The Perfect Anti-War Poem
Published February 14, 2003
That is the only gift of war, that it kills off the respectable illusions and imposes an interval until we can manufacture new ones.
This isn't the voice of pacifism, it's the voice of pragmatism. Everything comes around, and this war that we are so determined to commence is a pistol pointed at our own face.
And I'm listening to the old poets, many of whom I have scarcely seen in 25 years, and they touch my heart. Broderick gave a splendid preamble asking the president to turn back from the god of war to the master he professes to follow, and quoted from the Beatitudes of Jesus, the "blessed ares."
And I think that set the bar too high for what followed. There must have been 30 poets, including walk-ons and a guy who drove up all the way from Austin. It became a logistical headache to cram everyone in in a three-hour event.
One highlight was a poem by a young Amish woman from Indiana, who appeared to have paid a great price for the need to express herself, reading a gorgeous, grisly poem about the day to day violence of farm life. Hearing her delicate but disturbing words, I turned to Michael, the poet sitting beside me, and we both opened our mouths in amazement.
Glancing about the room you could tell who came to listen. They sat with keening eyes and ears, absorbing the stories and testimonies.
It is hard to evaluate poems at one hearing. There is a tendency for words to get lost in the air, for their impetus to flag. Especially when they come poet after poet after poet.
Robert Bly knew that, and substantially repeated all his favorite stanzas, as he has always done. Bly was remarkable, the same as I remembered from his anti-war readings in the sixties. No, better — it was better hearing him as an elder prophet than a young one.
But I remember how exciting he was then, like a fisherman zipping the spine from a bass, that's how neatly he set aside the conventions of the so-called traditional academic poets and introduced a generation to traditions with real bite — the Yeatses and Rilkes and Nerudas. I'd have cut off a toe for Robert Bly, if he'd had any use for one.
John Mincszeski read a remarkable litany poem by a fourth grader from Winona. I wish I could link to it for you. It was 100 lines long, and a splendid wish list of the way things ought to be.
There was a stirring elegy and tribute to Paul Wellstone. And a bunch of other things.
- The Perfect Anti-War Poem
- Published: February 14, 2003
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- Section: Books
- Filed Under: Books: Poetry
- Writer: Michael Finley
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"Pray before you fight"
http://nycap.indymedia.org/front.php3?article_id=5261
Pray before you fight,
pray before you make war,
don't care about the people,
dont know anything.
pray before you fight,
pray before you make war,
people are no people no more,
pretend nothing to know.
----
pray also to the devil,
don't care about human rights,
learn it from the german,
we are good students to.
pray before you fight,
ask jesus for permission,
people are no people
pretend nothing to know.
------
Pray before you fight,
pray before you make war,
don't care about the people,
dont know anything.
pray before you fight,
pray before you make war,
people are no people no more,
pretend nothing to know.
Spelling mistake!!!
Spelling mistake!!!
Spelling mistake!!!
Spelling mistake!!!
There are countless millions of souls
Congregating in thousands of bars
Drinking billions of drafts
While it is happy hour around the world
Watching war coverage on CNN
Making comments about how tragic
And bleak the world can be
And supporting the troops
And going home at night to our wives
And lives that exhaust us
Tomorrow we will wake up
And go to work
To the desk littered with papers,
Meaningless clutter symbolic of
this life; we answer emails
From far corners of the globe
As cluster bombs are dropped on Baghdad.
3-31-03
Chuck Patton
Miami, FL
Paul's Dad
He was buried with his secret, though really dead for years. Empty days consumed by grief, long nights awash in tears.
His son had finished high school, with no plan, no goal, just time. The boredom only deepened, soon replaced by petty crime.
Ten police upon the doorstep, with charges and arrest. A classic Dad's dilemma, what to do, what's best?
Restitution was an option, but with a military twist. All charges would be dropped, but his son must now enlist.
This father saw fair solution, now there'd finally be a plan. The Marines would help him grow, he'd never heard of Viet Nam.
And the decision that would haunt him, as he guided his young son's life. We'll keep this from your mother, and he never told his wife.
Instead, we'll tell her that you've chosen, gone from boy to man. You want to make us proud of you, you'll do the best you can.
So they covered up the truth, spoke of only pride and glory. No crime, no court, no record, they swept away the story.
And just a few months later, as Southeast Asia came aglow. His son't unit received orders, they were set to go.
A teen in jungle battle, a father sharing fear and dread. Landmines feasting on youth, three weeks later he was dead.
Neither righteousness of cause, nor valor of the attack, would ever make a difference. His son wasn't coming back.
He'd sent him off to mature, to live by schedules and clocks. They'd shipped him out to fight, sent his boy home in a box.
And once the war was over, his peace never came. He relived that decision daily, hollowed by grief and shame.
He'd used his best parental judgement, and watched it all go bad. Nothing was ever as painful, as the remorse of this childless dad.
For 17 years he shouldered alone, a guilt which offered no release. Until we buried him with his secret, and prayed that he'd found peace.
So not all the wounded bleed, some just find a private hell. All the while at home, he died but never fell.
And when he said some things are worse than death, you'd see pained truth in his eye. For he could never tell his wife the story, how he'd sent their son to die.
'Bombs Make Terrorists'
I killed a child the other day
I flew over him in my super sonic plane
I dropped a bomb he didn't have a chance to run away
I killed a child the other day
I destroyed a city just last week
I went right in with my tanks and jeeps
I burnt down houses, shot women in the street
I destroyed humanity the other week
I shot someone in the head
And then I knifed them until they were dead
I raped the land, turned the forest to sand
And walked away, dragging the children down
Dragging the children down
Dragging the children down
I invaded a country 4 years back
I said they had weapons and were going to attack
So I dropped some bombs on people I didn't see
A child emerged from the rubble and shook his fists at me
He said
In ten years I'm gona get you back
Cos bombs make terrorists and that's a fact
We don't think about all the children we effect
When we drop bombs on them they're gona be affected
And when they grow up they'll when get us back
And who can blame them
And who can blame them
Cos we killed a child the other day
We flew over him in our super sonic plan
We destroyed a city just last week
We went right in with our tanks and jeeps
We invade countries all the time
People are getting killed, yeah don't ya know that ain't right
Don't ya know that ain't right
Don't ya know that ain't right
We shot someone in the head
And then we knifed them until they were dead
We raped the land, turned the forest to sand
And walked away dragging the children down
Dragging the children down, dragging the children down
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Thank you for sharing your experience, Michael.
It is a good thing for people to gather together in this time of fear and uncertainty, reminding each other to celebrate poetry.