P O E M S by Alec Emerson

CONTENTS
(Click on poem title to see/hear poem)

PREFACE

He that lacks a time to mourn, lacks a time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have not time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor ought that dignifies humanity.

-Sir Henry Taylor
"Philip Van Artvelde"
Part I, Act I, Scene V.
1834

INTRODUCTION

These poems came as a surprise. I wish most of them
could not have been written. "Robin", written for
Socrates Lagios in the spring of 1964, is an exception.

I did not plan to write, nor write again, until
the spring of 1988. Then Denny Alsop canoed
Massachusetts for clean water, and gave a talk at the
edge of the Concord River. He said, "I'm not a poet.
I'm doing this because I know canoes, and water, and
that something is wrong."

I decided to write a poem for him.

Something happened.

I did have an older brother, Bing, whose dream
it was to write. Bing was killed in Vietnam on
November 20, 1968.

Alec Emerson
Concord,Massachusetts
November, 1988

listen to preface & introduction

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LONG BEFORE LONG BEFORE VIETNAM

The ring ring
of the bell
on the ice cream truck
was the most important sound in the world,
the kind of frozen treat to get,
the most important decision.

My wife liked the Dreamsicles best.
The kind with orange popsicle
on the outside,
and ice cream
in the center.

I can't remember
the kind I liked best,
just the intensity
of choosing,
knowing everything
was good.

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THE BEST EDUCATION

I.

I was at Harvard.
Taking Chemistry 20.
Down the corridor,
a professor worked
to make napalm stickier.

The Vietnamese had learned
to scrape it off
their pyjamas.

DOW chemical wanted
an improved product.

The professor worked,
diligently,
to preserve the torch
of liberty,
and finally got it right,
so it would burn
to the bone.

II.

The telephone rang.
It was my mother.
Breaking.
A body bag, was coming home.

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LETTER FROM VIETNAM

I burned,
carefully,
the loving letter,
from Hell.

Too painful to keep -
too sacred to throw away.

But the words
burned in,
as the flame
died out.

"I hope you'll be a doctor, not a dentist.
I can't stand dentists. Aaargh!

I don't know why I'm here.
I won't be the same when I come back."

Bing was right.
He was not the same,
when he came back.
Only the question lives,
and he need not fear the dentist,
anymore.

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WAR DANCE

My brother killed in Vietnam
was trying to be good.
So was my brother's killer,
as he freed my brother's blood.
So was my brother's brother,
as he tried to understand.

Was my brother killed in Vietnam
trying to be good?
Was his killer's brother killed?
By my brother?
Was my brother's killer killed
before the dance was over?

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YOUTH

My brother lives in memory
an eternal youth,
looking like a photograph
taken before time
and bullet
stopped in Vietnam.

He was my older brother then,
before we heard of Vietnam,
before he went,
before the telephone rang with pain.
Then I helped,
to bury him.

I am his older brother, now.
He hasn’t aged a day,
since his last breath,
across a world,
blew
my youth
away.

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KENT STATE CAMPUS

A girl, half kneels, awkwardly, beside a corpse.
Looking up, in stunned agony, she
raises one arm.
The Ohio National Guard
reloads to protect itself.

The thirst of the rifle
has overflowed
a far country,
and trickled into
Kent State.

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TAXPAYER'S PLEA AT MY LAI MASSACRE

Oh, Lord.

What dream is this,
that I have bought?
What raped me
as I slept?

My Lai. So many little bodies
crumpled into dark.

Lord, forgive me.

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WHISPER

The whisper of a bullet
woke my brother
from his dream.
So, he came home
from Vietnam,
and
we buried him.

A mother -
just her firstborn.
A father -
just a son.
Four sisters, and
three brothers.
We buried him,
one, by one.

There is no vengeance
in our hearts,
but words unsaid
and private sorrows,
mark the years.
Time flows,
with unshed tears,
for a whisper,
unheard.

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A KISS

Once, there was a kiss.
when and where,
I will not say.

But, I can tell you this:
It turned a night
into
a day.

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VETERAN

If you don't think
a sound
can make you jump,
you've never stepped
on the tail
of a cat.

If you want to make
your children jump,
send them
to war.
Then,
slam the door,
if they come back.

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BEST FRIEND

I drew first blood
from my best friend,
Gary Brown.
We were just kids,
playing with our knives,
throwing them at the board
near our feet.

I threw.
He reached for his.
Blade to flesh.
Blood painted his hand red,
and dribbled to the ground.
It was warm.
I was cold.

My mother took my knife away for a year.
When I was ten, we moved away.
Didn't see Gary for years,
except, once, hazily,
at my brother's funeral.

Some have wondered why
I played so much with machines,
which do not bleed,
why, I did not rush
to Vietnam.

Twenty years later,
out of the blue,
I got a poem from Gary.
I found out, later,
his wife was dying.
Yet he blessed me
with a poem.

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OVER THE VILLAGE

Over the village,
the incredible thundering jet
releases its promise of death.

Flame leaps.
A child's cry stops.

The jet bends away,
from the face of the earth.

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MATH BEFORE NICARAGUA

Take the profit on the body bag,
that brought
my brother
home,
the profit on
the coffin,
the profit on
the stone.

Multiply by fifty-six thousand,
fifty-seven thousand,
fifty-eight thousand,
admitted
U.S. dead.

Take out enough in taxes,
for another
Vietnam.

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MYSTERIOUS PRAYER

Passing by Earth the other day,
I heard a prayer, so odd and indecipherable,
I can only pass its mystery on.
It went:

I worship the Bottom Line.
Godlike, it has no body,
Needs nobody.
Needs no clear waters,
No fertile earth,
No crystalline air,
But, godlike,
Ruins all.

Lord,
Make me an instrument
Of thy Corporate will,
This fiscal year,
And have mercy on my soul.
Amen.

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ONE FAN

Chop Suey loves my poems,
holds them with her paws,
chews them into shreds,
lies in them.
She doesn't do this
to junk mail,
I can tell you.
She did do it
to a letter
from Marsha.

As a kitten,
Chop Suey fell
from treetop

to sidewalk.
She probably died
before she recovered.

I thought she was
permanently brain damaged,
until she began
to appreciate
my poems.

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THREE GARDENS

One life, I was a master.
I planted slavery
and slave.
Then, lives I slaved,
and wondered why
such hard nights
chained
such hard days.

I planted pumpkins and tomatoes.
Forgot the act in time.
But, when my garden
flowed with fruit,
I remembered them.

Now, I can plant nothing.
Or, love.
And, from harvest know,
my garden will be barren.
Or, loving.

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IN CONCORD

In Concord,
by the river,
stand two monuments.

One to the Minutemen.
One to the British.

The river separates them.

An old wooden bridge,
a common sorrow,
respect,
even friendship,
join them together.

The river flows quietly
as if it might be
tears.

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ROBIN

Hi there, little robin.
You look a bit surprised!
Did that blustery little
wintery flurry
get snowflakes in your eyes?

Harken, little robin,
and see the snow is melting.
The sun is soft and warm
and skies are mellow.

Hey there, little robin.
Did you get enough to eat?
You've got a little peanut butter
on the bottom of your feet!

Bye now, little robin.
It's been a two-way treat.

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GLIMPSE

I worked on a machine
in the bottom of a barn.
The radio was on.
A song.
I put down my tools,
and wept.

Such beauty.

Regrets?
Well, some.
Some things done, or not done.

Yes. One.

I wish,
I could have seen
Jussi Bjoerling
sing.

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listen to song informing this poem

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