502 War poems

I knew a man, he was my chum, but he grew blacker every day, and would not brush the flies away, nor blanch however fierce the hum of passing shells; I used to read, to rouse him, random things from Donne— like “Get with child a mandrake-root.” But you can tell he was far gone, for he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed, and stiff, and senseless as a post even when that old poet cried “I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.” I tried the Elegies one day, But he, because he heard me say: “What needst thou have no more covering than a man?” grinned nastily, and so I knew the worms had got his brains at last. There was one thing that I might do to starve the worms; I racked my head for healthy things and quoted Maud. His grin got worse and I could see he sneered at passion’s purity. He stank so badly, though we were great chums I had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.

National Pigeon Association, England, 1940 Notch. Web. And then, down the shaft, lesser wing coverts and marginal coverts, and soft, greater underwing coverts — although never as great as greater under-primary coverts, gray-coated and down-plumped, trailing what might reveal a pattern just over the down that might support a secrecy. Launched from double-decker buses, or attic windows, or the dark roofs at Bletchley Park, the lesser pigeons, always first to find the fray, sport black metallic canisters strapped to matted lapel feathers. And tucked inside, like Russian dolls, a cipher’s hollow chambers — down and down, a Fibonacci spiral, a paper nautilus of words and codes and keys that shift with each decipherment. The bard is in the wand— read space as shape, read a as i— the key takes subterfuge, that doubling, double agency when tomfoolery is crossed with rage. But these are simply carriers, word-burdened, instinct- tossed, searching for the perch within a blasted atmosphere. Find forms, the message says, and everything will fall in line. The bird is in the wind

Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you’d say, Because I’d like to know that you’re all right. Tell me, have you found everlasting day, Or been sucked in by everlasting night? For when I shut my eyes your face shows plain; I hear you make some cheery old remark— I can rebuild you in my brain, Though you’ve gone out patrolling in the dark. You hated tours of trenches; you were proud Of nothing more than having good years to spend; Longed to get home and join the careless crowd Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend. That’s all washed out now. You’re beyond the wire: No earthly chance can send you crawling back; You’ve finished with machine-gun fire— Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack. Somehow I always thought you’d get done in, Because you were so desperate keen to live: You were all out to try and save your skin, Well knowing how much the world had got to give. You joked at shells and talked the usual “shop,” Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: With “Jesus Christ! when will it stop? Three years ... It’s hell unless we break their line.” So when they told me you’d been left for dead I wouldn’t believe them, feeling it must be true. Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said “Wounded and missing”—(That’s the thing to do When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, Moaning for water till they know It’s night, and then it’s not worth while to wake!) Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to God, And tell Him that our politicians swear They won’t give in till Prussian Rule’s been trod Under the Heel of England ... Are you there? ... Yes ... and the war won’t end for at least two years; But we’ve got stacks of men ... I’m blind with tears, Staring into the dark. Cheero! I wish they’d killed you in a decent show.

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

Brave comrade, answer! When you joined the war, What left you? “Wife and children, wealth and friends, A storied home whose ancient roof-tree bends Above such thoughts as love tells o’er and o’er.” Had you no pang or struggle? “Yes; I bore Such pain on parting as at hell’s gate rends The entering soul, when from its grasp ascends The last faint virtue which on earth it wore.” You loved your home, your kindred, children, wife; You loathed yet plunged into war’s bloody whirl!— What urged you? “Duty! Something more than life. That which made Abraham bare the priestly knife, And Isaac kneel, or that young Hebrew girl Who sought her father coming from the strife.”

Apart sweet women (for whom Heaven be blessed), Comrades, you cannot think how thin and blue

(Göring, head of the Luftwaffe, once bragged that if one German city were bombed, they could call him “Meier.” At his Karinhall estate, he questions himself and his disgrace.) And why, Herr Reichsmarschall, is Italy Just like schnitzel?If they’re beaten Either one will just get bigger. Neither cuts too firm a figure.

I Machine stitched rivets ravel on a tree Whose name he does not know. Left in the sky, He dangles from a silken cumulus (Stork’s bundle upside down On the delivering wind) and sees unborn Incredible jungles of the lizard’s eye: Dark fern, dark river, a shale coliseum Mountained above one smudgepot in the trees That was his surreal rug on metered skies And slid afire into this fourth dimension Whose infinite point of meeting parallels He marks in ultra-space, suspended from The chords of fifty centuries Descending to their past—a ripping sound That snags him limb by limb. He tears and falls Louder than any fruit dropped from the trees, And finds himself in mud on hands and knees. II The opened buckle frees him from his times. He walks three paces dressed in dripping fleece And tears it off. The great bird of his chute Flaps in the trees: he salvages its hide And starts a civilization. He has a blade, Seventeen matches, his sheepskin, and his wits. Spaceman Crusoe at the wreck of time, He ponders unseen footprints of his fear. No-eyes watch his nothing deep in nowhere. III He finds the wreck (the embers of himself) Salvages bits of metal, bakelite, glass— Dials twisted from himself, his poverty. Three hours from time still ticking on his wrist The spinning bobbins of the time machine Jam on an afternoon of Genesis And flights of birds blow by like calendars From void to void. Did worlds die or did he? He studies twisted props of disbelief Wondering what ruin to touch. He counts his change (“Steady now, steady ...”) flips heads or tails and sees The coin fall into roots. An omen? (“Steady ...”) He laughs (a nerve’s slow tangling like a vine) Speaks to himself, shouts, listens, hears a surf Of echo rolling back to strand him there In tide pools of dead time by caves of fear, And enters to himself, denned in his loss, Tick-tick, a bloodbeat building on his wrist, Ratcheting down the dead teeth of a skull (The fossil of himself) sucked out of sight Past heads and tails, past vertebrae and gill To bedrocks out of time, with time to kill.

There is no widening distance at the shore— The sea revolving slowly from the piers— But the one border of our take-off roar And we are mounted on the hemispheres. Above the waning moon whose almanac We wait to finish continents away, The Northern stars already call us back, And silence folds like maps on all we say. Under the sky, a stadium tensed to cry The ringside savage thrumming of the fights, We watch our engines, taut and trained for sky, Arranged on fields of concrete flowered with lights. Day after day we fondle and repeat A jeweler’s adjustment on a screw; Or wander past the bulletins to meet And wander back to watch the sky be blue. Somehow we see ourselves in photographs Held in our hands to show us back our pride When, aging, we recall in epitaphs The faces just behind and to each side. The nights keep perfect silence. In the dark You feel the faces soften into sleep, Or tense upon the fraught and falling arc Of fear a boy had buried not too deep. Finally we stand by and consciously Measure the double sense of all our talk, And, everyman his dramatist, anxiously Corrects his role, his gesture, and his walk.

In Phnom Penh’s museum, the skulls are stacked in aquarium tanks: grim toys for hooks to ply free from the rubble. Here, each one gets a tag, a mount, a photograph to suggest a life, perhaps a name, might be envisioned. Yet I’m more moved by what’s anonymous, past; imagine fields of faces sunken with decay, eyes jellied in their sockets, heel meats bruised, bloated in the rain— Perhaps the skulls prefer a lack of names as, scrubbed of self and skin, they’re trauma’s best witnesses: fused by time and pain to one crisis, never to be separated. Lost as men, they become event. in this, they achieve a terrible transcendence.