502 War poems

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; What silly beggars they are to blunder in And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame— No, no, not that,—it's bad to think of war, When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts That drive them out to jabber among the trees. Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand. Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, And you're as right as rain ... Why won't it rain? ... I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, And make the roses hang their dripping heads. Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, And every kind of colour. Which will you read? Come on; O do read something; they're so wise. I tell you all the wisdom of the world Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, And listen to the silence: on the ceiling There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; And in the breathless air outside the house The garden waits for something that delays. There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,— Not people killed in battle,—they're in France,— But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls, Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins. *          *          * You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; You'd never think there was a bloody war on! ... O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft ... they never cease— Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out And screech at them to stop—I'm going crazy; I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

As the retreating Bructeri began to burn their own possessions, to deny to the Romans every sustenance but ashes, a flying column sent by Germanicus commanded by Lucius Stertinius routed them; and there, discovered amid plunder and the dead, was the Eagle of the nineteenth legion, lost with Varus. * The Romans now brought to the land of the Bructeri,—to whatever lay between the river Ems and the river Lippe, to the very edge of their territory,— devastation; until they reached at last the Teutoburgian Wood, in whose darkness Varus and the remains of his fifteen thousand men, it was said, lay unburied. * Germanicus then conceived a desire to honor with obsequies these unburied warriors whose massacre once filled Augustus himself with rage and shame,— with hope or fear every corner of the Empire,— while the least foot soldier, facing alien terrain, was overcome with pity when he thought of family, friends, the sudden reversals of battle, and shared human fate. * First Caecina and his men entered,— ordered to reconnoitre the dismal treacherous passes, to attempt to build bridges and causeways across the uneven, sodden marshland,— then the rest of the army, witness to scenes rending to sight and memory of sight. * Varus’ first camp, with its wide sweep and deployment of ordered space in confident dimension, testified to the calm labors of three legions;— then a ruined half-wall and shallow ditch showed where a desperate remnant had been driven to take cover;— on the open ground between them were whitening bones, free from putrefaction,— scattered where men had been struck down fleeing, heaped up where they had stood their ground before slaughter. Fragments of spears and horses’ limbs lay intertwined, while human skulls were nailed like insults to the tree-trunks. Nearby groves held the altars on which the savage Germans sacrificed the tribunes and chief centurions. * Survivors of the catastrophe slowly began, at last, to speak,— the handful who had escaped death or slavery told their fellow soldiers where the generals fell, how the Eagles and standards were seized;— one showed where Varus received his first wound, and another, where he died by his own melancholy hand;— those thrown into crude pits saw gibbets above them, as well as the platform from which Arminius as if in delirium harangued his own victorious troops,— fury and rancor so joined to his joy, the imprisoned men thought they would soon be butchered,— until desecration of the Eagles at last satisfied or exhausted his arrogance. * And so, six years after the slaughter, a living Roman army had returned to bury the dead men’s bones of three whole legions,— no man knew whether the remains that he had gathered, touched perhaps in consigning to the earth, were those of a stranger or a friend:— all thought of all as comrades and bloodbrothers; each, in common rising fury against the enemy, mourned at once and hated. * When these events were reported to Rome Cynics whispered that thus the cunning State enslaves us to its failures and its fate.— Epicureans saw in the ghostly mire an emblem of the nature of Desire.— Stoics replied that life is War, ILLUSION the source, the goal, the end of human action. * At the dedication of the funeral mound, Germanicus laid the first earth,— thereby honoring the dead, and choosing to demonstrate in his own person his heartfelt share in the general grief. He thereby earned the disapproval of Tiberius,— perhaps because the Emperor interpreted every action of Germanicus unfavorably; or he may have felt the spectacle of the unburied dead must give the army less alacrity for battle and more respect for the enemy— while a commander belonging to the antique priesthood of the Augurs pollutes himself by handling objects belonging to the dead. * on the open ground whitening bones scattered where men had been struck down fleeing heaped up where they stood their ground Varus’ first camp with its wide sweep across the open ground the ruined half-wall and shallow ditch on the open ground between them whitening bones scattered where men had been struck down fleeing heaped up where they stood their ground

Sombre the night is: And, though we have our lives, we know What sinister threat lurks there. Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know This poison-blasted track opens on our camp— On a little safe sleep. But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy. Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks: Music showering on our upturned listening faces. Death could drop from the dark As easily as song— But song only dropped, Like a blind man's dreams on the sand By dangerous tides; Like a girl's dark hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there, Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

When we river, blood fills cracks in bullet shells, oars become fingers scratching windows into dawn, and faces are stirred from mounds of mica. I notice the back isn’t as smooth anymore, the river crests at the moment of blinking; its blood vessels stiffen and spear the drenched coat of flies collecting outside the jaw. Night slows here, the first breath held back, clenched like a tight fist in the arroyo under shattered glass. But we still want to shake the oxygen loose from flypaper, hack its veins, divert its course, and reveal its broken back, the illusion of a broken back.

