November 24, 1916
A sestina written for all of our folk who were duped into being part of that first war to end all wars, that brother-killing-brother war, that beginning of our end.
I purposely did not date it November 11, so it would be more than merely a Veterans Day poem, although it is, also and most profoundly, a Veterans Day poem.
We sit on duckboards or we stand in mud
Waiting, watching as the setting sun
Dips deep behind the ridge. Red clouds like blood
Thrown up against the blue-black sky make fun
Of all the blood thrown down, and thrown away,
All around us. We sit and wait for day
To end. We’ll be here when another day
Begins. As another morning finds mud—
(Mud and death)—and quite simply dawns away
Regardless. Up and down the yellow sun
Rises, sets, and decides some pretty fun
Can be had in skies the color of blood,
Unaware that down here, for us, it’s blood—
Über alles–that saturates each day
And stains our lives. Blood isn’t pretty fun.
To bleed or not to bleed here in the mud . . .
Watching the rising or the setting sun
Bleed into clouds, while we, too, bleed away
In little or in sudden bits. Away
We bleed… Away. Away in draughts of blood
And shattered bone. As all the while the sun
Throws bloody dawn or bloody ends of day
Into the skies that hang above the mud
That holds us. Surely there’s some sort of fun
To be had (terrible ironic fun
Of course… but still, it is there, in a way)
In looking upward from these slits of mud
And seeing winter skies awash in blood
When we’ve been awash in it, too, all day.
What clever things we – to share with the sun
The same bloodiness-es under the sun
That hang over the sun in clouds. What fun
We can find! Great fun every bloody day,
Watching the sun and comrades bleed away . . .
Sitting and watching while vistas of blood
Fall upon us, on duckboards or on mud.
Tonight, let the sun bleed itself away
To where fun is not a joke, soaked in blood,
Red clouds and mud. Let us have no next day.
Source: This sestina has appeared previously, without my note, in Mobius and in Soundzine (where one may hear it be professionally read).
* * *
I should forgive you, I know it, but I
Can’t do it. I can’t forgive you. Still, why
Do I feel guilty? You destroyed our past,
You ruined our future, (you were the last
Ones who had a future worth having, by
The way, thanks for leaving us high and dry
Thanks for not paying attention, thanks guys
For the world we’ve got now, it’s such a blast).
I should forgive . . .
I should forgive. I can’t forgive, it’s my
Burden, this understanding of the lies
You swallowed, the questions that went unasked
About the war you fought for those who cast
You as savior heroes in your own eyes.
I should forgive.
Remembering Martin Rojas
Remembering William Butler Yeats:
June 13, 1865–January 28, 1939
Céline vs. Houellebecq
Remembering Richard Wagner
(May 22, 1813–February 13, 1883)
Remembering Julius Evola
(May 19, 1898–June 11, 1974)
Memelord Dalí Remembering Salvador Dalí (May 11, 1904–January 23, 1989)
Why I Write, Part II: Farewell to My Friend Robin
Remembering Sam Francis (April 29, 1947–February 15, 2005)