502 War poems

And then we cowards who loved the whispering evening, the houses, the paths by the river, the dirty red lights of those places, the sweet soundless sorrow— we reached our hands out toward the living chain in silence, but our heart startled us with blood, and no more sweetness then, no more losing ourselves on the path by the river— no longer slaves, we knew we were alone and alive.

Dedicated to the 600,000 Palestinian men, women, and children who lived in Lebanon from 1948-1983. I didn’t know and nobody told me and what could I do or say, anyway? They said you shot the London Ambassador and when that wasn’t true they said so what They said you shelled their northern villages and when U.N. forces reported that was not true because your side of the cease-fire was holding since more than a year before they said so what They said they wanted simply to carve a 25 mile buffer zone and then they ravaged your water supplies your electricity your hospitals your schools your highways and byways all the way north to Beirut because they said this was their quest for peace They blew up your homes and demolished the grocery stores and blocked the Red Cross and took away doctors to jail and they cluster-bombed girls and boys whose bodies swelled purple and black into twice the original size and tore the buttocks from a four month old baby and then they said this was brilliant military accomplishment and this was done they said in the name of self-defense they said that is the noblest concept of mankind isn’t that obvious? They said something about never again and then they made close to one million human beings homeless in less than three weeks and they killed or maimed 40,000 of your men and your women and your children But I didn’t know and nobody told me and what could I do or say, anyway? They said they were victims. They said you were Arabs. They called      your apartments and gardens      guerrilla strongholds. They called      the screaming devastation that they created       the rubble. Then they told you to leave, didn’t they? Didn’t you read the leaflets that they dropped from their hotshot fighter jets? They told you to go. One hundred and thirty-five thousand Palestinians in Beirut and why didn’t you take the hint? Go! There was the Mediterranean: You could walk into the water and stay there. What was the problem? I didn’t know and nobody told me and what could I do or say, anyway? Yes, I did know it was the money I earned as a poet that paid for the bombs and the planes and the tanks that they used to massacre your family But I am not an evil person The people of my country aren't so bad You can expect but so much from those of us who have to pay taxes and watch American TV You see my point; I’m sorry. I really am sorry.

All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping. Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath, For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour. Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad ‘Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you. Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth's head, So be merry, so be dead. From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of song Ringing all the road along. All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute. On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song. Sow your gladness for earth's reaping, So you may be glad, though sleeping. Strew your gladness on earth's bed, So be merry, so be dead.

sleepwalker can never die he is the chemical soldier composite of latex and atropine, hellfire, warthogs, desolation, pride, apaches, lasers, dust devils swirling, screaming fire deaths, machine worship, young blond pilots flashing thumbs up, excited smiles of interviewed military wives, shrapnel- paced rockeye anti-personnel bombs spraying death like fireflies over a texas barbecue of human flesh stretching sixty miles across open desert, armageddon over eden, algebraic mosaic of witchcraft, dot pattern magic of omens and signs, victims never knowing what hit them, vivid delivery of hell to nineveh, incendiary reduction of tissue to shadows on the sand, incineration of boots with human feet still in them, pain, mania, technology, history, delirious victims bleeding, eagle with the brains of a weak and frightened victim in its beak, unhappy fate, grief, shame, helpless rage

Will the children forgive the generation that’s trampled by horses of war, by exile and preparation for departure? Will they think of us as we were, a bunch of ambushes in ravines we’d shake our jealousy and carve trees into the earth's shirt to sit under, we, the factional fighters who’d shoo the clouds of war out of their vehicles and peer around our eternal siege or catch the dead like sudden fruit fallen on a wasteland? Will the children forgive what we were, some missile shepherds and masters of exile and frenzied celebration, whenever a neighboring war gestured to us we rose to set up in its braids a place good for love and residence? The bombing rarely took a rest the missile launchers rarely returned unharmed we rarely picked flowers for the dead or went on with our lives If only that summer had given us a bit of time's space before our mad departure Will they believe?

