Things They Carried
Poems and Songs
1. The Guard at the Binh Thuy Bridge by John BalabanThe
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 sides, 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.
“Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.” �― Guy de Maupassant
Waist Deep in the Big Muddy by Pete Seeger – song
It was back in nineteen forty-two,�I was a member of a good platoon.�We were on maneuvers in-a Louisiana,�One night by the light of the moon.�The captain told us to ford a river,�That's how it all begun.�We were -- knee deep in the Big Muddy,�But the big fool said to push on.
The Sergeant said, "Sir, are you sure,�This is the best way back to the base?"�"Sergeant, go on! I forded this river�'Bout a mile above this place.�It'll be a little soggy but just keep slogging.�We'll soon be on dry ground."�We were, waist deep in the Big Muddy�And the big fool said to push on.
The Sergeant said, "Sir, with all this equipment�No man will be able to swim."�"Sergeant, don't be a Nervous Nellie, "�The Captain said to him.�"All we need is a little determination;�Men, follow me, I'll lead on."�We were, neck deep in the Big Muddy�And the big fool said to push on.
All at once, the moon clouded over,�We heard a gurgling cry.�A few seconds later, the captain's helmet�Was all that floated by.�The Sergeant said, "Turn around men!�I'm in charge from now on."�And we just made it out of the Big Muddy�With the captain dead and gone.
We stripped and dived and found his body�Stuck in the old quicksand.�I guess he didn't know that the water was deeper�Than the place he'd once before been.�Another stream had joined the Big Muddy�'Bout a half mile from where we'd gone.�We were lucky to escape from the Big Muddy�When the big fool said to push on.
Well, I'm not going to point any moral,�I'll leave that for yourself�Maybe you're still walking, you're still talking�You'd like to keep your health.�But every time I read the papers�That old feeling comes on;�We're, waist deep in the Big Muddy�And the big fool says to push on.
Waist deep in the Big Muddy�And the big fool says to push on.�Waist deep in the Big Muddy�And the big fool says to push on.�Waist deep! Neck deep! Soon even a�Tall man'll be over his head, we're�Waist deep in the Big Muddy!�And the big fool says to push on!
“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.” � ― Virginia Woolf
2. The Asians Dying BY W. S. MERWIN
When the forests have been destroyed their darkness
remains
The ash the great walker follows the possessors
Forever
Nothing they will come to is real
Nor for long
Over the watercourses
Like ducks in the time of the ducks
The ghosts of the villages trail in the sky
Making a new twilight
Rain falls into the open eyes of the dead
Again again with its pointless sound
When the moon finds them they are the color of everything
The nights disappear like bruises but nothing is healed
The dead go away like bruises
The blood vanishes into the poisoned farmlands
Pain the horizon
Remains
Overhead the seasons rock
They are paper bells
Calling to nothing living
The possessors move everywhere under Death their star
Like columns of smoke they advance into the shadows
Like thin flames with no light
They with no past
And fire their only future
3. ["My father does his own dental work"]
BY CATHY LINH CHE
My father does his own dental work.
A power drill and epoxy
and steady hands—
On Christmas Day, he mistook
the Macy’s star
for the Viet Cong flag.
While watching
Forrest Gump, he told me
how he too carried a friend.
He squeezed
around my throat so tight,
I thought I’d die with him.
4. Second Tour
BY PENELOPE SCAMBLY SCHOTT
While my husband packed to fly back to Vietnam,
this time as a tourist instead of a soldier,
I drove to the zoo to say goodbye to the musk oxen
who were being shipped out early next morning
to Tacoma. We were getting lions instead.
When I got there, it was too easy to park.
The zoo was closing early so they wouldn’t let me in.
I went back to my car and slid into the driver’s seat.
Sobs tore from deep in my chest, I who had never
seen a musk ox and never cared until now.
Who'll Stop the Rain (song)
Creedence Clearwater Revival
Long as I remember the rain been coming down.
Clouds of myst'ry pouring confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, trying to find the sun;
And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain.
I went down Virginia, seeking shelter from the storm.
Caught up in the fable, I watched the tower grow.
Five year plans and new deals, wrapped in golden chains.
And I wonder, still I wonder who'll stop the rain.
Heard the singers playing, how we cheered for more.
The crowd had rushed together, trying to keep warm.
Still the rain kept pouring, falling on my ears.
And I wonder, still I wonder who'll stop the rain.
