502 War poems

The last time I saw Donald Armstrong He was staggering oddly off into the sun, Going down, off the Philippine Islands. I let my shovel fall, and put that hand Above my eyes, and moved some way to one side That his body might pass through the sun, And I saw how well he was not Standing there on his hands, On his spindle-shanked forearms balanced, Unbalanced, with his big feet looming and waving In the great, untrustworthy air He flew in each night, when it darkened. Dust fanned in scraped puffs from the earth Between his arms, and blood turned his face inside out, To demonstrate its suppleness Of veins, as he perfected his role. Next day, he toppled his head off On an island beach to the south, And the enemy’s two-handed sword Did not fall from anyone’s hands At that miraculous sight, As the head rolled over upon Its wide-eyed face, and fell Into the inadequate grave He had dug for himself, under pressure. Yet I put my flat hand to my eyebrows Months later, to see him again In the sun, when I learned how he died, And imagined him, there, Come, judged, before his small captors, Doing all his lean tricks to amaze them— The back somersault, the kip-up— And at last, the stand on his hands, Perfect, with his feet together, His head down, evenly breathing, As the sun poured from the sea And the headsman broke down In a blaze of tears, in that light Of the thin, long human frame Upside down in its own strange joy, And, if some other one had not told him, Would have cut off the feet Instead of the head, And if Armstrong had not presently risen In kingly, round-shouldered attendance, And then knelt down in himself Beside his hacked, glittering grave, having done All things in this life that he could.

After Elinor Lipper The creature that had once been a man handed over his petition, a stained and grimy scrap, handed it to his lord and master, a petition asking to be transferred to the status of a horse. You son-of-a-whore, the master, kicking for good measure, bellowed. What do you mean by this? The creature that had once been a man, having considered deeply his petition, answered: If I were a horse, I would have one day off in ten. As is, I have none. As a horse, I could rest now and again during work. As a former man, I cannot. As a horse, I would be expected to perform work equal to my strength. As a prisoner, I am always hungry, and hungry, I work less and get less bread, so I can barely stand. A horse gets a stable and two blankets. I have no blankets, no jacket. If a driver beats a horse too hard, he is punished, for a horse is precious. If the brigadiers beat and kick me, it is like beating a tree. So you see, a prisoner is nothing here. But a horse? A horse is something! Inside the frozen and the broken vista, the plea had a ring of truth heard even by the lord and master, who had previously been a man himself, and who, when no other former men could see, attached that name to the page, granting the horse a stable and two blankets.

A bullet is made of copper or lead. Gunpowder is poured into the case. The firing pin hits the primer at the back of the bullet which starts the explosion.  Altogether, the bullet and the case are typically about two inches in length and weigh a few ounces. My father said that the Vietcongs told him and the other prisoners while in "re-education" camp that they were not worth a bullet. They would work for the Vietcongs and then die. A bamboo tree is smooth, long with roots that hold the earth with the strong grip of green knuckles and fingers. They are used to build houses, fences, etc. A bamboo tree can weigh sixty pounds or more and be twenty feet tall. The prisoners were forced to walk barefoot up the mountains and carry bamboo back to the camp. Due to the weight of the bamboo, they were only able to carry one at a time.

Limped out of the hot sky a hurt plane, Held off, held off, whirring pretty pigeon, Hit then and scuttled to a crooked stop. The stranger pilot who emerged—this was the seashore, War came suddenly here—talked to the still mechanics Who nodded gravely. Flak had done it, he said, From an enemy ship attacked. They wheeled it with love Into the dark hangar’s mouth and tended it. Coffee and cake for the pilot then who sat alone In the restaurant, reading the numbered sheets That tell about weather. After, toward dusk, Mended the stranger plane went back to the sky. His curly-headed picture, and mother’s and medal’s pictures Were all we knew of him after he rose again, Those few electric jewels against the moth and whining sky.

Europe: 1944 as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim Where giant movements tend; Each man appears the same; Friend vanishes from friend. In the long path of lead That changes place like light No shape of hand or head Means anything tonight. Only the common will For which explosion spoke; And stiff on field and hill The dark blood of the folk.

