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A Break from the Bush

Yusef Komunyakaa (1947- )

The South China Sea
drives in another herd.
The volleyball's a punching bag:
Clem's already lost a tooth
& Johnny's left eye is swollen shut.
Frozen airlifted steaks burn
on a wire grill, & miles away
machine guns can be heard.
Pretending we're somewhere else,
we play harder.
Lee Otis, the point man,
high on Buddha grass,
buries himself up to his neck
in sand. "Can you see me now?
In this spot they gonna build
a Hilton. Invest in Paradise.
Bang, bozos! You're dead."
Frenchie's cassette player
unravels Hendrix's "Purple Haze."
Snake, 17, from Daytona,
sits at the water's edge,
the ash on his cigarette
pointing to the ground
like a crooked finger. CJ,
who in three days will trip
a fragmentation mine,
runs after the ball
into the whitecaps,
laughing

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Le déserteur

Boris Vian (1920-1959)

 

Monsieur le président
Je vous fais une lettre
Que vous lirez peut-être
Si vous avez le temps.
Je viens de recevoir
Mes papiers militaires
Pour partir à la guerre
Avant mercredi soir.
Monsieur le président
Je ne veux pas la faire
Je ne suis pas sur terre
Pour tuer des pauvres gens.
C'est pas pour vous fâcher,
Il faut que je vous dise,
Ma décision est prise,
Je m'en vais déserter.

Depuis que je suis né,
J'ai vu mourir mon père,
J'ai vu partir mes frères
Et pleurer mes enfants.
Ma mère a tant souffert
Qu'elle est dedans sa tombe
Et se moque des bombes
Et se moque des vers.
Quand j'étais prisonnier,
On m'a volé ma femme,
On m'a volé mon âme,
Et tout mon cher passé.
Demain de bon matin
Je fermerai ma porte
Au nez des années mortes,
J'irai sur les chemins.

Je mendierai ma vie
Sur les routes de France,
De Bretagne en Provence
Et je crierai aux gens:
«Refusez d'obéir,
Refusez de la faire,
N'allez pas à la guerre,
Refusez de partir.»
S'il faut donner son sang,
Allez donner le vôtre,
Vous êtes bon apôtre
Monsieur le président.
Si vous me poursuivez,
Prevenez vos gendarmes
Que je n'aurai pas d'armes
Et qu'ils pourront tirer.

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Unbestätigte Gerüchte

Erich Fried (1921-1988)

Angenommen
die chinesischen Kommunisten
beschlössen China zu sichern
durch Einverleibung Vietnams
auch wenn dessen Bewohner
ihrem großen nordöstlichen Nachbarn
seit alters nicht näherstehen
als etwa die Polen den Russen

Sie müßten zuerst nur erreichen
daß westliche Truppen
in Vietnam so hausen
wie richtige Weiße Teufel
Dann sähen die Vietnamesen
trotz all ihrer alten Bedenken
endlich in China
den Schutz vor der Weißen Gefahr

Seit den letzten Erfolgen
der amerikanischen Truppen
und Ratgeber in Vietnam
im Süden und weiter nördlich
kursieren Gerüchte
daß in Moskau Gerüchte kursieren
das Weiße Haus sei
gekauft von Mao Tse-Tung

Uit: und VIETNAM und

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A Relative Thing

William Daniel Ehrhart (1948-)

We are the ones you sent to fight a war
you didn't know a thing about.

It didn't take us long to realize
the only land that we controlled
was covered by the bottoms of our boots.

When the newsmen said that naval ships
had shelled a VC staging point,
we saw a breastless woman
and her stillborn child.

We laughed at old men stumbling
in the dust in frenzied terror
to avoid our three-ton trucks.

We fought outnumbered in Hue City
while the ARVN soldiers looted bodies
in the safety of the rear.
The cookies from the wives of Local 104
did not soften our awareness.

We have seen the pacified supporters
of the Saigon government
sitting in their jampacked cardboard towns,
their wasted hands placed limply in their laps,
their empty bellies waiting for the rice
some district chief has sold
for profit to the Viet Cong.

We have been Democracy on Zippo raids,
burning houses to the ground,
driving eager amtracs through new-sown fields.

We are the ones who have to live
with the memory that we were the instruments
of your pigeon-breasted fantasies.
We are inextricable accomplices
in this travesty of dreams:
but we are not alone.

We are the ones you sent to fight a war
you did not know a thing about-
those of us that lived
have tried to tell you what went wrong.
Now you think you do not have to listen.

