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Three Hours to Burn a Body: Poems on Travel
- GenresPoetry
80 pages, Paperback
First published May 3, 2011
About the author
Suzanne Roberts
8 books63 followersSuzanne Roberts is the author of 52 Writing Prompts: Inspiration for the Creative Writer (UNP, 2026), PEN award longlisted Animal Bodies: On Death, Desire, and Other Difficulties (UNP, 2022), the award-winning travel essay collection Bad Tourist: Misadventures in Love and Travel, and the memoir Almost Somewhere: Twenty-Eight Days on the John Muir Trail (Winner of the National Outdoor Book Award), as well as four books of poems. Named "The Next Great Travel Writer" by National Geographic's Traveler, Suzanne's work has been listed as notable in Best American Essays and included in The Best Women's Travel Writing. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, CNN, National Geographic, Creative Nonfiction, Brevity, The Rumpus, Hippocampus, The Normal School, The Fourth Genre, and elsewhere. She holds a doctorate in literature and the environment from the University of Nevada-Reno, teaches in the MFA program at Sierra Nevada University, and lives in South Lake Tahoe, California
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
February 2, 2013
I've reviewed Roberts's two previous books, Shameless and Nothing to You here. Three Hours to Burn a Body, is her third. (I've just finished reading and will also review her fourth, Plotting Temporality).
I've rarely (probably never) read all of a poet's books in close succession before, and it's an eye-opening experience. It's interesting and satisfying to watch the development of the poet over time. But it's also a way to come to know a poet more deeply than you ever can by reading a handful of scattered poems.
When I opened Three Hours to Burn a Body, I already knew that Roberts was a travel writer and that she wrote many poems based on experiences encountered in her travels. I'd already guessed that "three hours to burn a body" might refer to ceremonial cremation on funeral pyres along the Ganges.
But many locations are represented here, from Central and South America (many in Equador), to China, Mongolia, and India. I feel so much the richer for having read these poems. Roberts is a photographer, a keen observer with an eye for not only the scene, but the telling detail that less practiced observers, travelers, or writers might easily miss.
On the surface, it's page after page of vivid travel poems, mostly free verse, with a few prose poems. They are so colorful, concrete, and arresting. Some of the poems make me think of the photoshopped pictures — and I mean that in the best possible sense — not to make them look better than reality, but touched up to bring the images into sharp relief — all vivid colors and hard edges — in order that we might see more clearly — even those things we, perhaps, would rather not see. And in so doing, have a more profound experience, even as we're made a bit uncomfortable.
Almost Somewhere
Quito, Ecuador
Armed guards keep out theman selling
sunglasses, a woman, exposing an injured
foot, begging for change. The travelers here
can rest assured, the bullet-proof vests
will keep them from harm. They can exchange
stories—the jungle in Cuyabena, the Galapagos,
tell each other of good eats—Mexican food
in Ecuador, Thai food in Lima, Peru.
They complain of early morning flights, long bus rides,
the burden of malaria pills. The television replays
NFL highlights. The guards stand at the entrance,
so the travelers, all of them almost somewhere,
can eat their waffles in peace.
The narrator/poet is always here with us, helping us to be not just tourists, but travelers, a guide who leads us a little deeper, even as she tests and questions. And every poem asks a question — for herself — and for every reader, as well. Roberts manages to write of other people, of cultures observed and in which she cannot fully participate while, at the same time, making these intensely personal poems. And somehow, these poems — so many of them — manage to be sexy, too.
Only a couple poems are not set in exotic (to me!) locales. But these I also liked: poems in which the narrator locates herself on her own turf, in nature, with strength and confidence and exhilaration. These seemed to be a foretaste of Roberts's next collection.) I so identify with this passage:
The tug of the rope, reminding you
that the world holds together
by the superstition of safety—
today you won't fall. Today,
someone holds the rope below,
ready to catch you. Today,
you can defy the physics of gravity,
surrender to the chalky clouds,
the acrylic sky, the canvas of rock.
-- from "The Syntax of Gravity"
It was the poems set in India that affected me most deeply — and perhaps I was primed by the title of the book. Several poems are set in Varanasi, on the banks of the Ganges, the holy river. The city is a pilgrimage destination and a place where people go to die. (I think it's believed that dying on the banks of the Ganges will help one through the cycle of births, deaths, rebirths, until the soul is free. The dying hope to have their ashes scattered in the river.)
