kind of look inside.
You can see the buildings had kind of folded onto themselves.
And we stayed there.
We stayed there.
And after a while a lot of journalists wandered away.
We couldn't get any more information.
And a guy came around.
He said, well, I will let you to by to into the bomb site.
So he lifted up the rope, and two by two, we walked in.
And at first, it was just sort of physical devastation
to the surroundings.
And we turned into the epicenter where the car had been,
and they hadn't removed the bodies yet.
And I was not a war correspondent.
I had never seen anything like that.
And so I made a decision.
I said, either force myself to stay here and do my job
or I can turn around and go back the way I came,
and I stayed there.
And this is a poem that came out of that.
It's called "What Peter Arnett Said."
You guys remember Peter Arnett?
He was such a pain in the ass.
He was like, oh, excuse me, CNN.
He's pushing us all aside.
But he got in trouble, so.
"At the risk of shattering chronology,
I guess I should begin with the body.
I guess I should start with the crumpled lifeless legs
jutting out from the smoking carcass of the Fiat,
and the way I knew those legs would never walk again,
would never run.
I'll start with the car being lifted,
and the rest of the man coming into view.
His mustache matted with brown blood,
the jaunty felt hat with the wide brim
still in place on his head.
And clicking shutters trained on other dramas,
and buildings with the brains blown out,
and Peter Arnett, his big forehead gleaming,
pushing me aside to say, excuse me you're, in my shot.
And sad white men stare into the earth and grainy water
spurting.
And I guess I should begin with the body,
and the people passing by exclaiming, astonished,
but not slowing in deference to this man who had just been
taking a simple Sunday walk.
You see, it was Sunday, and fruit from the fruit stands
blew, and the rotting smell of slip sidewalk,
and I knew he would never walk again ever.
The suit, did I mention the suit and his hat
and his mustache soaked in blood?
And I walked.
He would never walk.
I walked.
He would never walk.
I walked.
He would die.
I walked.
He would never walk.
I walked.
He would never walk.
I walked.
He would never walk.
And so I walked all the way back to America and the footprint
grew redder and would not fade."