502 War poems

'And all her silken flanks with garlands drest'— But we are coming to the sacrifice. Must those flowers who are not yet gone West? May those flowers who live with death and lice? This must be the floweriest place That earth allows; the queenly face Of the proud mansion borrows grace for grace Spite of those brute guns lowing at the skies. Bold great daisies' golden lights, Bubbling roses' pinks and whites— Such a gay carpet! poppies by the million; Such damask! such vermilion! But if you ask me, mate, the choice of colour Is scarcely right; this red should have been duller.

I try and try not to think about the Wall. Its profile, massive height and roughcut stonework All stir up fear, gloom, exaltation, pride, And numbness, in a jumble hard to name. No one knows who had it built, or when; Five hundred years ago, the locals guess; But sunset trumpet calls depict it gold Enough to have been there more than a thousand. The thing held off  invasions, true—but not Always, our history records defeats. Nowadays we never get invaders, Or else they're us, going beyond its limits To acquire new territory and subjects. Though weaker stretches have sheared off and fallen, Herders fence up their sheepfolds at the base, And some blocks are dragged off to build new houses. Topside, binoculars can sight its ramparts Winding through dark-blue mountains farther north . . . That monumental, chill indifference Explains why boys graffiti names on it (Or jokes), no matter if their scrawny slashes In time begin to erode. Decades ago, I gouged in mine, it wasn't yet forbidden. Luckily, dense vines screen the signature, Made at an age when we assume our name Amounts to more than permanent stone structures. Oh, even now it sparks a vocal reflex When I move the leaves and read it there again.

One night a feast was held in the palace, and there came a man and prostrated himself before the prince, and all the feasters looked upon him; and they saw that one of his eyes was out and that the empty socket bled.  And the prince inquired of him, “What has befallen you?”  And the man replied, “O prince, I am by profession a thief, and this night, because there was no moon, I went to rob the money-changer’s shop, and as I climbed in through the window I made a mistake and entered the weaver’s shop, and in the dark I ran into the weaver’s loom and my eye was plucked out.  And now, O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver.” Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and it was decreed that one of his eyes should be plucked out. “O prince,” said the weaver, “the decree is just.  It is right that one of my eyes be taken.  And yet, alas! both are necessary to me in order that I may see the two sides of the cloth that I weave. But I have a neighbour, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in his trade both eyes are not necessary.” Then the prince sent for the cobbler.  And he came.  And they took out one of the cobbler’s two eyes. And justice was satisfied.

In sodden trenches I have heard men speak, Though numb and wretched, wise and witty things; And loved them for the stubbornness that clings Longest to laughter when Death's pulleys creak; And seeing cool nurses move on tireless feet To do abominable things with grace, Deemed them sweet sisters in that haunted place Where, with child's voices, strong men howl or bleat. Yet now those men lay stubborn courage by, Riding dull-eyed and silent in the train To old men's stools; or sell gay-coloured socks And listen fearfully for Death; so I Love the low-laughing girls, who now again Go daintily, in thin and flowery frocks.

(after the Russian) The piano has crawled into the quarry. Hauled In last night for firewood, sprawled With frozen barrels, crates and sticks, The piano is waiting for the axe. Legless, a black box, still polished; It lies on its belly like a lizard, Droning, heaving, hardly fashioned For the quarry’s primordial art. Blood red: his frozen fingers cleft, Two on the right hand, five on the left, He goes down on his knees to reach the keyboard, To strike the lizard’s chord. Seven fingers pick out rhymes and rhythm, The frozen skin, steaming, peels off them, As from a boiled potato. Their schemes, Their beauty, ivory and anthracite, Flicker and flash like the great Northern Lights. Everything played before is a great lie. The reflections of flaming chandeliers— Deceit, the white columns, the grand tiers In warm concert halls—wild lies. But the steel of the piano howls in me, I lie in the quarry and I am deft As the lizard. I accept the gift. I’ll be a song for Russia, I’ll be an étude, warmth and bread for everybody.

It was wartime Daisies and Maisies in overalls Worked in factories Snapping gum in their teeth Ration spunk To keep them going Through weekend tours At the local USO Or late nights Checking hats For the Willard rooftop garden It was rough Making ends meet While their men were at war In radio worlds And newspaper print Nights at home were spent reading Letters over and over Like prayers Mouths shaped To the words And Hershey bars Melted on radiators

O living pictures of the dead, O songs without a sound, O fellowship whose phantom tread Hallows a phantom ground— How in a gleam have these revealed The faith we had not found. We have sought God in a cloudy Heaven, We have passed by God on earth: His seven sins and his sorrows seven, His wayworn mood and mirth, Like a ragged cloak have hid from us The secret of his birth. Brother of men, when now I see The lads go forth in line, Thou knowest my heart is hungry in me As for thy bread and wine; Thou knowest my heart is bowed in me To take their death for mine.

There's the girl who clips your ticket for the train, And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor, There's the girl who does a milk-round in the rain, And the girl who calls for orders at your door. Strong, sensible, and fit, They're out to show their grit, And tackle jobs with energy and knack. No longer caged and penned up, They're going to keep their end up Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back. There's the motor girl who drives a heavy van, There's the butcher girl who brings your joint of meat, There's the girl who cries 'All fares, please!' like a man, And the girl who whistles taxis up the street. Beneath each uniform Beats a heart that's soft and warm, Though of canny mother-wit they show no lack; But a solemn statement this is, They've no time for love and kisses Till the khaki soldier-boys come marching back.

This dry night, nothing unusual About the clip, clop, casual Iron of his shoes as he stamps death Like a mint on the innocent coinage of earth. I lift the window, watch the ambling feather Of hock and fetlock, loosed from its daily tether In the tinker camp on the Enniskerry Road, Pass, his breath hissing, his snuffling head Down. He is gone. No great harm is done. Only a leaf of our laurel hedge is torn— Of distant interest like a maimed limb, Only a rose which now will never climb The stone of our house, expendable, a mere Line of defence against him, a volunteer You might say, only a crocus, its bulbous head Blown from growth, one of the screamless dead. But we, we are safe, our unformed fear Of fierce commitment gone; why should we care If a rose, a hedge, a crocus are uprooted Like corpses, remote, crushed, mutilated? He stumbles on like a rumour of war, huge Threatening. Neighbours use the subterfuge Of curtains. He stumbles down our short street Thankfully passing us. I pause, wait, Then to breathe relief lean on the sill And for a second only my blood is still With atavism. That rose he smashed frays Ribboned across our hedge, recalling days Of burned countryside, illicit braid: A cause ruined before, a world betrayed.

For a saving grace, we didn't see our dead, Who rarely bothered coming home to die But simply stayed away out there In the clean war, the war in the air. Seldom the ghosts come back bearing their tales Of hitting the earth, the incompressible sea, But stayed up there in the relative wind, Shades fading in the mind, Who had no graves but only epitaphs Where never so many spoke for never so few: Per ardua, said the partisans of Mars, Per aspera, to the stars. That was the good war, the war we won As if there was no death, for goodness's sake. With the help of the losers we left out there In the air, in the empty air.