A couple of images that I found most affecting were those of the poor begging for money for their funeral pyres so that they might be burned completely to ash, instead of having their bones tossed into the river.
Another powerful image: Young girls sell shells filled with marigolds and a candle that one is supposed to float on the river. The narrator/poet buys one of these shells but when she sets it in the water, it flips over and the candle flame goes out. One cannot really participate here. She is, and we are, still only onlookers.
Well, I could go on and on. But I'm eager to get on to Roberts's next book, which is my favorite of her four collections). I think she's really good.
Here are a few poems from Three Hours to Burn a Body that I found in various places online — except for "The Nearly Dead," which I couldn't find online, but copied from the book.
Incan Wall
Sacsayhuaman, Peru
Inside the belly of the cave,
a darkness more than metaphor
erases rock walls, ceiling,
ground, me. I find myself
alone in a literal darkness,
in the center of nothing,
realize this cold, dark womb
could be the only fear.
But I emerge, of course—
a light-flooded Andean backdrop,
the undulation of green flickering
before white-capped mountains.
My mother says when she dies
, it could be days before anyone
would find her. Such comfort
in being found still warm.
Poultry Stall
Saquisilí, Ecuador
A stout woman holds chickens
upside down, swinging them
by their feet. They do not fight her.
Their almond eyes wide, open
to an inverted world, looking
at nothing. A potential customer
comes by, feels the bodies
under the white feathers, already
meat. While the women negotiate
a fair price, the customer ruffles
her fingers along the bellies.
Still the chickens do nothing,
as we often do, resigned already
to being dead.
The Nearly Dead
Varanasi, India
Dusk catches the world in its gauzy net.
The sun hangs like a ripe tangerine
behind the smoke. Rafts loaded with wood
travel the Ganges. A blind man follows us,
selling cotton candy, the pink poufs electric
against the gray water, the darkening sky.
We buy the candy for the children. They fight
over the pink wisps, then surround us,
begging for more, for rupees, school pens.
Our guide shoos them away—they run off
to find another game, their laughter ringing
like bells. They take turns sliding down
the ghat steps on an old piece of cardboard.
The nearly dead slump at the bottom
of the stairs, asking for pyre money,
hoping to afford a complete cremation.
The carriage of their hips, blackened skulls
not flung in the river nearly whole,
but rendered to dust. The world itself
unveiled, made bare.
Three Hours to Burn a Body
Varanasi, India
We have come to watch the bodies burn,
our guide shoos away beggars and children,
selling shells of light and orange marigolds—
An offering for Mother Ganga. The murky river s
ways with candles, a thousand dawn-lit stars.
The sky’s stars hidden by a canvas of clouds.
Untouchables travel barefoot down sandy stairs,
carrying another gold-clad body on their shoulders.
They chant, and the families follow their dead.
I watch them tend the “eternal flame,” watch
the living to avoid the dead. The guide says,
“This one almost finished,” points to a pyre.
A flame twists from the ghost of an eye.
“Three hours,” he says, “to burn a body.”
My legs hot from flame, ash rains onto my hair.
Good luck,” he points to the ash, “Very good luck,
indeed…Come,” he leads us to a concrete building.
A creased, toothless woman holds out her hand.
A wrinkled breast sags from the sari. She tucks it back
without apology. The guide tells us, “She needs money
for her pyre. Good karma for you.” We hand her 500 rupees.
She hides it in her sari, lies back onto the straw mat,
the cold concrete floor. The boatman waits. We row
down the river. Dawn prayers echo from a mosque.
A dying cow moans from the river’s bank.
White branches of smoke rise from each black smudge
in the sand, disappear into the white horizon.
Children run above, along the rooftops.
Fires below create hot wind, lifting
colorful kites and children’s laughter to flight.
The collection ends with this one:
Devotion
Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
The morning chants echo from the Gandan Monastery.
I approach the old monk. He is to read my sutras.
He takes both hands, turns the palms up.
Incense and sweat hang in the air. The monks silence
their chants, break for a bowl of porridge.
The old monk looks at me through tinted glasses,
says something. I look to the translator, she tells me,
“He says he can tell you, but only after you understand.
After more attention to your true work. Only then,
you must return.” He nods, turns to go, his maroon
and yellow robes sweep the floor. Outside the gates,
a homeless woman crouches on the street,
scooping rain water from the gutter into a thermos.
Old women offer small bottles of ablution.
