9.24.14

There is a great tradition of war poetry, as you would expect from such an emotionally disruptive experience. I could do an entire segment on each war's output, but that's not for today. I am not feeling great about the state of our everything, so here's something from a more recently conflict. This from NPR poetry, poet Brian Turner and his book Here, Bullet:

Najaf 

Camel caravans transport the dead

from Persia and beyond, their bodies dried

and wrapped in carpets, their dying wishes

to be buried near Ali,

where the first camel

dragged Ali's body across the desert

tied to the fate of its exhaustion.

Najaf is where the dead naturally go,

where the gates of Paradise open before them

in unbanded light, the blood washed clean

from their bodies.

It is November,

the clouds made of gunpowder and rain,

the earth pregnant with the dead;

cemetery mounds stretching row by row

with room enough yet for what the years

will bring: the gravediggers need only dig,

shovel by shovel.

And Asbah: 

The ghosts of American soldiers

wander the streets of Balad by night,

unsure of their way home, exhausted,

the desert wind blowing trash

down the narrow alleys as a voice

sounds from the minaret, a soulful call

reminding them how alone they are,

how lost. And the Iraqi dead,

they watch in silence from rooftops

as date palms line the shore in silhouette,

leaning toward Mecca when the dawn wind blows.

It's just started raining here, and this seems appropriate. They don't really need me to talk about them at all today.