War Poetry

Old War Poem for Our Time

Tu Fu made his way through fields of bones,
weeds pushing through the mud of bodies,
soldiers rotting where they fell, shrill of hawks,
wild cats, rats running the trampled earth.
Near dawn in rain sounds the quiet grieving of old ghosts.
No one has come to get their bones.
In Vietnam we bundled the dead in their own ponchos,
lugged bodies out of the field, threw away boots,
junked fatigues, scrubbed off
the tattoos of war, sprayed and medaled
the wasted, washed their feet, got rid of the rot,
quick shit and a shave, fast trim, packed them
in aluminum frozen in rank and shipped out
for the whiplash of flags, ceremonial words
spitshining the gash in his flesh, the gash in your heart,
years of a life bunched in a body bag,
flag draped stumps bugled into the ground,
no reason to moan like Tu Fu's dead
whose bones under the clash of wind and rain
cracked to dust until at last ghost sounds
quieted.

by Anthony Tripi

And The War Can Go On Forever

Forget they didn't have to die.
Call them the fallen.
Let that soft sound so far from death lull your mind.
Forget one man's obsession ran them to their deaths,
forget the lies he used to start the war,
lives he's ruined, the way he hides from the dead.
Forget the wasting of the wounded,
discharged fast, gotten rid of, shipped out of sight.
Drape their deaths with flags of words,
same words so quickly spent for the first three thousand.
Drag out sounds that quieted other deaths.
Say they've gone to rest, say we'll never forget.
Don't say scavenged by recruiters,
brainwashed in basic, shipped into madness,
blown into chunks, scavenged
again at the grave,
old lies for the next death,
words falling apart the moment spoken.
What rest in the bottom of a box
and what have we ever remembered?
And the war can go on forever.

by Anthony Tripi

Old War Poem for Our Time

Tu Fu made his way through fields of bones,
weeds pushing through the mud of bodies,
soldiers rotting where they fell, shrill of hawks,
wild cats, rats running the trampled earth.
Near dawn in rain sounds the quiet grieving of old ghosts.
No one has come to get their bones.
In Vietnam we bundled the dead in their own ponchos,
lugged bodies out of the field, threw away boots,
junked fatigues, scrubbed off
the tattoos of war, sprayed and medaled
the wasted, washed their feet, got rid of the rot,
quick shit and a shave, fast trim, packed them
in aluminum frozen in rank and shipped out
for the whiplash of flags, ceremonial words
spitshining the gash in his flesh, the gash in your heart,
years of a life bunched in a body bag,
flag draped stumps bugled into the ground,
no reason to moan like Tu Fu's dead
whose bones under the clash of wind and rain
cracked to dust until at last ghost sounds
quieted.


Old Lies

Remember the words they buried you with,
the ones that couldn't stand the silence,
took off, left you to rot
how many years ago?
They're using them again,
a different generation, a new war,
same words masking old lies,
stuff of centuries spitshining death,
calling a life wasted a sacrifice,
you know the words
and how they'll never be forgotten.
What about you and all the other wasted grunts
who can't sleep, got old in the ground,
crumbled to mold?
Who remembers you and what good is remembering?


Disturbing the War

Because they need to find a way
to dig the next hole,
they say your courage and sacrifice
will never be forgotten
and you're going to an honored place to rest.
The words are liars
and there's no rest,
only rot and worms, a wasted life,
and it isn't noble and glorious to die in war,
it's ugly, horrible
and somebody needs to say it again and again
and not hide the rot of death
with words that fall apart
the moment you touch them.


And The War Can Go On Forever

Forget they didn't have to die.
Call them the fallen.
Let that soft sound so far from death lull your mind.
Forget one man's obsession ran them to their deaths,
forget the lies he used to start the war,
lives he's ruined, the way he hides from the dead.
Forget the wasting of the wounded,
discharged fast, gotten rid of, shipped out of sight.
Drape their deaths with flags of words,
same words so quickly spent for the first three thousand.
Drag out sounds that quieted other deaths.
Say they've gone to rest, say we'll never forget.
Don't say scavenged by recruiters,
brainwashed in basic, shipped into madness,
blown into chunks, scavenged
again at the grave,
old lies for the next death,
words falling apart the moment spoken.
What rest in the bottom of a box
and what have we ever remembered?
And the war can go on forever.

~by Anthony Tripi