April 26—May 25, 1915 Early morning over Rouen, hopeful, high, courageous morning, And the laughter of adventure, and the steepness of the stair, And the dawn across the river, and the wind across the bridges, And the empty littered station, and the tired people there. Can you recall those mornings, and the hurry of awakening, And the long-forgotten wonder if we should miss the way, And the unfamiliar faces, and the coming of provisions, And the freshness and the glory of the labour of the day. Hot noontide over Rouen, and the sun upon the city, Sun and dust unceasing, and the glare of cloudless skies, And the voices of the Indians and the endless stream of soldiers, And the clicking of the tatties, and the buzzing of the flies. Can you recall those noontides and the reek of steam and coffee, Heavy-laden noontides with the evening’s peace to win, And the little piles of Woodbines, and the sticky soda bottles, And the crushes in the “Parlour”, and the letters coming in? Quiet night-time over Rouen, and the station full of soldiers, All the youth and pride of England from the ends of all the earth; And the rifles piled together, and the creaking of the sword-belts, And the faces bent above them, and the gay, heart-breaking mirth. Can I forget the passage from the cool white-bedded Aid Post Past the long sun-blistered coaches of the khaki Red Cross train To the truck train full of wounded, and the weariness and laughter And “Good-bye, and thank you, Sister”, and the empty yards again? Can you recall the parcels that we made them for the railroad, Crammed and bulging parcels held together by their string, And the voices of the sargeants who called the Drafts together, And the agony and splendour when they stood to save the King? Can you forget their passing, the cheering and the waving, The little group of people at the doorway of the shed, The sudden awful silence when the last train swung to darkness, And the lonely desolation, and the mocking stars o’erhead? Can you recall the midnights, and the footsteps of night watchers, Men who came from darkness and went back to dark again, And the shadows on the rail-lines and the all inglorious labour, And the promise of the daylight firing blue the window- pane? Can you recall the passing through the kitchen door to morning, Morning very still and solemn breaking slowly on the town, And the early coastways engines that had met the ships at daybreak, And the Drafts just out from England, and the day shift coming down? Can you forget returning slowly, stumbling on the cobbles, And the white-decked Red Cross barges dropping seawards for the tide, And the search for English papers, and the blessed cool, of water, And the peace of half-closed shutters that shut out the world outside? Can I forget the evenings and the sunsets on the island, And the tall black ships at anchor far below our balcony, And the distant call of bugles, and the white wine in the glasses, And the long line of the street lamps, stretching Eastwards to the sea? When the world slips slow to darkness, when the office fire burns lower, My heart goes out to Rouen, Rouen all the world away; When other men remember, I remember our Adventure And the trains that go from Rouen at the ending of the day.

(“Died of Wounds”) Because you died, I shall not rest again, But wander ever through the lone world wide, Seeking the shadow of a dream grown vain Because you died. I shall spend brief and idle hours beside The many lesser loves that still remain, But find in none my triumph and my pride; And Disillusion's slow corroding stain Will creep upon each quest but newly tried, For every striving now shall nothing gain Because you died.

They call us now, before they drop the bombs. The phone rings and someone who knows my first name calls and says in perfect Arabic “This is David.” And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass-shattering symphonies still smashing around in my head I think,Do I know any Davids in Gaza? They call us now to say Run. You have 58 seconds from the end of this message. Your house is next. They think of it as some kind of war-time courtesy. It doesn’t matter that there is nowhere to run to. It means nothing that the borders are closed and your papers are worthless and mark you only for a life sentence in this prison by the sea and the alleyways are narrow and there are more human lives packed one against the other more than any other place on earth Just run. We aren’t trying to kill you. It doesn’t matter that you can’t call us back to tell us the people we claim to want aren’t in your house that there’s no one here except you and your children who were cheering for Argentina sharing the last loaf of bread for this week counting candles left in case the power goes out. It doesn’t matter that you have children. You live in the wrong place and now is your chance to run to nowhere. It doesn’t matter that 58 seconds isn’t long enough to find your wedding album or your son’s favorite blanket or your daughter’s almost completed college application or your shoes or to gather everyone in the house. It doesn’t matter what you had planned. It doesn’t matter who you are. Prove you’re human. Prove you stand on two legs. Run.

I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him. W.B. YEATS I. THE PROLOGUE Patting good-bye, doubtless they told the lad He’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,— Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his mother whimpered how she’d fret Until he got a nice safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse … Brothers—would send his favourite cigarette. Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Because he said so, writing on his butt Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sand-bags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world’s Powers who’d run amok. He’d seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol. Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. ‘Death sooner than dishonour, that’s the style!’ So Father said. II. THE ACTION One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident? - Rifles go off… Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.) III. THE POEM It was the reasoned crisis of his soul Against more days of inescapable thrall, Against infrangibly wired and blind trench wall Curtained with fire, roofed in with creeping fire, Slow grazing fire, that would not burn him whole But kept him for death’s promises and scoff, And life’s half-promising, and both their riling. IV. THE EPILOGUE With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother, ‘Tim died smiling’.

April 1915 I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard In field and farmstead many an ancient word Of local lineage like 'Thu bist,' 'Er war,' 'Ich woll', 'Er sholl', and by-talk similar, Nigh as they speak who in this month's moon gird At England's very loins, thereunto spurred By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are. Then seemed a Heart crying: 'Whosoever they be At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we, 'Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame; May their familiars grow to shun their name, And their brood perish everlastingly.'

Forgive me, soldier. Forgive my right hand for pointing you to the flawless tree line now outlined in my brain. There was so much bloodsky at daybreak in Pleiku, but I won’t say those infernal guns blinded me on that hill. Mistakes piled up men like clouds pushed to the dark side. Sometimes I try to retrace them, running fingers down the map telling less than a woman’s body— we followed the grid coordinates in some battalion commander’s mind. If I could make my mouth unsay those orders, I’d holler: Don’t move a muscle. Stay put, keep your fucking head down, soldier. Ambush. Gutsmoke. Last night while making love I cried out, Hit the dirt! I’ve tried to swallow my tongue. You were a greenhorn, so fearless, even foolish, & when I said go, Henry, you went dancing on a red string of bullets from that tree line as it moved from a low cloud.