Of Three Or Four In The Room by Yehuda Amichai

I have fallen in love with this poem.  In so many ways it encompasses the past 7 years for me.  There are lines of this poem that stay with me like few others do.  Part of me will always be standing at the window.  Part of me will always see the ones who left whole and came back in pieces.

Of Three or Four in the Room

Out of three or four in the room
One is always standing at the window.
Forced to see the injustice amongst the thorns,
The fires on the hills.

And people who left whole
Are brought home in the evening, like small change.

Out of three or four in the room
One is always standing at the window.
Hair dark above his thoughts.
Behind him, the words, wandering, without luggage,
Hearts without provision, prophecies without water
Big stones put there
Standing, closed like letters
With no addresses; and no one to receive them.

Vigils by Siegfried Sassoon

I've spent quite a bit of time studying the poets of the first World War.  Most classes study the poets who were subsequently killed in the war and therefore left rather limited bodies of work behind.  These poets certainly left behind very valuable and insightful works on the nature of war and human experience of war but they cannot answer a question that I find intriguing: What happens after the war?  How does the war impact you for the rest of your life?  How do you carry on, especially in the case of the WWI poets, when so many of your friends and comrades did not come home?

These questions led me to the work of Siegfried Sassoon and a collection of poems published in 1936 entitled Vigils.  Sassoon enlisted at the relatively advanced age of 28.  I'm sure that the maturity he gained in the preceding years impacted his wartime experience.  As a soldier he was known for his courage, often leading nighttime raids.  He was decorated for his gallantry in battle.  He was wounded.  He had a complicated relationship with the war in which he served.  He saw its destruction and created controversy when he spoke out with the notion that his nation's leaders were unnecessarily prolonging the war by their actions.

What makes his story different from other Great War poets is that he survived the war.

Of all the men who were lost to the war, this one lived.  He lived until 1967.

I think of all the life he lived after his 4 years at war and how they must have colored the way he saw the world.  We often hear of how WWII veterans lived after the war but we don't seem to collectively remember that those veterans of the first world war did the same. 

Vigils  is a glimpse into that life. For example, a line from "December Stillness," 

December stillness, crossed by twilight roads, Teach me to travel far and bear my loads...
They were not true, those dreams, those story books of youth;
I left them all at home; went out to find the truth; 
Slammed the green garden gate on my young years, and started
Along the road to search for freedom, empty-hearted.


But dreams have secret strength; the will not die so soon:
They haunt the quiet house through idle afternoon; 
And under childhood skies their summer thoughts await
The rediscovering soul returning tired and late.


For, having grown world wise through harshly unlearned illusion, 
The Traveller into time arrives at this conclusion,-
That life, encountered and unmasked in variant shapes,
Dissolves in dust and cloud, and thwartingly escapes.
But in remembered eyes of youth my dreams remain.
They were my firstling friends.  I have returned again. (p.7)

It becomes clear that the past stays with him.  He wrestles with it.  He mocks it.  He embraces it.  But he never forgets it.  As he shows in Ex-Service and We Shall Not All Sleep, it is always with him, always in his head.

Break silence.  You have listened overlong to muttering mind-wrought voices.  Call for lights.
Prove these persistent haunting presences wrong Who mock and stultify your days and nights.

Dawn comes, and re-creates the sleepless room; 
And eyesight asks what arguing plagues exist. 
But in that garret of uneasy gloom
Which is your brain, the presences persist (17).

I love how he recalls John McCrae's famous poem and all of its connotations in this one.  He plays with the imagery of sleep and life and death.  Again, not all of them "sleep."  Some of them find the dead revisit them in their sleep.  The vet and the fallen are both restless.

 Unvouched are visions.  But sleep-forsaken faith 
Can win unworlded miracles and rejoice,
Welcoming, at haggard ends of the night, ---what wraith---
What angel---what beloved and banished voice?

I am also drawn to Revisitation.

What voice revisits me this night?  What face
to my heart's room returns?
From that perpetual silence where the grace
Of human sainthood burns
Hates he once more to harmonize and heal?
I know not.  Only I feel 
His influence undiminished.
And his life's work, in me and many, unfinished.