Colonel Cold strode up the Line (tabs of rime and spurs of ice); stiffened all that met his glare: horses, men and lice. Visited a forward post, left them burning, ear to foot; fingers stuck to biting steel, toes to frozen boot. Stalked on into No Man’s Land, turned the wire to fleecy wool, iron stakes to sugar sticks snapping at a pull. Those who watched with hoary eyes saw two figures gleaming there; Hauptmann Kälte, colonel old, gaunt in the grey air. Stiffly, tinkling spurs they moved, glassy-eyed, with glinting heel stabbing those who lingered there torn by screaming steel.

It was hardly war, the hardliest of wars. Hardly, hardly. It occurred to me that this particular war was hardly war because of kids, more kids, those poor kids. The kids were hungry until we GIs fed them. We dusted them with DDT. Hardly done. Reha- bilitation of Korea, that is. It needs chemical fertilizer from the States, power to build things like a country. In the end it was the hardliest of wars made up of bubble gum, which GIs had to show those kids how to chew. In no circumstance whatever can man be comfortable without art. They don’t want everlasting charity, and we are not giving it to them. We are just lending them a hand until they can stand on their own two feet. A novel idea. This is why it occurred to me that this particular war was hardly war, the hardliest of wars. My father was hardly himself during the war, then I was born during the era that hardly existed, and, therefore, I hardly existed without DDT. Beauty is pleasure re- garded as the quality of a thing. I prefer a paper closet with real paper dresses in it. To be born hardly, hardly after the hardliest of wars, is a matter of debate. Still going forward. We are, that is. Napalm again. This is THE BIG PICTURE. War and its masses. War and its men. War and its machines. Together we form THE BIG PIC- TURE. From Korea to Germany, from Alaska to Puerto Rico. All over the world, the US Army is on the alert to defend our country, you the people, against aggression. This is THE BIG PICTURE, an official television report to the nation from the army. This is Korea! Is one thing better than another? These South Koreans are all right. Woe is you, woe is war, hardly war, woe is me, woe are you? My father is still alive, and this is how I came to prefer a paper closet with real paper dresses in it. Well, it’s morning in Korea. The most violently mountainous place on Earth. Every- one has been dusted, existence hardly done, whereas beauty has been regarded as the quality of a thing. At Uncle Dann’s Huddle doughnuts and coffee are free and in case there are any, for there are many, the unescorted ladies are not permitted. The decision has been made in Tokyo for the hardliest of wars, an old soldier made it. The situation in Korea is so critical that we the Navy must give the Eighth Army prac- tical support. Do you remember how you began this day? How did you spend this morning? Woe are you? Well, pinecones fall every day. So why do we fail? Miles and miles of homeless refugees set adrift by the Red scourge.

