Eliza Griswold reports from the edge of Europe, an island in the Mediterranean
called Lampedusa. It's an interesting piece, if only stylistically -- being a poet rather than a journalist, Ms. Griswold thinks nothing of devoting an entire paragraph to the question, "What am I doing here?" That liberty is a strength.
The name Misericordia is familiar. I realize I heard it last week when I was with fellow Civitella artists touring the Umbrian town of Sansepolcro. There, in the famous Piero della Francesca triptych, a hooded man kneels at the base of the cross. He looks like a hangman, but in fact he’s a member of this group, Misericordia. While they were doing charity work among the sick and dying, they wore black masks to protect against disease, and to protect their identity so they couldn’t be thanked. I imagine Luciforo in his yellow hazmat suit and a hood.
“Luciforo, what have you seen that you can’t forget?” I ask.
“One night, I watched mothers throw their babies into the sea. They popped up like corks,” he says.
3 comments:
That hurts to read.
That is the advantage of having a poet do your journalism. A journalist wouldn't have made it hurt so much; and so it would be easier to ignore.
But that poet is content with us having felt something, but doesn't have enough of a journalist on the other shoulder to tell us what happened, or why... we know almost nothing about that except it happened. I don't mind my emotions stirred, I do mind that it's for no other reason than apparently to demonstrate the poets skill.
The rest of the piece read rather like a transcript of something on NPR, rambling, going nowhere, but sure it was important and useful somehow- oh, and at least helping someone feel better either directly or in providing a vent. Poetry perhaps, but journalism? I don't know...
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