Edna St. Vincent Millay: Apostrophe to Man

(Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Van Vechten Collection)

Apostrophe to Man
(On reflecting that the world is ready to go to war again)

Detestable race, continue to expunge yourself, die out.
Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sing hymns, build bombing airplanes;
Make speeches, unveil statues, issue bonds, parade;
Convert again into explosives the bewildered ammonia and the distracted cellulose;
Convert again into putrescent matter drawing flies
The hopeful bodies of the young; exhort,
Pray, pull long faces, be earnest, be all but overcome, be photographed;
Confer, perfect your formulae, commercialize
Bacteria harmful to human tissue,
Put death on the market;
Breed, crowd, encroach, expand, expunge yourself, die out,
Homo called sapiens.

                       --Edna St. Vincent Millay (Feb. 22, 1892-Oct. 19, 1950)

Foucault: Who First Thought?

Who looked into the din and confusion of war, in the mud of battles,
for the principle of intelligibility of order, institutions, and history?
Who first thought that politics was war pursued by other means?

                                              --Michel Foucault, from Society Must Be Defended

Chris Hedges: War's Crusade

Once we sign on for war's crusade, once we see ourselves on the side of the angels, once we embrace a theological or ideological belief system that defines itself as the embodiment of goodness and light, it is only a matter of how we will carry out murder.   

                       --Chris Hedges, War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning

Stephen Crane: There Was a Crimson Clash of War

           
                                                  
                                        XIV

There was a crimson clash of war.

Lands turned black and bare;

Women wept;

Babes ran, wondering.

There came one who understood not these 

          things.

He said, "Why is this?"

Whereupon a million strove to answer

          him.

There was such intricate clamour of 

          tongues,

That still the reason was not.

                                     
                                             --Stephen Crane, from Black Riders and Other Lines

Herman Melville on Butchers of the Bloodiest Badge

(Herman Melville, died Sept. 28, 1891)

Doubtless one leading reason why the world declines honoring us whalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a butchering sort of business, and that when actively engaged therein, we are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is true. But butchers also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor.
                                                                 

Practice

Practice

There they are again.

Faint thuds, incessant,

demanding attention

like an unlatched

barn door banging

in the winter wind.

Perhaps that’s all it is,

a door ajar;

or a pile-drive pounding

columns for the overpass

that will (we are promised)

help us navigate

the snarling traffic;

or the boy two streets down,

imagining a game

on the line, dribbling slowly

as he readies for the

final shot.

But I deceive myself.

I know if I travel

a few miles southwest,

past the spoiled Ogeechee

and twisted pines,

I’ll see mangled earth,

I’ll feel air crinkle

with concussive

power. Ft. Stewart

trains for death.

Soon

they’ll set their sights

on flesh, on foreign

barns and bridges,

just as hopeful as

my neighbor kid that

practice pays off.

 -----------------------------------

This is a second draft of an earlier poem--still not fully satisfied with it, but it seemed to fit tonight's prompt over at dVerse, where poets Victoria Slotto and Pamela Sayers have us writing about our places of residence. I live in Savannah, GA. I could have written about a lot of things, for Savannah is a city of wonderful beauty and history. It is also a military town, with three bases within close driving distance. I chose to write about that.

Charles Simic: My Weariness of Epic Proportions

My Weariness of Epic Proportions

I like it when
Achilles
Gets killed
And even his buddy Patroclus--
And that hothead Hector--
And the whole Greek and Trojan
Jeunesse doree
Is more or less
Expertly slaughtered
So there's finally
Peace and quiet
(The gods having momentarily
Shut up)
One can hear
A bird sing
And a daughter ask her mother
Whether she can go to the well
And of course she can
By that lovely little path
That winds through
The olive orchard

--Charles Simic

Unrecoverable

Karin Gustafson, hosting the latest prompt over at dVerse, offers us the chance to write about war, peace, and like topics. I just pulled an all-night shift, so I can't tell how jumbled up this is, but I'm sending it along anyway. 

Unrecoverable

As the dew falls, easing down

on the new-mown meadow

like a gentle morning kiss,

she wanders over the wet

grass and weeps. Her son is

not coming home. His body, toughened

by boot camp and sent to the desert,

is blown into red fragments by

some other mother’s boy,

unrecoverable, like a

memory erased.

The government men who

brought her the news told her she

should be proud, but on this morning,

crossing the pathless field

where her boy played away

his childhood, she cannot

escape her loss. Her mind travels

across miles, thinking of

all he must have suffered—

and she wonders just now if

across some scorched dune another

mother wanders and weeps

her loss. She knows she

should return to the house;

her work awaits. The dew lifts,

and she walks on

without leaving a trace.

Practice

It's been awhile. For Three Word Wednesday. Prompt words Demand, Navigate, Crinkle.

Practice

There they are again.
Faint thuds, incessant,
demanding attention
like an unlatched
barn door banging
in the winter wind.
Perhaps that’s all it is:
a door ajar;
or a pile-drive
pounding columns
for the overpass
that will (we are promised)
help us navigate
the snarling traffic;
or the boy two streets down,
imagining a game
on the line, dribbling slowly
as he readies for the
final shot.

But I deceive myself.
I know if I travel
forty miles southwest,
past the spoiled Ogeechee
and tangled pines,
I’ll see
mangled earth,
I’ll feel
air crinkle
with concussive
power. Ft. Stewart trains
for death. Soon
they’ll set their sights
on flesh, on foreign
barns and bridges,
just as hopeful as
my neighbor kid that
practice pays off.

Peace that Passes All Understanding

A late, unrefined Three Word Wednesday. Prompt words bump, transfix, knuckle.

Peace that Passes All Understanding

He prayed, “Bless those fighting
for peace.” And I scratched
my head in wonder. How can
this be? The world waits
transfixed, fearing the loss
of all, and we ask Almighty God:

Bless us, O Lord, as we
march on to Zion,
beat plows into swords,
carve trees into clubs,
bump off every opponent,
raise bloody knuckles,
make peace by war.