Not fierce and tender but sweet. This is our impression of the soldiers. We call our machine Aunt Pauline. Fasten it fat, that is us, we say Aunt Pauline. When we left Paris we had rain. Not snow now nor that in between. We did have snow then. Now we are bold. We are accustomed to it. All the weights are measures. By this we mean we know how much oil we use for the machine. *          *          * Hurrah for America. Here we met a Captain and take him part way. A day's sun. Is this Miss. Yes indeed our mat. We meant by this that we were always meeting people and that it was pleasant. We can thank you. We thank you. Soldiers of course spoke to us. Come together. Come to me there now. They read on our van American Committee in aid of French wounded. All of it is bit. Bitter. This is the way they say we do help. In the meaning of bright. Bright not light. This comforts them when they speak to me. I often discuss America with them and what we hope to do. They listen well and say we hope so too. We all do. *          *          * This is apropros of the birthplace of Maréchal Joffre. We visited it and we have sent postal cards of it. The committee will be pleased. It is not a bother to be a soldier. I think kindly of that bother. Can you say lapse. Then think about it. Indeed it is yet. We are so pleased. With the flag. With the flag of sets. Sets of color. Do you like flags. Blue flags smell sweetly. Blue flags in a whirl. We did this we had ribbon of the American flag and we cut it up and we gave each soldier one with a pin and they pinned it on and we were pleased and we received a charming letter from a telephonist at the front who heard from a friend in Perpignan that we were giving this bit of ribbon and he asked for some and we sent them and we hope that they are all living. The wind blows. And the automobile goes. Can you guess boards. Wood. Naturally we think about wind because this country of Rousillon is the windiest corner in France. Also it is a great wine country. *          *          * This is apropos of the fact that I always ask where they come from and then I am ashamed to say I don't know all the Departments but I am learning them. In the meantime. In the meantime we are useful. That is what I mean to say. In the meantime can you have beds. This means that knowing the number of beds you begin to know the hospital. Kindly call a brother. What is a cure. I speak french. What one means. I can call it in time. By the way where are fish. They all love fishing. In that case are there any wonders. Many wonders are women. I could almost say that that was apropos of my cranking my machine. And men too. We smile. In the way sentences. He does not feel as we do. But he did have the coat. He blushed a little. This is sometimes when they can't quite help themselves and they want to help us. We do not understand the weather. That astonishes me. Camellias in Perpignan. Camellias finish when roses begin. Thank you in smiles. In this way we go on. So far we have had no troubles yet and yet we do need material. It is astonishing that those who have fought so hard and so well should pick yellow irises and fish in a stream. And then a pansy. I did not ask for it. It smells. A sweet smell. With acacia. Call it locusts. Call it me. I finish by saying that the french soldier is the person we should all help.

1 An old man bending I come among new faces, Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, (Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war, But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself, To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;) Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances, Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;) Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us? What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains? 2 O maidens and young men I love and that love me, What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls, Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust, In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge, Enter the captur’d works—yet lo, like a swift running river they fade, Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys, (Both I remember well—many of the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.) But in silence, in dreams’ projections, While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand, With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there, Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.) Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, Straight and swift to my wounded I go, Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground, Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital, To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss, An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again. I onward go, I stop, With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you, Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you. 3 On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,) The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine, Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard, (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! In mercy come quickly.) From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood, Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and side falling head, His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump, And has not yet look’d on it. I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, And the yellow-blue countenance see. I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail. I am faithful, I do not give out, The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.) 4 Thus in silence in dreams’ projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, (Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested, Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

1. The leaves asleep under the wind are the wounds’ ship, and the ages collapsed on top of each other are the wound’s glory, and the trees rising out of our eyelashes are the wound’s lake. The wound is to be found on bridges where the grave lengthens and patience goes on to no end between the shores of our love and death. The wound is a sign, and the wound is a crossing too. 2. To the language choked by tolling bells I offer the voice of the wound. To the stone coming from afar to the dried-up world crumbling to dust to the time ferried on creaky sleighs I light up the fire of the wound. And when history burns inside my clothes and when blue nails grow inside my books, I cry out to the day, “Who are you, who tosses you into my virgin land?” And inside my book and on my virgin land I stare into a pair of eyes made of dust. I hear someone saying, “I am the wound that is born and grows as your history grows.” 3. I named you cloud, wound of the parting dove. I named you book and quill and here I begin the dialogue between me and the ancient tongue in the island of tomes in the archipelago of the ancient fall. And here I teach these words to the wind and the palms, O wound of the parting dove. 4. If I had a harbor in the land of dreams and mirrors, if I had a ship, if I had the remains of a city, if I had a city in the land of children and weeping, I would have written all this down for the wound’s sake, a song like a spear that penetrates trees, stone, and sky, soft like water unbridled, startling like conquest. 5. Rain down on our desert O world adorned with dream and longing. Pour down, and shake us, we, the palms of the wound, tear out branches from trees that love the silence of the wound, that lie awake staring at its pointed eyelashes and soft hands. World adorned with dream and longing world that falls on my brow like the lash of a wound, don’t come close—the wound is closer— don’t tempt me—the wound is more beautiful. That magic that your eyes had flung on the last kingdoms— the wound has passed over it, passed and did not leave a single sail to tempt toward salvation, did not leave a single island behind.