“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” �― Cormac McCarthy
5. Nonattachment by Nguyen Ba Chung��Let's gather every fragment of our memories�It's all that we have at the end of our life�Warring days and nights, showers of sun and rain �What's left of love?�Let's gather what remains of our memories�It's all that we have at the close of our life�Warring days and nights make us wonder�Should the bundle we gather be empty or full?
6. A Piece of Sky Without Bombs by Lam Thi My Da
Your friends said that you, a roadbuilder,�had such love for our country, you rushed�down the trail that night, waving your torch�to save the convoy, calling the bombs down on yourself.
We passed by the spot where you died,�tried to picture the young girl you once had been.�We pitched stones up on the barren grave,�adding our love to a rising pile of stone.
I gaze into the center of the crater�where you died and saw the sky in the pool�of rain water. Our country is so kind:�water from the sky washes the pain away.
Now you rest deep in the ground,�quiet as the sky that rests in the crater.�At night your soul pours down,�bright as the stars.
I wonder, could it be your soft skin�changed into columns of white clouds?�Could it be that when we passed that day,�it was not the sun but your heart breaking through?
This jungle trail now bears your name;�the skies reach down to your death and touch it;�and we, who never saw your face,�each wear a trace of you, bright on our cheek.
(Translated by Ngo Vinh Hai and Kevin Bowen)
“One writes primarily to free oneself from oneself.” � ― Marty Rubin
Draft Morning by The Byrds (song)
Sun warm on my face, I hear you
Down below movin' slow
And it's morning
Take my time this morning, no hurry
To learn to kill and take the will
From unknown faces
Today was the day for action
Leave my bed to kill instead
Why should it happen?
7. Alabaster Stork by Tran Dang Khoa
When rain blackens the sky� in the east,�when rain blackens the sky� in the west,�when rain blackens the sky� in the south, the north,
I see a stork white as alabaster�take wing and usher in the rain. . .
Rice in the paddy ripples� like a broad flag,�potato plants send up� their dark green leaves,�the palm tree opens� its fronds to catch the drops.�The toads and frogs� sing all day and all night,�and fish flicker away� dancing to that tune.
But no one sees in the branches�the stork shivering in the cold. . .
When rain blackens again� in the east,�when rain blackens again� in the west,�when rain blackens again� in the south, the north,
I see that stork white as alabaster�take wing to proclaim the rain again.
(Translated by Nguyen Ba Chung and Fred Marchant)
8.From The Sound of Guns by Gerald McCarthy
At the university in town
tight-lipped men tell me the war in Vietnam is over,
that my poems should deal with other things.
***
At nineteen I stood at night and watched
an airfield mortared. A plane that was to take
me home, burning; men running out of the flames.
Seven winters have slipped away,
the war still follows me.
Never in anything have I found
a way to throw off the dead.
9. Beautiful Wreckage BY W.D. EHRHART
What if I didn’t shoot the old lady
running away from our patrol,
or the old man in the back of the head,
or the boy in the marketplace?
Or what if the boy—but he didn’t
have a grenade, and the woman in Hue
didn’t lie in the rain in a mortar pit
with seven Marines just for food,
Gaffney didn’t get hit in the knee,
Ames didn’t die in the river, Ski
didn’t die in a medevac chopper
between Con Thien and Da Nang.
In Vietnamese, Con Thien means
place of angels. What if it really was
instead of the place of rotting sandbags,
incoming heavy artillery, rats and mud.
What if the angels were Ames and Ski,
or the lady, the man, and the boy,
and they lifted Gaffney out of the mud
and healed his shattered knee?
What if none of it happened the way I said?
Would it all be a lie?
Would the wreckage be suddenly beautiful?
Would the dead rise up and walk?
�
Lemon Tree (song) by Peter, Paul and Mary
When I was just a lad of ten, my father said to me
"Come here and take a lesson from the lovely lemon tree"
"Don't put your faith in love, my boy" my father said to me
"I fear you'll find that love is like the lovely lemon tree"
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat
One day beneath the lemon tree, my love and I did lie
A girl so sweet that when she smiled, the stars rose in the sky
We passed that summer lost in love, beneath the lemon tree
The music of her laughter hid my father's words from me
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat
One day she left without a word, she took away the sun
And in the dark she left behind, I knew what she had done
She left me for another, it's a common tale but true
A sadder man, but wiser now, I sing these words to you
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat
“We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,�Full of the grateful peace�That follows her release;�For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.” �― Louisa May Alcott