The Assassination of Sadat
by Bill Yarrow
I was in the park with Benjamin
talking to the mother of a little girl
who had undergone open heart surgery
twice and now wanted to be a doctor
and there was a speckled dog the kids
were chasing into the baseball field
and there were screams and shouts
and the terrifying music of bullets
sung at a man falling under a chair.
I was west of the baby swings
in the park with Benjamin, standing
against the last of the green benches
drenched in the gray light of early summer
watching him for just one more minute
be a little boy, but what did I know?
Just beyond the corkscrew slide
the President of Egypt was bleeding to death.
I stood in the park inspecting the earth
where the children kneel when I heard a noise
and looked up. The little girl was bending over
the wounds in the uniform of the man on the stage
saying, “It's OK, it's OK, I'm a doctor.”
The spaniel had his teeth deep in the arm
of the assassin who was screaming at Benjamin
to call off his dog. All the radios were tuned
to the same station. It was a chaos of compassion.
I left the world of familiar truths,
the world of boys and dogs and baseball
fields, a world where verities wave hello,
run after us, pull on our sleeves.
I left for the gray secret my son told me
that afternoon of open hearts.
“There are no parks anymore,” he said.
“Only Egypt exists.”
talking to the mother of a little girl
who had undergone open heart surgery
twice and now wanted to be a doctor
and there was a speckled dog the kids
were chasing into the baseball field
and there were screams and shouts
and the terrifying music of bullets
sung at a man falling under a chair.
I was west of the baby swings
in the park with Benjamin, standing
against the last of the green benches
drenched in the gray light of early summer
watching him for just one more minute
be a little boy, but what did I know?
Just beyond the corkscrew slide
the President of Egypt was bleeding to death.
I stood in the park inspecting the earth
where the children kneel when I heard a noise
and looked up. The little girl was bending over
the wounds in the uniform of the man on the stage
saying, “It's OK, it's OK, I'm a doctor.”
The spaniel had his teeth deep in the arm
of the assassin who was screaming at Benjamin
to call off his dog. All the radios were tuned
to the same station. It was a chaos of compassion.
I left the world of familiar truths,
the world of boys and dogs and baseball
fields, a world where verities wave hello,
run after us, pull on our sleeves.
I left for the gray secret my son told me
that afternoon of open hearts.
“There are no parks anymore,” he said.
“Only Egypt exists.”
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Author's Note
This poem has already appeared in Fictionaut. With Egypt prominent in the news lately, I've decided to republish it.
This poem was published in Hayotzer in 1987. It was written in 1982, I think. Long time ago. I don't really remember.
Anwar Sadat was the President of Egypt and after his assassination by extremists in 1981 was succeeded by Hosni Mubarak.
"The Assassination of Sadat" appears in THE VIG OF LOVE (Glass Lyre Press, 2016).
Other stories by Bill Yarrow
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A timely piece, and a well-written work, Bill. Great form.
Outstanding thought, too - a chaos of compassion. Also like the notion of leaving the world of familiar truths - as in your concluding stanza. Yes.
Big like.
I love the use of repetition, like with "in the park with Benjamin," and just about everything else in this poem. Would be timely at any time, since it achieve a universal.
Wonderful stuff, Bill, as is your norm. And jeez-- you've been doing this nonsense even longer than me. :)
Yep, we are all living in Egypt, as your poem so cleverly illustrates with graphic, well selected details: even way back then!
Timely and powerful and expertly crafted. *****
Right now, Egypt's hopeful who have taken to the streets are the best evidence of how freedom can find its way even amid anguish and struggle. I hope they remain determined to allow a real democracy for all their people, men and women alike, and don't succumb to the darkness of oppression so popular in neighboring countries. Thanks, Bill. A poem that suggests I use my brain for more than grading papers is always welcome. *
lovely. it's really interesting to see whether and how folk in the states are writing things inspired by/working with/riffing on what's happening in egypt.
it'd be an interesting to make a collection of it, maybe as a kind of mapping of the media-scape project.
i like this piece a lot, particularly in the way it is haunted.
oops...didn't see the statement. i like the haunting even more now...
Remarkable, Bill. The repetition is so successful. Powerful closing too.
I can’t stop thinking of this, and the way you’ve written it:
“the terrifying music of bullets
sung at a man falling under a chair.”
Deja vu with an edge. A beautiful and timely piece, Bill. Glad you thought to republish, since I missed it first go-round.