Just because we will not fit
into the uniforms of photographs
of you at twenty-one
does not mean you can disown us.

We are your sons, America,
and you cannot change that.
When you awake,
we will still be here.

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Un air de liberté

Jean Ferrat (1930- )

Les guerres du mensonge les guerres coloniales
C'est vous et vos pareils qui en êtes tuteurs
Quand vous les approuviez à longueur de journal
Votre plume signait trente années de malheur

La terre n'aime pas le sang ni les ordures
Agrippa d'Aubigné le disait en son temps
Votre cause déjà sentait la pourriture
Et c'est ce fumet-là que vous trouvez plaisant

Ah monsieur d'Ormesson
Vous osez déclarer
Qu'un air de liberté
Flottait sur Saigon
Avant que cette ville s'appelle Ville Ho-Chi-Minh

Allongés sur les rails nous arrêtions les trains
Pour vous et vos pareils nous étions la vermine
Sur qui vos policiers pouvaient taper sans frein
Mais les rues résonnaient de paix en Indochine

Nous disions que la guerre était perdue d'avance
Et cent mille Français allaient mourir en vain
Contre un peuple luttant pour son indépendance
Oui vous avez un peu de ce sang sur les mains

Ah monsieur d'Ormesson
Vous osez déclarer
Qu'un air de liberté
Flottait sur Saigon
Avant que cette ville s'appelle Ville Ho-Chi-Minh

Après trente ans de feu de souffrance et de larmes
Des millions d'hectares de terre défoliés
Un génocide vain perpétré au Viêt-Nam
Quand le canon se tait vous vous continuez

Mais regardez-vous donc un matin dans la glace
Patron du Figaro songez à Beaumarchais
Il saute de sa tombe en faisant la grimace
Les maîtres ont encore une âme de valet

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Hansjörg Mayer (1943- )


S A U
A U S
U S A

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A Bummer

Michael Casey

We were going single file
Through his rice paddies
And the farmer
Started hitting the lead track
With a rake
He wouldn't stop
The TC went to talk to him
And the farmer
Tried to hit him too
So the tracks went sideways
Side by side
Through the guy's fields
Instead of single file
Hard On, Proud Mary
Bummer, Wallace, Rosemary's Baby
The Rutgers Road Runner
And
Go Get Em - Done Got Em
Went side by side
Through the fields
If you have a farm in Vietnam
And a house in hell
Sell the farm
And go home

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Antiquitätenladen in Saigon

Erich Fried (1921-1988)

Durchbrochene Elfenbeinkugeln
geschnitzt noch im alten Annam
umschließen kleinere Kugeln
die wieder Kugeln umschließen
alle vielfach durchbrochen
und frei beweglich
ineinander geschnitten
in mühsamer Arbeit
aus einem Stück
ohne erkennbaren Zweck
Auch der Krieg in Vietnam
ist vielfach durchbrochen
und durch die Löcher
bestaunt man kleinere Kriege
umschlossen vom großen
im Inneren frei beweglich
und hört sie rasseln
alle von Menschenhänden
in mühsamer Arbeit geschnitten
aus einem Stück

Uit: und VIETNAM und

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Facing It

Yusef Komunyakaa (1947- )

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

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17.-22. Mai 1966

Erich Fried (1921-1988)

Aus Da Nang
wurde fünf Tage hindurch
täglich berichtet:
Gelegentlich einzelne Schüsse

Am sechsten Tag wurde berichtet:
In den Kämpfen der letzten fünf Tage
in Da Nang
bisher etwa tausend Opfer

Uit: und VIETNAM und

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Rapture

Bruce Weigl (1949 -)

Near Khe Sahn, by the Quang Tri river
I mounted a highland hill
in dubious morning light
and watched a priest
through the war fouled air
lift his sacrosanct white
sleeves in prayer,
before the kneeling.

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Volker Braun (1939- )

Soldaten der Raketeneinheit X in Hanoi, die
am 15. Juli 1966 drei Piratenmaschinen
abschossen und die Piloten gefangennahmen,
bei einem Meeting.

Die ihr noch wähnt, ihr bombt die Freiheit her
Seht uns hier gegen euch die Fäuste heben!
Kämpft ihr euch frei, in Dallas oder Delaware!
Dann werden wir sie euch als Hände geben.

Tote US-Söldner im La-Drang-Tal

Mit uns ists aus. Schaut weg. Uns helft ihr nicht.
Doch wenn Bilanz ziehn, die den Krieg befahlen
Wißt: auf ihr Konto kommen unsere Qualen.
Und helft euch selbst und haltet ein Gericht.

