Poems

The bodies of soldiers Come floating down the river To the green sea, Rich in amber, Waiting to embalm them; All is splendid silence In this pageantry of wanton glory Awed By the setting sun.

In this terror of blood-spilling lust, Why throw it in a ditch, This boy’s beautiful body, When his spirit might rise like steam from the soup And stir the live ones to vengeance? Disease will deter you? Ah, but boil it well And the thought will give it a spice. Cannibalism, you say? Why stop when you have gone so far? He that died Would rather his body Gave life to his fellows, Than be trampled over, Shot over, Shoveled like offal away. Why throw it in a ditch?

I see captured shot-rent flags Dancing with the wind, Flying high to glory. Why not anchor them With a pyramid of bones, Those of our own men? It would tell Of the price that was paid To have these flags here, Whipping in the wind.

Our son Jack, Wild with life, Went through When law and nature Said, “Go around.” Thus he died.

Gaunt, Stripped of leaves, Death-defiant, Yet triumphant In this thought: There is nothing more to lose.

In dreams I have been swept through space On a star-hung swing, Like a silkworm Upheld by a slender strand, Tossed about in the gale.

His life was well ordered And monotonously clean As an orchard with white-washed trees. But he felt not the cool Of the sun-splotched woods Nor the mad blue brilliance Of the sea.

I see green fields In the first flush of the spring, And little children playing, Clustered as patches of white flowers.