Healing Combat Trauma

More Vietnam Veteran Suicides Than Combat Deaths -- Poem

Miles of Bones

"58,000 suicides
is a lot of bullets

wrecked car's
ruined veins

dead bottles
kids without fathers

American flags

& miles of dirt dug

58,000
the number of Vietnam

veteran suicides...
it equals the names

on the Wall
today: 7/09/91 8:10 p.m.

tomorrow
we'll exceed it

more suicide
than combat death

If you can't feel
this pain

you're already
dead

all these
bodies

floating
home."

-- by Bill Shields.  Anthologized in "From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of the Vietnam War and Its Aftermath," Edited by Philip Mahony.

Editor's note: Sadly, of course, since the time this poem was written, many more Vietnam veterans and other combat veterans have taken their own lives.

Barrenness of Survival

"I'd sooner be a fallen pine cone this winter
In a cradle of cold New England rock,
Less hurt in it than nineteen years.
What an exit! Stage left, fronds waving,
Cut down running my ass off at a tree line.
I'm thinking, as I hear my chest
Sucking air through its brand new nipple,
I bought the ticket, I hope I drown fast,
The pain is all in living."

-- Excerpt from "Morning -- A Death," by Basil T. Paquet. Anthologized in "Carrying the Darkness: American Indochina -- The Poetry of the Vietnam War," edited by W.D. Ehrhart.

In the Meantime: Between Combat and Death

"Listen:

Death is a goddamned disgrace.

It has no respect

for beauty or for wit

or for a lifetime

of survivor’s experience –

so why should I show

any respect for it?

          Death will catch me

          in due time,

          but until then

          the time is mine."

-- from "The Peace Monument," by Jan Barry. Anthologized in "From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of the Vietnam War and Its Aftermath," Edited by Philip Mahony.

Wry Reminscence of Combat Vet on His Peer Group

Peer Group

"me & the boys got the highest rate

of alcoholism & drug abuse & divorce

& mental illness & suicide

than any other group

in America.

It’s good to see us win

for a change."

-- by Bill Shields. Anthologized in "From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of the Vietnam War and Its Aftermath," Edited by Philip Mahony.

Trust and Mistrust -- One Combat Veteran (and Poet's) Point of View

"On all sides of the issues
on both sides of the ocean,
veterans mistrust anyone in a position to lie;
Wives, girlfriends, government officials,
salesmen, lawyers, and the rich.

Veterans trust dogs,
children under twelve,
masturbation,
the chair facing the door
and any weapon in the dark."

-- From "In Victory or Defeat," a poem by Steve Mason, Vietnam combat veteran, former Army captain, former "poet laureate" of the Vietnam Veterans of America. Mason passed away in May of 2005. (His obituary from the L.A. Times is linked here.)

"My Body's Intact, but Not My Soul"

Periodically we talk on this blog about the catharsis of poetry -- as a reader, as a writer. Here's a poem about Vietnam, in the form of a song called "Don't Go There," by S.L. Ponciroli, USN, quoted in Frederick Graham's "The Bamboo Chest," which we discussed recently, here:

Don't Go There

"Night in the bush in the drivin' rain
Heard the rockets burst then the screamin' pain
Feelin' pretty good 'cause I'm still whole
My body's intact but not my soul.

Don't go there is what my Mama said
You're gonna get hurt, wind up dead
But I had to go, stand and fight
'cause I didn't listen, I died that night.

My tour was over, I was done
The battles fought, but the war not won
I caught that bird, took me to the World
See my home, see my girl

Don't go there is what my Mama said
You're gonna get hurt, wind up dead
But I had to go, stand and fight
'cause I didn't listen, I died that night.

John Wayne told me to be a man
Defend my country the best I can
My home had changed, my girl didn't care
Made fun of my clothes, ridiculed my hair

Don't go there is what my Mama said
You're gonna get hurt, wind up dead
But I had to go, stand and fight
'cause I didn't listen, I died that night.

Nights at home in the drivin' rain
I hear rockets burst and the screamin' pain
Feelin' pretty good 'cause I'm still whole
My body's intact but not my soul."

-- Song by S.L. Ponciroli, USN, Danang '68-'69

Editor's note: In the photo used to illustrate this post, the handsome guy on the right, with the faraway cold expression, is headed back to Vietnam for his second tour.  He's already had the dream in which he dies, and he knows from experience that his comrades who've had that premonition, invariably do. The guy on the left, with the much less wary or apprehensive expression, is headed elsewhere. The man on the right's premonition came awfully close to coming true, as it turned out. Read more about that, in a post linked here.

