A Stunning Poem
by David WojahnI heard David read this last year at VCU, and was thrilled to find it on infotrac.
The Kenyon Review, Fall 2005 v27 i4 p56(9)
Dithyramb and Lamentation
David Wojahn.
Its walls were breached; the people groan ... In its boulevards, where feasts were celebrated, scattered they lay ... What power have we now against the deluge?
--Lamentation on Ur
I.
PHOTO OF A BEHEADING,
CHINA, C. 1900
A problem of technique: the moment of death
arriving too fast to capture,
blood-spurt,
& the ax in upswing. So instead
we have aftermath, the parted lips
kissing cobbles, the hair flaring back, the instant
missed by half a second.
The vigil of astonishment,
the crowd that parted to admit the cowl & imperious tripod--lugged
by mulecart from Shanghai--of some anonymous
Scotsman, working the shutter in cool frenzy.
The torso
kowtows toward the pavement & rejoins its head.
Beneath his hood the Scotsman swelters, Apollo
at the kill-switch of the skull of Orpheus, the crooning silenced.
Later he will shake the ax man's hand,
his ally, his double, his cohort God.
II.
EPITHALAMIUM
The what what what of a helicopter gunship
frozen midair, twenty feet above the desert.
Fire One Fire Two Fire Three.
The chopper
180s back toward Baghdad. Target: "a terrorist
safe house." They have the spoor, the coordinates.
Nosing the ground, three heat-seeking missiles
like pigs' snouts to a cache of truffles.
The bride & groom have entered, their mouths full of sweets.
The band strikes up; the music crescendos,
the wedding couple riding on a wave of shoulders,
as an uncle, tiptoe on a chair, shoots video,
a close-up of the bridegroom's face,
then the shudder
as the walls implode, target engaged. The Secretary of Defense,
wire rims glinting, nods at the speakerphone & coughs.
III.
EXAM ROOM SIX
Glazed eyes, vomiting since morning, the fever
by nighttime 103, then the seizure
wracking Jake against the crib rails.
Advil, Pedialite the color of piss.
Cold towels
to his forehead & now the midnight ER,
breathing shallow, his brother asleep on my shoulder,
N. in tears before the gum-smacking orderly, when our turn
gets bumped by
another OD & a gunshot wound,
But now the intern has them in Exam Room Six
while I stay on with sleeping Luke
& three Toshibas bolted to the wall, sound off
on a Bush campaign ad,
Air Force One soaring down from clouds
Like the opening of Triumph of the Will, the ferret face in slow
dissolve.
What case, what tactics,
can we now present against the deluge?
IV.
Loosen this guy up. Make sure he has a bad night.
Take away the mattress, clothes & sheets.
He'll break down real fast.
Make sure he gets the special treatment.
Take a few snaps of him if you want.
But loosen him up. Make sure he has a bad night.
Then he'll give out some real intelligence.
Let him lie there in his own sorry shit--
He'll break down real fast.
Wrap him in the hood & wrap it tight.
He won't know where the next hit's
coming from. Make sure he has a bad night.
The brass from Langley are coming tonight
& soldier, these guys need results.
He'll break down real fast
when you tape electrodes to his dick--
Sending an email is what we're calling it--
he'll loosen up. Make sure he has another bad night.
He'll break down real fast.
V.
GEORGE W. BUSH IN HELL
(Inferno, Canto XXVI)
Rejoice, America, risen to such glory
That over land & sea your eagle wings have flown
Imperiously, & all the depths of hell resound your story.
Among the caverns there, O sorrowful to set down,
I came upon many of your citizens, a fact
Which can bring no honor to your name.
Upon a blazing plain they lay; my guide picked
His way upon the bridge above, & meekly
Did I follow. Over geysering fires we trekked
& deep within each column of flame could we see
A figure in torment writhe. As on a June night,
When farmers of Vermont watch moon-bright fields seethe
With fireflies--teeming, darting lantern lights
In stands of soybean & corn--so it was then
That this eighth ditch gleamed, fire-tongues bright
As midnight LAX or Houston from a DC 10,
The landing wheels opening. The flames along the stygian floor
Streamed like interstate headlights, flaming ribbons.
My guide now spoke, sensing my fear. "There dwells
Within each flame a soul in permanent
Auto-da-fa, his sin an inexhaustible fuel,
An oil rig derrick blackening the firmament
With fires unquenchable. These are the givers
Of fraudulent counsel, whose arrogant
Disdain of truth has brought them here."
