The Perfect Anti-War Poem
Published February 14, 2003
I was about number 30 in the queue, and by that time the crowd has broken up, and perhaps 30 of the original 150 remained. I was nervous because I had not read in front of these people in 25 years.
And I was nervous because I knew there was a place in the poem, "Dulce et Decorum Est," where a soldier cries "Gas! Gas!" and I didn't know how I would call out that second syllable. What credibility did I bring to such horror? I knew it needed to be a scream. But my voice was still faint from being sick all January. I wondered how I could do it justice.
Curiously, the woman before me brought the same poem by Owens that I intended to read. I took that as an omen, and instead of reading I stood and testifed for a moment, about how I have doubts about the power of words sometimes, but tonight had given me new hope. And I talked about World War I and our connection to it today.
There was even an after-omen. The next poet also read from Owen. I felt reassured that this young man of 24 from 1918 lived on in more than my soul.
He died, you know, in the last battle charge of the war, six days before the Armistice. His parents learned of his death an hour after the radio announced the end of the war. All he left were the poems of his brief remission, which quake us with their grief nine decades later.
C.S. Lewis once mocked relativists who bemoaned the death of Jesus at such an early age. "Think what he might have become, if he'd been allowed," he had them saying.
Not true for Jesus, maybe, but how true for a poet. Maybe one reason poetry in the west suffered so in our last century was that so many bright lights went out during the endless shelling, gassed, bayoneted, and left to cry their last song to the stars.
Words mean little in the moment of a great evil. But we remain human, despite, or perhaps because of our moments of madness. Some day the dust will settle again, and all that will be left are the words of peace.
To quote Rich, quoting the greatest anti-war poem ever, commemorating the billions of luckless over a thousand bare centuries, swept away by strong certain men, in Iraq, in Judea, even in the wintry streets of Saint Paul:
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."
- 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.