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Pretending to Be Dead How many boys who loved playing army, Who loved pretending to be shot tumbling down summer hills, Who loved pretending to be dead as their bestfriend checked to make sure, Or who loved pretending to deliver their last-words soliloquy wincing in imagined pain or lost and dreamy, Find themselves years later trapped on the battlefield Hearing the voices of enemy soldiers Searching for corpses to mutilate or wounded to torture to death? What man remembers those idyllic boyhood days then As he lies still as possible Trying not even to breathe, hoping beyond hope the enemy will pass him by, Knowing if he's discovered they'll cut off his cock and balls and stuff them in his screaming mouth. And then, before cutting off his head, disembowel him before his eyes? Ah, thousands of boys and men have met this end, Millions perhaps by now, so many people so many wars. Do they go to a special heaven set aside for all who die like this? Restored to the bodies they had, The memory erased of that insane end to the story of their lives? Do they still get a chance to play army with joy And pretend to be shot and pretend to die After they meet this end? Do they still get to thrill in pretending to be dead after they die? After this hideous inhuman end will they laugh and wrestle their bestfriend again? Draft-Dodgers vs. Poetry-Dodgers Rather than fulfilling their military obligation, fulfilling their poetry obligation— After all, what's more fulfilling, learning how to kill or love? Those who become soldiers are evading the Poetry Service— dodging the Poetry Draft. Isn't it their duty to their Country more to become a poet than a brainwashed murder robot? When the young contemplate what branch of the Service to join, They should know they can contemplate joining Poetry, That Poetry is a Service that serves the realization of Utopia more than becoming skilled at killing. Too long it was thought the young were needed to go to war, Now the young are needed to go to peace. Now the young are needed to go to poetry. Whitmansexual Whitman was a mansexual, a womansexual, A grasssexual, a treesexual, a skysexual, an earthsexual. Whitman was an oceansexual, a mountainsexual, a cloudsexual, a prariesexual, A birdsongsexual, a lilacsmellsexual, a gallopinghorsesexual. Whitman was a darknesssexual, a sleepersexual, a sunrisesexual, a MilkyWaysexual, A gentlebreezesexual, an openroadsexual, a wildernesssexual, a democracysexual, A drumtapssexual, a crossingbrooklynferrysexual, a sands-at-seventy-sexual. Whitman was a farewell-my-fancy-sexual, a luckier-than-was-thought-sexual, A deathsexual, a corpsewatchsexual, a compostsexual, a poets-to-come-sexual, A miracle-sexual, an immortalitysexual, a cosmos-sexual, a waiting-for-you-sexual. What the God Says Through Me You won't hear my poems at the poetry reading, You won't hear my poems over the radio. If you want what the God says through me Come alone with me into Quetico and we'll canoe across lake after lake where there are no roads or houses To a perfect lake with a perfect island Where you and I will pitch our camp and catch fish for twilight supper. Sitting around the fire at night Ask me to read something I wrote For this is the place to hear me, More stars overhead than you ever saw, no other light in the woods for miles, no other sound but the loon And the night wilderness smells of September. This is the place to hear my voice if you want what the God says through me. Raising My Hand One of the first things we learn in school is if we know the answer to a question We must raise our hand and be called on before we can speak. How strange it seemed to me then, raising my hand to be called on, How at first I just blurted out, but that was not permitted. How often I knew the answer And the teacher (knowing I knew) Called on others I knew (and she knew) had it wrong! How I'd stretch my arm as if it would break free and shoot through the roof like a rocket! How I'd wave and groan and sigh, Even hold up my aching arm with my other hand Begging to be called on, Please, me, I know the answer! Almost leaping from my seat hoping to hear my name. Twenty-nine now, alone in the wilds, Seated on some rocky outcrop under all the stars, I find myself raising my hand as I did in first grade Mimicking the excitement and expectancy felt then. No one calls on me but the wind. Campfire Talk Lonely, contemplating suicide? Go alone into the forest, find a clearing, Gather wood, build a fire, stay up all night with the fire and the stars. Have a little blackberry brandy as your telescope to bring the stars closer in. The sound of the fire, the smell of the fire, The light and heat of the fire will help you, heal you. A campfire's a Paleolithic experience we can all still have. Renew the pledge of brotherhood round the fire. Renew the pledge of sisterhood round the fire. Hold hands in a circle and each make the sacred vow and pledge And then silence, silence and the fire, But really you're alone You only imagined your friends and lovers near, Only imagined all the poets you love holding hands round the fire as one. The flames recede, The logs fall in among themselves, Sparks fly up, a puff of smoke, a sigh, the fire dies down. The cold creeps in and you draw nearer the ebbing flame, And then the embers, the embers glowing softly red While above the startling stars and forest smell rush in as eyes adjust to the dark. The towering ancient trees nearby Cease being lit by flickering light. Warm your hands one last time over the dying fire. Remain. Remain long after the fire is out, Long after the cold creeps in. Look up at the stars longer than you ever have and maybe ever will. Renew the pledge of friendship round the fire. Renew the pledge of love around the fire. Make the vow of vows under the stars. Renew, renew around the campfire in the wilderness under a wilderness of stars. And then silence, silence and the expiring fire and the silent continuous movement of Stars and Earth in Space Till the embers fade away— and with the first light of day shoulder your pack and head forth. |
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