The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight, And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fulness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their bright comradeship, The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's belt and sworded hip: The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him: "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing." In dreary doubtful waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; — O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

To those whose city is taken give glass pockets. To those whose quiver gapes give queens and pace their limbs with flutes, ropes, cups of soft juice. To those whose threshold vacillates give that bruise the dust astonished. To falling heroes give raucous sibyls’ polished knees. To those who sip nectar give teeth. And if they still sip nectar—give green chips of wood. To swimmers give clocks or rank their hearts among new satellites as you would Garbo’s skint lip. To scholars, give dovecotes to virgins, targets. Justice has nothing on them. Virgil, sweetheart, even pretty fops need justice. If they think not let creditors flank them and watch their vigour quickly flag. To exiled brides give tiny knives and beads of mercury then rob them of prudence for prudence is defunct. To those who fist clouds, give powder. And if their sullen wallets flap, give nothing at all. Still I have not addressed lambent fops swathed in honey, the stuttering moon Martyrs, Spartans, Sirens, Mumblers, Pawns Ventriloquists—or your sweet ego The Beloved Ego in the plummy light is you. When I see you in that light I desire all that has been kept from me etcetera. For you. Since your rough shirt reminds me of the first grass pressing my hips and seeds heads fringing the sky and the sky swaying lightly to your scraped breath, since I hear panicked, my sister calling since the gold leaves have all been lost, and you are at least several and variegated I toss this slight thread back The beloved ego on cold marble blurs inscription. Hey Virgil I think your clocked ardour is stuck in the blue vein on my wrist. It stops all judgement

The river brought down dead horses, dead men and military debris, indicative of war or official acts upstream, but it went by, it all goes by, that is the thing about the river. Then a soldier on a log went by. He seemed drunk and we asked him Why had he and this junk come down to us so from the past upstream. “Friends,” he said, “the great Battle of Granicus has just been won by all of the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians and myself: this is a joke between me and a man named Alexander, whom all of you ba bas will hear of as a god.”

I dreamed that in a city dark as Paris I stood alone in a deserted square. The night was trembling with a violet Expectancy. At the far edge it moved And rumbled; on that flickering horizon The guns were pumping color in the sky. There was the Front. But I was lonely here, Left behind, abandoned by the army. The empty city and the empty square Was my inhabitation, my unrest. The helmet with its vestige of a crest, The rifle in my hands, long out of date, The belt I wore, the trailing overcoat And hobnail boots, were those of a poilu. I was the man, as awkward as a bear. Over the rooftops where cathedrals loomed In speaking majesty, two aeroplanes Forlorn as birds, appeared. Then growing large, The German Taube and the Nieuport Scout, They chased each other tumbling through the sky, Till one streamed down on fire to the earth. These wars have been so great, they are forgotten Like the Egyptian dynasts. My confrere In whose thick boots I stood, were you amazed To wander through my brain four decades later As I have wandered in a dream through yours? The violence of waking life disrupts The order of our death. Strange dreams occur, For dreams are licensed as they never were.

I saw I dreamt Two men hoisted hung up not American the rope Not closed on their breathing But this rope tied them spine to spine somehow Suspended From the mood of a tree not American they were African Ugandan Nigerian Without a license a right to touch The sin their touching incites And I heard their names called out Revision Or Die and You Must Repent And Forget the Lie you Lily-Boys you Faggots Called up from the mob Of their mothers their fathers With Christ in the blood who had Christ in the blood Who sung out “Abide with Me” This was my eyes’ closed-eyed vision This is what a darkness makes And how did I move from that distance to intimacy So close I could see The four soles of their feet so close I was kneeled Could lick Those feet as if I was because I became The fire who abided I saw that I dreamt Their black skin made blacker by my feeding I thought Christ Why did I think Their black skin tipped blacker by this American Feeding but just one shot up A cry African it was American O Lord abide with me It was human lusty flat You had to be in the hollow of it to taste it You had to see how in such lack Invention takes hold They say some dreams come in the moment Of waking Stitched because daylight likes a story That some dreams are extensions Of an itch Thief-walking the coral of the brain I say But I did feel that one blue mouth blow out As I felt The mood of that tree As I saw the other turn away apart stay with silence I stayed with southern silence