 
Who hasn't lost someone and continued to feel their influence after they are gone.  Who hasn't wanted to live a life worthy of the loss sustained?  Who hasn't wanted to complete something that someone who is gone started?

Sassoon's collection Vigils doesn't provide an explicit answer for how he lived his life after the trauma and the loss of the Great War.  But he does give us clues as to what it was like to be a survivor.  He lets us in a little, lifts the veil, and let's us see how the war in his head grew, evolved, struggled, and ultimately healed. 

Haunting us, Daunting us, Taunting us

A powerful piece that struck a chord, hat tip to a certain accented gentleman.

Thomas Hardy’s 1899 poem – 

The Going of the Battery [Wives’ Lament] 

O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough
Light in their loving as soldiers can be
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .

Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,
They stepping steadily--only too readily!
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.

Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.

Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court perils that honour could miss.

Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.

Someone said: "Nevermore will they come: evermore
Are they now lost to us." O it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.

Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.

Devotion

Devotion-

Robert Frost

The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to ocean -
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

If You Are Able

I came across this today and it touched me deeply.

If you are able,
save for them a place inside of you
and save one backward glance when you are leaving
for the places they can no longer go.

Be not ashamed to say you loved them,
though you may or may not have always.
Take what they have taught you with their dying
and keep it with your own.

And in that time when men decide
and feel safe to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace
those gentle heroes you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O’Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam
Listed as KIA February 7, 1978

Ashbah by Brian Turner

The ghosts of American soldiers

wander the streets of Balad by night,

unsure of their way home, exhausted,

the desert wind blowing trash

down the narrow alleys as a voice

sounds from the minaret,

a soulfull call

reminding them how alone they are,

how lost. And the Iraqi dead,

they watch in silence from rooftops

as date palms line the shore

in silhouette,

leaning toward Mecca when the dawn wind blows.

From Here, Bullet. Copyright 2005 by Brian Turner.

The Strength in Us All

I have met some amazing women in my life. This one is for them, they know who they are. The poem was written by Vera Brittain, after the loss of her brother and husband in the Great War. Vera was also an amazing woman, for she also served as a nurse during the war. Then, having lost almost every important man in her life, she rebuilt to become an author and poet. To the Strength in us all....

Perhaps (To R.A.L.)

Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of You.

Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,
Though You have passed away.

Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although You are not there.

Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain
To see the passing of the dying year,
And listen to Christmas songs again,
Although You cannot hear.'

But though kind Time may many joys renew,
There is one greatest joy I shall not know
Again, because my heart for loss of You
Was broken, long ago.

Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep

When my best friend was in town, we took time to do something I have wanted to do for awhile. We visited the grave of a fallen soldier.

There are many graves of fallen soldiers. What makes this one special is that I knew him.

I knew him as a child. I knew him as a teammate and a competitor. There were days I knew him as a pain in the butt. But I grew to know him as a friend. As a fellow believer. I knew his good heart and genuine spirit. I knew him as a classmate. I did not know him as a soldier.

He was one of those people I lost touch with after graduation. I guess I expected us to fall back into each other's lives at some point, as that's what always happened before. We had too many mutual friends and connections to avoid it. But he was killed by insurgents in Iraq before that had a chance to happen.

I regret we didn't stay closer. I wish the last memory I have of him...wasn't the last memory I have of him. But as last memories go, this one is sort of fitting. It is the end of the year. He is wearing jeans and a white tshirt, standing by an open locker, grinning. He is waving goodbye...have a good summer....see you around. In my mind, it is like this that he disappears into the mist.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I didn't know what I would feel being back there. I wasn't even sure I could find it again. Hadn't been back there since the funeral.

After all, this is the harsh reality of war, isn't it? A young man....simply gone from the world.

The greatest fear for anyone who loves a soldier.

The grave is located in the veterans portion of the cemetery. It is on the top of a hill, rather scenic as spots go. It overlooks the baby cemetery, as if these warriors stand sentry for the innocents, even in death.

It was windy, gloomy, bitterly cold day. Maybe because of that, my first thought was that it seemed lonely.

Compared to the graves around it, Will's still seems new. The grass hasn't filled in all the way yet. The ground is sunken a little bit, as if the ground is still accepting the fact that he now fills it.