Street children wearing plastic sandals,
their dirty socks drenched, sell bird seed, beg
for spare change. Mist falls now a steady rain,
pigeons lift into the cloud-pleated sky, the chants resume—
the flutter, the rain, the boundlessness of human song.
I've rarely (probably never) read all of a poet's books in close succession before, and it's an eye-opening experience. It's interesting and satisfying to watch the development of the poet over time. But it's also a way to come to know a poet more deeply than you ever can by reading a handful of scattered poems.
When I opened Three Hours to Burn a Body, I already knew that Roberts was a travel writer and that she wrote many poems based on experiences encountered in her travels. I'd already guessed that "three hours to burn a body" might refer to ceremonial cremation on funeral pyres along the Ganges.
But many locations are represented here, from Central and South America (many in Equador), to China, Mongolia, and India. I feel so much the richer for having read these poems. Roberts is a photographer, a keen observer with an eye for not only the scene, but the telling detail that less practiced observers, travelers, or writers might easily miss.
On the surface, it's page after page of vivid travel poems, mostly free verse, with a few prose poems. They are so colorful, concrete, and arresting. Some of the poems make me think of the photoshopped pictures — and I mean that in the best possible sense — not to make them look better than reality, but touched up to bring the images into sharp relief — all vivid colors and hard edges — in order that we might see more clearly — even those things we, perhaps, would rather not see. And in so doing, have a more profound experience, even as we're made a bit uncomfortable.
Almost Somewhere
Quito, Ecuador
Armed guards keep out theman selling
sunglasses, a woman, exposing an injured
foot, begging for change. The travelers here
can rest assured, the bullet-proof vests
will keep them from harm. They can exchange
stories—the jungle in Cuyabena, the Galapagos,
tell each other of good eats—Mexican food
in Ecuador, Thai food in Lima, Peru.
They complain of early morning flights, long bus rides,
the burden of malaria pills. The television replays
NFL highlights. The guards stand at the entrance,
so the travelers, all of them almost somewhere,
can eat their waffles in peace.
The narrator/poet is always here with us, helping us to be not just tourists, but travelers, a guide who leads us a little deeper, even as she tests and questions. And every poem asks a question — for herself — and for every reader, as well. Roberts manages to write of other people, of cultures observed and in which she cannot fully participate while, at the same time, making these intensely personal poems. And somehow, these poems — so many of them — manage to be sexy, too.
Only a couple poems are not set in exotic (to me!) locales. But these I also liked: poems in which the narrator locates herself on her own turf, in nature, with strength and confidence and exhilaration. These seemed to be a foretaste of Roberts's next collection.) I so identify with this passage:
The tug of the rope, reminding you
that the world holds together
by the superstition of safety—
today you won't fall. Today,
someone holds the rope below,
ready to catch you. Today,
you can defy the physics of gravity,
surrender to the chalky clouds,
the acrylic sky, the canvas of rock.
-- from "The Syntax of Gravity"
It was the poems set in India that affected me most deeply — and perhaps I was primed by the title of the book. Several poems are set in Varanasi, on the banks of the Ganges, the holy river. The city is a pilgrimage destination and a place where people go to die. (I think it's believed that dying on the banks of the Ganges will help one through the cycle of births, deaths, rebirths, until the soul is free. The dying hope to have their ashes scattered in the river.)
A couple of images that I found most affecting were those of the poor begging for money for their funeral pyres so that they might be burned completely to ash, instead of having their bones tossed into the river.
Another powerful image: Young girls sell shells filled with marigolds and a candle that one is supposed to float on the river. The narrator/poet buys one of these shells but when she sets it in the water, it flips over and the candle flame goes out. One cannot really participate here. She is, and we are, still only onlookers.
Well, I could go on and on. But I'm eager to get on to Roberts's next book, which is my favorite of her four collections). I think she's really good.
Here are a few poems from Three Hours to Burn a Body that I found in various places online — except for "The Nearly Dead," which I couldn't find online, but copied from the book.
Incan Wall
Sacsayhuaman, Peru
Inside the belly of the cave,
a darkness more than metaphor
erases rock walls, ceiling,
ground, me. I find myself
alone in a literal darkness,
in the center of nothing,
realize this cold, dark womb
could be the only fear.
But I emerge, of course—
a light-flooded Andean backdrop,
the undulation of green flickering
before white-capped mountains.
My mother says when she dies
, it could be days before anyone
would find her. Such comfort
in being found still warm.