"Anything is Subject for a Poem" -- Even Combat and Its Aftermath

It's hard for me to believe I haven't already posted this, but that's what the blog search says -- and I must believe it. Here's an interesting item from the always-fabulously-insightful Den Ming Dao, on how "anything is subject for a poem," and why a regular discipline of "writing down the bones" can be advantageous to any of us, even -- or especially -- combat veterans.  He writes:

Anything is subject for a poem:
A catalog of boxing equipment, a collage of other poems,
Serpentine trail of incense, raised deer fur, old shoes pointed pigeon-toed,
Glass and steel cityscape, almond eyes of a saint, weeping tiny flowers,
Sunlight on whitewashed walls, blue shadows of stooped women,
A spring mousetrap, a trickle of blood in the gutter,
The homing swoop of a gull, chill white-capped bay, scent of eucalyptus.
Green lawn of broken blades, clods of fat earth.
Anything is subject for a poem.

Even in sleep, write a poem.
When waking, write a poem.
While loving, write a poem.
Even voting, write a poem.
When angry, write a poem.
While dreaming, write a poem.

The sages say quite seriously that those who wish to know better should cultivate the poet in themselves.

-- 365 Tao: Daily Meditations, by Den Ming Dao.

The Poetry of War: This Time, from Afghanistan

The BBC has an article today called "Afghan Poets Tackle Scars of War," linked here.

The article writes, regarding the effect the war has had on the national literature:

"This theme of violence is playing out in other genres in ...[Afghanistan], such as short stories. But it is more visible in poetry.

"It is not the poets' choice to write about war and violence, they are compelled to do so - to express their reaction and hatred to bloodshed," says Darwesh Durrani, a popular [Afghan] poet and professor of literature in Quetta."

Additionally, 

"Poets are inspired by what is happening in the outside world. Their imagination absorbs it," says veteran [Afghan] poet in Peshawar, Rahmat Shah Sael.

"That is why [Afghan] poets are writing about violence in one way or another."

One of the poems in the article is evocative of the violence and grief Afghans are experiencing.  The lines are from Zarlasht Hafeez, "a female Pashto poet who has published a collection called 'Waiting for Peace'." Her lines read:

"The sorrow and grief, these black evenings,

Eyes full of tears and times full of sadness,

These burnt hearts, the killing of youths,

These unfulfilled expectations and unmet hopes of brides,

With a hatred for war, I call time and again,

I wait for peace for the grief-stricken [Afghans]."

It's unclear whether Afghan poets are publishing books of their poetry or reading individual poems aloud, according to local tradition.  However, the feelings about war, grief and loss that they're expressing through poetry are an essential communal reaction, and will take their place alongside similar expressions from others who have experienced the pain of war.  The right hand "sidebar" of this website includes a number of books of poetry, from this war and previous ones -- whether individual books of poetry, or anthologies of war poetry. For an index of material we've written on this blog about combat and poetry, click here.

Editor's note: The photograph, of an elderly man surrounded by villagers and Aghan National Army soldiers during search operation in rural Afghanistan, 2007, is by noted humanitarian photographer Zoriah.  Used with permission.  For more of Zoriah's work, click here. 

An Aesthetic Break - War Poetry for Springtime

Poets make the attempt to reconcile raw experience with abstract thought.  War poets are an interesting subset, because their observations can be an attempt to "make sense of" that which fundamentally is hard to ever understand, at least neatly (war).  Here's an "ode to springtime" of a sort, by a British World War II poet, Henry Reed.  The illustration is of "japonica," which is referenced in the poem. (Other poetry by Reed is linked, here.)

 

NAMING OF PARTS

 

A Poem from the Forces

 

“To-day we have naming of parts.  Yesterday
We had daily cleaning.  And to-morrow morning
We shall have what to do after firing.  But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts.  Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

 

This is the lower sling swivel.  And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see of,
When you are given your slings.  And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got.  The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

 

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb.  And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger.  You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb.  The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

 

And this you can see is the bolt.  The purpose of this
Is to open the breach, as you see.  We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring.  And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

 

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb:
Like the bolt,
And the breach, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got, and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens, the bees going backward and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.”

 

-- Henry Reed.  First published in “The New Statesman and Nation, The Week-end Review, Incorporating the Athenaeum,” August 8, 1942.

 

"The Black River of Loss, Whose Other Side is Salvation" - Poetry

An excellent poem about trauma, loss and -- ultimately -- survival -- with no implied reference intended to the famed/notorious American defense contractor of the same name (which coincidentally employs a number of combat-traumatized veterans, some of whom are looking for their own exit).

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

 

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

 

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

 

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

 

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

 

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

 

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

 

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

 

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-- by Mary Oliver