Gießer des Arsenals der Befreiungsarmee bei
der Herstellung von Waffen für die Front.

Viele beten. Manche hoffen sehr.
Andere halten ihren Zorn her
Wie Fahnen. Oder haben nichts als Mut.
Die hier baun Waffen. Eins davon ist gut.

Eine Frau gibt im Kampfgebiet Gia Dinh bei
Saigon einem verletzten Soldaten zu trinken.

Seht eure Menschenbrüder zwischen Tod und Leben
Zwischen der schlimmen Zeit und einer guten.
Schon helfen sie sich, noch müssen sie bluten.
Noch reicht die Labe nicht, doch werden sies erleben.

Uit: KriegsErklärung

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Song of Napalm

For my Wife
Bruce Weigl (1949-)

After the storm, after the rain stopped pounding,
We stood in the doorway watching horses
Walk off lazily across the pasture's hill.
We stared through the black screen,
Our vision altered by the distance
So I thought I saw a mist
Kicked up around their hooves when they faded
Like cut-out horses
Away from us.
The grass was never more blue in that light, more
Scarlet; beyond the pasture
Trees scraped their voices into the wind, branches
Criss-crossed the sky like barbed wire
But you said they were only branches.

Okay. The storm stopped pounding.
I am trying to say this straight: for once
I was sane enough to pause and breathe
Outside my wild plans and after the hard rain
I turned my back on the old curses. I believed
They swung finally away from me . . .

But still the branches are wire
And thunder is the pounding mortar,
Still I close my eyes and see the girl
Running from her village, napalm
Stuck to her dress like jelly,
Her hands reaching for the no one
Who waits in waves of heat before her.

So I can keep on living,
So I can stay here beside you,
I try to imagine she runs down the road and wings
Beat inside her until she rises
Above the stinking jungle and her pain
Eases, and your pain, and mine.

But the lie swings back again.
The lie works only as long as it takes to speak
And the girl runs only as far
As the napalm allows
Until her burning tendons and crackling
Muscles draw her up
Into that final position
Burning bodies so perfectly assume. Nothing
Can change that, she is burned behind my eyes
And not your good love and not the rain-swept air
And not the jungle green
Pasture unfolding before us can deny it.

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The Guard at the Binh Thuy Bridge

John Balaban

How Still he stands as mists begin to move,
as morning, curling, billows creep across
his cooplike, concrete sentry perched mid-bridge
over mid-muddy river.
Stares at bush green banks which bristle rifles, mortars, men -- perhaps.
No convoys shake the timbers. No sound but water slapping boat side, bank saides, pilings.
He's slung his carbine barrel down to keep the boring dry, and two banana-clips instead of one are taped to make, now, forty rounds instead of twenty.
Droplets bead from stock to sight; they bulb, then strike his boot.
He scrapes his heel, and sees no box bombs floating towards his bridge.
Anchored in red morning mist a narrow junk rocks its weight.
A woman kneels on deck staring at lapping water.
Wets her face.
Idly the thick Rach Binh Thuy slides by.
He aims. At her. Then drops his aim. Idly.

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Counting Small-boned Bodies

Robert Bly (1926 -)

Let's count the bodies over again.

If we could only make the bodies smaller
The size of skulls
We could make a whole plain white with skulls in the moonlight!

If we could only make the bodies smaller
Maybe we could get
A whole year's kill in front of us on a desk!

If we could only make the bodies smaller
We could fit
A body into a finger-ring for a keepsake forever.

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Dit gedicht werd geschreven n.a.v. een foto (en bericht) in Newsweek (16 maart 1968), over het bloedbad aangericht door Amerikaanse soldaten in het dorpje My Lai. Klik hier voor de foto.

My Lai

Keith Bosley

Among the twisted, still shapes in that ditch
a swollen female belly and a pair
of naked thighs, the knees high in the air
and parted wide: hands meet and fingers clutch

the place between. This is the pose in which
Western technology has fastened her.
All odourless, thanks to the newspaper:
the flies may move us, but they do not touch.

Here is their Lord: he 'does not own a gun
or keep a fishing rod around the house.'
Who wrote those words is also dangerous.

Without our help, that woman would have given
her child an ugly name to ward off evil
spirits. It is our gods who are too small.

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'To Whom It May Concern'

Adrian Mitchell (1932 - )

I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.
Made a marble phone book and I carved out all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

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