I have not read too much of Wislawa Szymborska, but I like this poem.

Today, I went to Baltimore and rode the Metro from Owings Mills to the airport and back. My step daughter came in to visit us for the summer. We decided this past year to start using the Metro instead of driving all the way to the airport from our home in South Central Pennsylvania. I’ve written about it before, briefly.

I took along Brian Turner’s Here, Bullet. The book was published in 2005 while I was in Iraq. I have been preoccupied the past two years with other concerns and have not prioritized its reading, but it has been on my reading list since I discovered it late in 2006. I had, of course, read the title poem and a few others and have even critiqued “Here, Bullet” on this blog.

One might be tempted to think that I didn’t like the poem, based on my pointing out what irks me about it. That’s not the case. I think it is one of Turner’s strongest poems. Except for those last two words, which represent what I think is his biggest drawback. He says too much.

There are times when I want to hack and slash his poetry and rewrite it. As another reviewer noted, his poems have the feel of a news report. As a veteran of the Iraq War myself, I felt obligated to read Here, Bullet. I can imagine that other war poets of the past felt the same way of their poet-peers, if they stayed alive long enough to be able to enjoy them (Wilfred Owen didn’t). But I don’t much consider myself a war poet. I would much more prefer to say that I am a poet who has been involved in military action (I hesitate to call it a war).

But I digress. Turner’s poetry is not on the level as, say, Wilfred Owen, who was quite graphic, or Siegfried Sassoon (not that mine is). He has poems that I like, but there are many that I don’t simply because they tell more than they show.

As for me, I’ll soon be sending out manuscripts of Rumsfeld’s Sandbox. I will also be seeking publication of some individual poems from the collection, in addition to those that have already seen publication. Below is one that I consider one of my strongest. I’d like to hear your reactions. “Carcass” was originally published at Voices in Wartime.

Carcass

He lies lifeless,
worthless as a goldfinch.
The blood map of his young life
trickles down his face.
You see the sharp
exit wound of happiness
in his crown, a testament
to the stupidness of war.
The bird in her cage sings
the afterlife and you wonder if,
when you enter heaven,
she will have confessed your sins
for you before you get there.
Sometimes the enemy taunts you
through your own fears, your failures,
your desires, and comes back
through the mirror of the other man.
The void of his countenance
yells at you through the eyelids
of the future, becomes the visage
of your own losses, your gullible
hopes, and the sacred part
you would play in their demise.
Then you hear through sobbing
gasps for breath the words
that will ring in your heart
forever, lingering like a sad rain:
“It’s time to call for backup, sir.
The camp is not secure.”

Somehow, I always feel my own work is unfinished. Maybe it is.