Poultry Stall
Saquisilí, Ecuador
A stout woman holds chickens
upside down, swinging them
by their feet. They do not fight her.
Their almond eyes wide, open
to an inverted world, looking
at nothing. A potential customer
comes by, feels the bodies
under the white feathers, already
meat. While the women negotiate
a fair price, the customer ruffles
her fingers along the bellies.
Still the chickens do nothing,
as we often do, resigned already
to being dead.
The Nearly Dead
Varanasi, India
Dusk catches the world in its gauzy net.
The sun hangs like a ripe tangerine
behind the smoke. Rafts loaded with wood
travel the Ganges. A blind man follows us,
selling cotton candy, the pink poufs electric
against the gray water, the darkening sky.
We buy the candy for the children. They fight
over the pink wisps, then surround us,
begging for more, for rupees, school pens.
Our guide shoos them away—they run off
to find another game, their laughter ringing
like bells. They take turns sliding down
the ghat steps on an old piece of cardboard.
The nearly dead slump at the bottom
of the stairs, asking for pyre money,
hoping to afford a complete cremation.
The carriage of their hips, blackened skulls
not flung in the river nearly whole,
but rendered to dust. The world itself
unveiled, made bare.
Three Hours to Burn a Body
Varanasi, India
We have come to watch the bodies burn,
our guide shoos away beggars and children,
selling shells of light and orange marigolds—
An offering for Mother Ganga. The murky river s
ways with candles, a thousand dawn-lit stars.
The sky’s stars hidden by a canvas of clouds.
Untouchables travel barefoot down sandy stairs,
carrying another gold-clad body on their shoulders.
They chant, and the families follow their dead.
I watch them tend the “eternal flame,” watch
the living to avoid the dead. The guide says,
“This one almost finished,” points to a pyre.
A flame twists from the ghost of an eye.
“Three hours,” he says, “to burn a body.”
My legs hot from flame, ash rains onto my hair.
Good luck,” he points to the ash, “Very good luck,
indeed…Come,” he leads us to a concrete building.
A creased, toothless woman holds out her hand.
A wrinkled breast sags from the sari. She tucks it back
without apology. The guide tells us, “She needs money
for her pyre. Good karma for you.” We hand her 500 rupees.
She hides it in her sari, lies back onto the straw mat,
the cold concrete floor. The boatman waits. We row
down the river. Dawn prayers echo from a mosque.
A dying cow moans from the river’s bank.
White branches of smoke rise from each black smudge
in the sand, disappear into the white horizon.
Children run above, along the rooftops.
Fires below create hot wind, lifting
colorful kites and children’s laughter to flight.
The collection ends with this one:
Devotion
Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
The morning chants echo from the Gandan Monastery.
I approach the old monk. He is to read my sutras.
He takes both hands, turns the palms up.
Incense and sweat hang in the air. The monks silence
their chants, break for a bowl of porridge.
The old monk looks at me through tinted glasses,
says something. I look to the translator, she tells me,
“He says he can tell you, but only after you understand.
After more attention to your true work. Only then,
you must return.” He nods, turns to go, his maroon
and yellow robes sweep the floor. Outside the gates,
a homeless woman crouches on the street,
scooping rain water from the gutter into a thermos.
Old women offer small bottles of ablution.
Street children wearing plastic sandals,
their dirty socks drenched, sell bird seed, beg
for spare change. Mist falls now a steady rain,
pigeons lift into the cloud-pleated sky, the chants resume—
the flutter, the rain, the boundlessness of human song.
June 4, 2011
Roberts' embrace of what is often strange, disorienting, or disturbing propels these poems toward an uneasy truce with the everyday pain of being human, especially in those parts of the world where day-to-day life requires fortitude and tolerance for pain and injustice. The poet wants to see and record the full reality of other ways of life (in Peru, China, India, and Mexico, for instance), yet the writing also reveals an awareness of how privilege--in this case that of a well-educated American--distances the traveler from the world around her no matter how she tries to connect. The best poems carve out a sharp moment on which to hone one's own perception of how easily one might ignore a beggar or a leper or an "Untouchable;" the poems insist on attention to the unfortunate, the underdogs, the poor, and the just plain unlucky, and damn the discomfort one probably feels. This book is much more than a travelogue. It is a testament to consciousness engaged with the concrete realities of daily life in the real world, not the Travel & Leisure magazine version. Read this if you are intrigued by how the traveler might be changed by travel and how poems might change the reader.
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