There is a bench near it, where one could sit and reflect, on less chilly days. There was as Christmas tree and a wreath, all decorated immaculately. The small offerings left under it were testament to others who had made this holiday pilgrammage to see a friend.

I found that while I was assailed by memories, moved by them even, I wasn't emotional. I knew Will as gone, I saw the body at the funeral, saw them lower him into the ground. This was just where his body rests.

I guess that is what surprised me the most. What I felt was emptiness. It reminded me that according to our faith, the flesh is all that remains. The spirit has gone on to be with our Father. That provides comfort. But the emptiness remains.

What I kept returning to, standing there in the cold, staring at the grave of a fallen friend, were the words of a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am
a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun
on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the
morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling
flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and
cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Lament by F.S. Flint

Lament

The young men of the world
Are condemned to death.
They have been called up to die
For the crime of their fathers.

The young men of the world,
The growing, the ripening fruit,
Have been torn from their branches,
While the memory of the blossom
Is sweet in women's hearts;
They have been cast for a cruel purpose
Into the mashing-press and furnace.

The young men of the world
Look into each other's eyes,
And read there the same words:
Not yet! Not yet!
But soon perhaps, and perhaps certain.

The young men of the world
No longer possess the road:
The road possesses them.
They no longer inherit the earth:
The earth inherits them.
They are no longer the masters of fire:
Fire is their master;
They serve him, he destroys them.
They no longer rule the waters:
The genius of the seas
Has invented a new monster,
And they fly from its teeth.
They no longer breathe freely:
The genius of the air
Has contrived a new terror
That rends them into pieces.

The young men of the world
Are encompassed with death
He is all about them
In a circle of fore and bayonets.

Weep, weep, o women,
And old men break your hearts.

F.S. Flint

Carl Sandburg

Killers by Carl Sandburg

I AM singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:

Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.

And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.

I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.

I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines--
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,

Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of
killing.
Sixteen million men.

Ford o' Kabul River

Ford o' Kabul River
BY
Joseph Rudyard Kipling

Kabul town's by Kabul river --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
There I lef' my mate for ever,
Wet an' drippin' by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

Kabul town's a blasted place --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face
Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

Kabul town is sun and dust --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
I'd ha' sooner drownded fust
'Stead of 'im beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

Kabul town was ours to take --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
I'd ha' left it for 'is sake --
'Im that left me by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?

Kabul town'll go to hell --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
'Fore I see him 'live an' well --
'Im the best beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,
By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

Turn your 'orse from Kabul town --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
Down an' drownded by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

Here, Bullet

I'm a fan of Brian Turner's Iraq War poetry. Check it out here.

This is one I think is particularly moving:

Here, Bullet
If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta’s opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you’ve started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel’s cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue’s explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.

What If(s)...

My cousin is finishing his Basic Recruit Training at Parris Island, SC.

He is so close to earning the title of Marine. We are immensely proud of him, but with each step closer to a duty station, he also a step closer to deployment and all the mixed feelings that brings.

A few days ago, sitting around the living room with my Aunt and Uncle, cousins, and grandparents, conversation turned to Stephen. We passed around pictures from a recent family wedding, and he is not in them. There is a blank space where he should be. He is just gone to BCT, but it was jarring.

Haltingly, hesitantly, the topic turned to what Stephen will face in the next few years. It is almost certain he will go to one war or the other. Maybe even a new one altogether. Chad is in the Navy, but with Stephen, danger seems much closer.

The day was a reminder that when an individual joins the armed forces, entire families do as well. All across the country, pictures are being taken at family reunions and dinners and birthday parties that a man or woman in uniform won't be in. When those pictures are printed and reflected in, lurking in the background is the present makeup could become permanent.

I wrote this based on something my uncle said.

What If:
What if tomorrow, on the TV news,
two Marines are reported killed-
blown up or shot in your province.

What if the dark government sedan
pulls into your dad's drive
with the regrets of a greatful nation.

What if you return, as promised,
but in a flag covered shipping container
instead of the red truck.

What if the rifles volley
and the bagpipes play 'Amazing Grace'
while the trumpet announces God is nigh.

What if your plans are disrupted,
put on hold by a broken mind or body.
What if, What if, What if.