The flames like flashbulbs crackled the dark.
& as he spoke a single flame drew near.
Inside, a wavering face, lips parted as if to speak.
"Master," I inquired, "Can these shades
Converse with us? For this one I know & seek
To hear his sorrowful relation." My guide bade
The form approach: "This one is also familiar to me,"
He answered. "His deeds of infamy have made
His name renowned in hell. Princeling of a dynasty
Of blackguards, his forebears & brothers likewise burn
Within these terrible precincts." Then suddenly
From the white-hot pyre the face emerged
& spoke: "So great was my lust for power, to lead
My land as my father--now consigned also to these fires--
Had done before me, that I came to believe
In the God-ordained virtue of all my deeds.
Truth was my toy. No counsel could dissuade
My certainty, nor satisfy my cronies' greed.
For to exercise my zealotry I gave them leave
To pillage & bring havoc. Their coffers overflowed
With booty. O how deeply did we crave
To level Baghdad, to suck its oils dry.
That first night, when my pilots rained a spray
Of fire on its neighborhoods, I cried
For joy. I watched the smart bombs seek their prey
On a television screen three stories high,
Even my generals gasping--such dazzling display,
What thundering shock & awe had I made.
Great Babylon did grovel on its knees.
How mighty was my sword. What matter that so many died
Below, or in the months & years to follow.
My father was revenged, my longing assuaged,
& haughty I walked the West Wing hallways
To the Lincoln Bedroom, where I slept as deeply
As a man can sleep, my enemies laid low,
My apotheosis complete. But see where this has taken me,
Who brought two countries to shame & ruin.
My every cell is napalm. Take pity
On me, you who may leave this fiery tomb
& walk again among the living." With this
the flame drew back & took its place among
the woeful throng, the other flickering tapers.
VI.
CHILD'S DRAWING,
SPANISH CIVIL WAR
This one faceless, gazing skyward, that one
a circle & wobbly rectangle; the bodies,
limbless, strew the field. Cruz Roja workers
bear them on stretchers to the ambulance, its cross
& the tracer fire above bright scarlet, still
unfaded after seven decades. The houses,
jigsaw trapezoids, pulse jack-o-lantern teeth
that once were windows. Above & dwarfing everything,
a Condor Legion bomber, lavished with
the talismanically obsessive detail
children reserve for machinery--
landing flaps, propellers, Luftwaffe cross.
The boy who learned to draw by drawing death
is likely dead himself. Turbulence,
I close the book. We lock the tray tables
& the stewardess lurches down the aisle
collecting drinks, the pastures below, Ohio
or Indiana, a reasonable green
precision, N. asleep, the boys asleep,
a toy biplane cradled in Luke's lap.
The screens drop from the ceiling, unfurling
CNN before the movie starts, the bodies
of reservists, displayed before a charred Humvee,
courtesy Al-Jeezera, & more shots
of naked Iraqis, the corporal from West Virginia
in profile with a cigarette, pulling
her prisoner on a leash across cement.
Another image calculated to benumb,
& I am sick to death of calculation
& its body counts, pixels of the maimed
emerging from computer screens, while the plane
thrashes, & the boys twitch in sleep.
What case, what tactics, can we now
present against the deluge? What blind reckoning?
A boy stands in a field & the bomber comes in low,
its shadow a black cross pulsing
& for an instant he is pinned within its center,
engines thrumming, before the plane streaks on
to Guernica or Malaga. Crossroads,
crosshairs, the hurricane's eye & I am back
to a date three years ago, a white room
in a windowless clinic, fumbling with a plastic cup,
my pants on a hook beside a stack of Penthouses;
such a strange locale for a rite, my come
streaking the beaker's sides, & the two cells
setting forth among the throng, then Petrie dish
& egg, & N., legs splayed against the stirrups,
then sonogram, the spiraling craniums
of Baby A & Baby B: What case,
what tactic, what rite? Exfoliation
& its psalms: twenty fingers opening
in amniotie brine & opening still
even as the night comes on, & beside me now
my voyagers thrash, belted to their seats,
selah selah selah. The cabin lights
flicker & the plane bucks,
but their sleep is unperturbed.
posted by Patty @ 12:34 PM
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