502 War poems

a bullet has passed through spent the time elsewhere to need, tenderly, potential does not need to be bought, cannot in fact refute the cause, rather catches

Out of a fired ship, which by no way But drowning could be rescued from the flame, Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay; So all were lost, which in the ship were found, They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drown'd.

No dead on the streets today is a calm day, traffic is normal, there's ample room for the procession of yesterday's dead, room to add a dream, an idea, a little boy, an extra push for the beloved boat, a nom de guerre for the cell, a rose for a new love, a hand to a comrade Some room to stay alive for some time, enough time to shake your hands and reach the sun Today is a calm day, a pedestrian day in Beirut dancing in the streets, obstructing buses and not buying newspapers: the newspapers already went out to offices and the dead are resting on the Pavement of Martyrs at the outskirts of Sabra A calm day, our neighbor will step out in her nightgown to hang some sleepiness around us, some sluggish waking she's too lethargic to gather letters into words Where is life on this vast sauntering morning? We won't leave Out of the whiteness of her gown a reason will come to carry us down to the streets dead in her "Good morning"

They had questioned him for hours. Who exactly was he? And when He told them, they questioned him again. When they accepted who he was, as Someone not involved, they pulled out his fingernails. Then They took him to a waste-ground somewhere near the Horseshoe Bend, and told him What he was. They shot him nine times. A dark umbilicus of smoke was rising from a heap of burning tyres. The bad smell he smelt was the smell of himself. Broken glass and knotted Durex. The knuckles of a face in a nylon stocking. I used to see him in the Gladstone Bar, Drawing pints for strangers, his almost perfect fingers flecked with scum.

All day I have been thinking about the color of his cauterized skin, the burned young man lying flat on his back on the rehab slab in Wiesbaden, and think, finally, that it is the color of rhubarb, that drab maroon and green, but seared on, blasted into a mottled, speckled, crystallized sheen. Rhubarb, meaning a fight or disagreement, the ump getting into it with a player, their faces turning red, sputtering, blustering, kicking dirt on each other, until finally someone gets vulgar, says something about the other one’s mother. Rhubarb, from the ancient word for the Volga River, its watery line of demarcation, and the barbarians who lived beyond it, the real ones, Vandals, Visigoths, Huns, not the ones we see now as buffoons in commercials, battle-axing, caterwauling the civilized world for the right credit card, for Capital One, asking us what’s in our wallets. CNN says the rehab here is good, so the film crew has come in. They thank him for his service. They tell him he’s a credit to his country, to all of us, all our brave young women and men. They ask if he has any hobbies, if he can tell us what he’d most want to do that he used to enjoy doing. He says he’d like to walk again. I hate everyone, all of us who have sent him into flames. I hate the film crew, hate CNN , the rehab facility, every tube that goes in and out of him, every monitor that beeps, even the morphine feed that drips and seeps. They ask him if it is frustrating and he weeps.

She came to see him in the safehouse to interface without biography or autobiography. I am, she told him, the only one here who cares whether you continue to live. I care, he said, but it was formulaic. His propensity, not a precondition. The ground beneath his feet smelled of everything other men’s feet had ever ground into it. It was blank for all horrors, all aftermaths. A fly dazzled in a sunbeam through the windowpane. Like water, he seemed to say, & she agreed with him. I would like water, he repeated. She pretended not to hear him, because that was the sort of slippage that could save him & suddenly she was not against it. He could continue to live if he could continue to mean himself or anything as poorly as he had just then.

Trees in the old days used to stand And shape a shady lane Where lovers wandered hand in hand Who came from Carentan. This was the shining green canal Where we came two by two Walking at combat-interval. Such trees we never knew. The day was early June, the ground Was soft and bright with dew. Far away the guns did sound, But here the sky was blue. The sky was blue, but there a smoke Hung still above the sea Where the ships together spoke To towns we could not see. Could you have seen us through a glass You would have said a walk Of farmers out to turn the grass, Each with his own hay-fork. The watchers in their leopard suits Waited till it was time, And aimed between the belt and boot And let the barrel climb. I must lie down at once, there is A hammer at my knee. And call it death or cowardice, Don’t count again on me. Everything’s all right, Mother, Everyone gets the same At one time or another. It’s all in the game. I never strolled, nor ever shall, Down such a leafy lane. I never drank in a canal, Nor ever shall again. There is a whistling in the leaves And it is not the wind, The twigs are falling from the knives That cut men to the ground. Tell me, Master-Sergeant, The way to turn and shoot. But the Sergeant’s silent That taught me how to do it. O Captain, show us quickly Our place upon the map. But the Captain’s sickly And taking a long nap. Lieutenant, what’s my duty, My place in the platoon? He too’s a sleeping beauty, Charmed by that strange tune. Carentan O Carentan Before we met with you We never yet had lost a man Or known what death could do.

Not a sign of life we rouse In any square close-shuttered house That flanks the road we amble down Toward far trenches through the town. The dark, snow-slushy, empty street ... Tingle of frost in brow and feet ... Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke. No sound but the smacking stroke Of a sergeant flings each arm Out and across to keep him warm, And the sudden splashing crack Of ice-pools broken by our track. More dark houses, yet no sign Of life ... An axle’s creak and whine ... The splash of hooves, the strain of trace ... Clatter: we cross the market place. Deep quiet again, and on we lurch Under the shadow of a church: Its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim; Within its aisles a light burns dim ... When, marvellous! from overhead, Like abrupt speech of one deemed dead, Speech-moved by some Superior Will, A bell tolls thrice and then is still. And suddenly I know that now The priest within, with shining brow, Lifts high the small round of the Host. The server’s tingling bell is lost In clash of the greater overhead. Peace like a wave descends, is spread, While watch the peasants’ reverent eyes ... The bell’s boom trembles, hangs, and dies. O people who bow down to see The Miracle of Calvary, The bitter and the glorious, Bow down, bow down and pray for us. Once more our anguished way we take Toward our Golgotha, to make For all our lovers sacrifice. Again the troubled bell tolls thrice. And slowly, slowly, lifted up Dazzles the overflowing cup. O worshipping, fond multitude, Remember us too, and our blood. Turn hearts to us as we go by, Salute those about to die, Plead for them, the deep bell toll: Their sacrifice must soon be whole. Entreat you for such hearts as break With the premonitory ache Of bodies, whose feet, hands, and side, Must soon be torn, pierced, crucified. Sue for them and all of us Who the world over suffer thus, Who have scarce time for prayer indeed, Who only march and die and bleed. * The town is left, the road leads on, Bluely glaring in the sun, Toward where in the sunrise gate Death, honour, and fierce battle wait.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His Day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.” He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay... nay... my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."