After the Peace Corps Carrie spent a season living and working in the south of France, and then worked as a researcher for National Geographic Magazine from 2002–2004. She is currently pursuing graduate studies in creative writing.
Poems by Carrie Young
By the Light of the Moon
How free
is the ocean
Or the moon
Really?
The village was off the road
And away from the world
Like a soft breeze
Blowing across the ground
Felt only by the Earth
At the bottom of the mountain
That calls it home
The beauty of the place
Equaled by the difficulties
Surrounding this life
Filled with the noise of natural things-
The pounding of grain like thunder,
Roosters crowing at every mood of the sun,
Fires crackling with ancient memories,
Children laughing and disappearing into tall grasses
And almost every night
The sound of a bilaphone
Playing at a fete somewhere
On another side of the village
Sending out a deep and hyper sound
That somehow found its way to me
Even in the thick, dark air of Africa
People dressed in bright fabrics
Were dancing until the dirt stirred
Into a fog around them
And all that was hard about the days
Trickled down their faces In sweat like tears
I could see them in my mind
As I lay in a room lit quietly by candles
My book resting next to me
While I joined them somewhere
In that fog of dirt and freedom
Freedom for muscles
That were bent and tired
From hours spent in the fields
And freedom from a mind
That was never allowed to forget
The weightless breath of fate
Waiting in the wind
Or the moon
Really?
The village was off the road
And away from the world
Like a soft breeze
Blowing across the ground
Felt only by the Earth
At the bottom of the mountain
That calls it home
The beauty of the place
Equaled by the difficulties
Surrounding this life
Filled with the noise of natural things-
The pounding of grain like thunder,
Roosters crowing at every mood of the sun,
Fires crackling with ancient memories,
Children laughing and disappearing into tall grasses
And almost every night
The sound of a bilaphone
Playing at a fete somewhere
On another side of the village
Sending out a deep and hyper sound
That somehow found its way to me
Even in the thick, dark air of Africa
People dressed in bright fabrics
Were dancing until the dirt stirred
Into a fog around them
And all that was hard about the days
Trickled down their faces In sweat like tears
I could see them in my mind
As I lay in a room lit quietly by candles
My book resting next to me
While I joined them somewhere
In that fog of dirt and freedom
Freedom for muscles
That were bent and tired
From hours spent in the fields
And freedom from a mind
That was never allowed to forget
The weightless breath of fate
Waiting in the wind
Returning Again
Every
meal of everyday
A memory of the one before
Rising from a mat on the ground
To pull water from a well
To carry home in a metal bucket
On her head
She may be used to it
But that doesn’t mean that metal
Is somehow less hard to her
On her body
As she cooks
Over a smoky fire
Bent over now and still
Hours later bent
In a field of intimidating size
Her hands are losing skin
To the wooden handle
Of her only tool
Swung up into the air
And brought back down
Into the soil
This act her livelihood
Her only hope of income
She returns home
As the sun sets over her field
And bends to cook
Before returning again
To her mat on the dirt
A memory of the one before
Rising from a mat on the ground
To pull water from a well
To carry home in a metal bucket
On her head
She may be used to it
But that doesn’t mean that metal
Is somehow less hard to her
On her body
As she cooks
Over a smoky fire
Bent over now and still
Hours later bent
In a field of intimidating size
Her hands are losing skin
To the wooden handle
Of her only tool
Swung up into the air
And brought back down
Into the soil
This act her livelihood
Her only hope of income
She returns home
As the sun sets over her field
And bends to cook
Before returning again
To her mat on the dirt
Balance
If the world were a body
Africa would be the eyes
Shining
In the knowledge of things that have been
Of life's truest tests and most intense beauty
If the world were a body
The western world would be the hands
With the capacity
Of an uplifting generosity
Together
These eyes of wisdom
And hands of generosity
Can create balance,
Peace The lantern made
A light creaking noise
As it swung by my side
On a walk through the village
Of red mud and grass
That was a labyrinth
Lost somewhere in time
Thousands of years ago
I don't remember
If I walked in the light of the moon
Or in the darkness
When I came upon
The orange glow of candles
Coming from a room with walls
That would fall in the rain
There was a woman laid back
On an old bamboo chair
Giving birth in the center of the room
In the center of the ancient village,
In the center of Africa
And what felt like the
Very center of time itself
Africa would be the eyes
Shining
In the knowledge of things that have been
Of life's truest tests and most intense beauty
If the world were a body
The western world would be the hands
With the capacity
Of an uplifting generosity
Together
These eyes of wisdom
And hands of generosity
Can create balance,
Peace The lantern made
A light creaking noise
As it swung by my side
On a walk through the village
Of red mud and grass
That was a labyrinth
Lost somewhere in time
Thousands of years ago
I don't remember
If I walked in the light of the moon
Or in the darkness
When I came upon
The orange glow of candles
Coming from a room with walls
That would fall in the rain
There was a woman laid back
On an old bamboo chair
Giving birth in the center of the room
In the center of the ancient village,
In the center of Africa
And what felt like the
Very center of time itself
The Shadowless Light of Memory
She saw a leaf leave the tree
And float down away
From the perfect blue sky
In the white light of the day
A kind of shadowless light
Painting itself on all sides of the leaf
She quietly watched
Until it landed in her palm
Lightly, the way memories
Fell onto her mind
Like those of Africa
Of the people's eyes
Sparkling
As if constellations
Lived in them
Shooting stars, twinkling stars,
Night skies filled with stars
Were the people's eyes
And at times
The stars became veiled
As if behind a cloud
Until the storm passed
And the stars shone once again
In the clear sky
Of their eyes
The shining backdrop
Of the memories
That fell like leaves
Onto her mind
And float down away
From the perfect blue sky
In the white light of the day
A kind of shadowless light
Painting itself on all sides of the leaf
She quietly watched
Until it landed in her palm
Lightly, the way memories
Fell onto her mind
Like those of Africa
Of the people's eyes
Sparkling
As if constellations
Lived in them
Shooting stars, twinkling stars,
Night skies filled with stars
Were the people's eyes
And at times
The stars became veiled
As if behind a cloud
Until the storm passed
And the stars shone once again
In the clear sky
Of their eyes
The shining backdrop
Of the memories
That fell like leaves
Onto her mind
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