The sharing of pain
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I wrote a poem entitled “How Do I Feel?” during the first US war against Iraq, under George W. Bush. I still remember the feeling of outrage and hopelessness at peace gatherings with friends in an Albany church that had hosted many such gatherings before. I also remember feeling something seemingly impossible: a real sense of shared physical pain with the victims of the “turkey shoot” — the merciless killing of thousands of helpless Iraqi soldiers in the desert by US bombers from a safe cowardly distance above. It was a feeling that there was no safe place left on earth where the thoughts of slaughter happening right then would not reach me. It was a feeling of restlessness and total loss of control. The pain of victims seemed to follow me, hovering in the air, and reach me, penetrating into my skull.
I published my poem in the literary magazine RAVING DOVE. It described itself as an “online literary journal dedicated to sharing thought-provoking writing, photography, and art that opposes the use of violence as conflict resolution, and embraces the intrinsic themes of peace and human rights. Also features a good list of links to humanitarian organizations.”
The magazine faltered when the horrendous deeds were forgotten, or superseded by many other events on the world stage.
This is what we remember always happening: a poetry magazine dedicated to a specific cause is not highly regarded; it smacks of the intellectual contortions of socialist art in Russia or blue-eyed heroic art under Hitler. Hence magazines of this kind come and go; they come when the collective anguish is at a boiling point, and they go when business as usual takes over again.
But my main point is this: the feeling is back; the overwhelming reality of two wars being fought with no end in sight; the feeling of helplessness; the restlessness; the acute sensing of pain and suffering of countless humans who became unwittingly enmeshed in these conflicts without options of escape.
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How Do I Feel?
Imagine one of those copters in the desert,
its blades sharp knives,
thin as razors,
extended beyond measure,
beyond all logic
(so rare these days),
extended, for thousands of miles,
rotating steadily,
slicing the air, buildings, trees,
slicing every living and nonliving substance they hit;
animals, plants, minerals.
I’m being chopped as I stand,
I’m being chopped as I lie awake in my bed,
I’m being chopped as I sit in my chair,
and the chair with me.
Aware of my fragile state, I move slowly,
allowing the cuts to heal,
afraid that when I shake,
or even shudder,
my body will disintegrate
into living samples,
CAT-scan illustrations,
discs with oval outlines of organs
and the precise circle of my spine;
finally, the slices of my head;
all substance created to feel, to coordinate,
to move, to love,
to tell the truth.
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This entry was posted in Blog and tagged chppers, George W. Bush, Hitler, Iraq, literary magazines, poetry, Raving Dove, Russia, turkey shoot, war. Bookmark the permalink.
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