An Old Story by Tracy K. Smith

31 Days of Poetry: Day 25

The 25th of August’s poem is ‘An Old Story’ by Tracy K. Smith, which was published in her 2018 collection, ‘Wade in the Water’ (Penguin UK Books).

An Old Story

We were made to understand it would be
Terrible. Every small want, every niggling urge,
Every hate swollen to a kind of epic wind.

Livid, the land, and ravaged, like a rageful
Dream. The worst in us having taken over
And broken the rest utterly down.

                                                              A long age
Passed. When at last we knew how little
Would survive us - how little we had mended

Or built that was not now lost - something
Large and old awoke. And then our singing
Brought on a different manner of weather.

Then animals long believed gone crept down
From trees. We took new stock of one another.
We wept to be reminded of such color.

---

Reading this poem, I find myself contemplating humanity’s tendency to destroy. Perhaps the geographical location, or the ethnicity/religion/race of the people whose suffering is deemed acceptable changes, but the worst moments in history just seem to repeat themselves.

Even as the previous generation’s cries of ‘never again’ still resound, it is happening again. And then there is the world itself and how we destroy that, too. The land we rely on suffers because of the impossible demands we place on it.

And yet, while all of this is true, it is still so important that we don’t simply allow the repetitiveness of the world’s evil to convince us that it is inevitable, and that an alternative way of living isn’t possible.

This isn’t the first time I’ve said this, nor is it an original thought, but our hopelessness and sense of helplessness is relied upon by those who wish to continue inflicting the worst harm for their own gain. Despair paralyses us and prevents us from seeking, actively demanding and working towards a more civilised existence, or even believing in the possibility of it. But it is worth remembering that better is always possible.

'...And then our singing
Brought on a different manner of weather.

Then animals long believed gone crept down
From trees. We took new stock of one another.
We wept to be reminded of such color.'

---

See you on day twenty-six,

Tasnim

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