AP photo from the Vietnam War
Date of estimated return from overseas (DEROS) for my soul:
At times when I am calm
I remember
that even if you waited for it
nothing came as suddenly
as gunfire
and nothing (not even the Lieutenant)
seemed as stupid
as the silence which followed
At such times I know also
that each of us
who fought in Vietnam
was spiritually captured by it,
and that each remains
a prisoner
of his own war-
It is, therefore, not surprising
that for some (like for me)
the AfterNam emptiness
published no D.e.r.o.s.
for the soul....
Yet, in moments better known to me,
when reason drifts
and whole worlds are illuminated
with Platonic images
dancing images
dancing against the cave-walls
of my mind,
lit by a single candle
borrowed from a twilight wish,
I take the stairs two-at-a-time
and wait in the second floor window
of my days,
hoping that someday will come next morning
and that I’ll recognize the soul of a much younger me
come diddy-boppin’ down the street,
eating a sky-bar
and hefting a duffle bag
filled with new and more believable myths
that I might live by
(not to mention back pay)
while humming something about
going to San Francisco
and something about a flower in somebody’s hair
Frankly, I don’t know if I’d throw flowers
or run down stairs, meet him at the curb
and beat Hell out of him-
leaving me the way he did!
I mean, it’s not like my damned soul,
dressed up like Jennifer Jones in drag,
and waved farewell with a lace hanky
from the base of a Bon-Sai plant
in a To do Street floral shop
while i woke the next morning and
couldn’t cry anymore
or laugh like before
or give a shit period.
And my soul didn’t go berserk
under the too bright light
of a Government Moon
and go roaring down Highway #1
doing a wheely on a cycle
like James Dean in a steel pot
and flak jacket
laughing Red Baron kind of laugh
and quoting Kipling’s Barrack-Room
Ballads—
No.
My soul just did
what most souls did.
Just disappeared one afternoon
when I was in a firefight
Just “walked away” in the scuffle
like a Dunhill lighter
off the deck of a red-neck bar.
Peculiar,
A man can lose his money,
his woman
(even his mind)
and still he can come back,
but if he loses his courage
or his pride
then-
it is over.
And what of a lost soul?
I ask myself
when madness invades
scattering today’s headlines
like March Hares
leaving nothing at the table
of my reason
beyond one crumb of truth
and the enormous bloodstain
on the white cloth of my youth-shaped
(if you come around this side
of the table and cock your head
just so)
like a distorted lunar projection of Vietnam.
And careful, don’t strike your knee
against that table leg
cause then it jumps alive
like somebody flunked
the ink blot test
and knocking over the candelabra
dives out of the window of my sanity
to run naked down the street
lined on both sides by
Vietnam vets
who couldn’t sleep either
and just followed the blood trail
like mute somnambulists
in a black and white foreign film
because they heard that tonight
their shared nightmare
(with Vietnamese sub-titles)
had called a muster of lost souls
to be followed by Nam,
Bloody Nam,
leading a one man parade
and twirling a baton
that looked like nobody’s penis
I ever saw
and probably belonged
to the guy in back of me
poor bastard.
Geez, it gets scary in here sometimes,
do it not, Brutha?
And oh, sister, do you have songs to
sing?
About war without glory
and love beyond reward.
Maybe someday God will mint a medal so beautiful
no words are printed on it
and all of our sisters
who were there with us
would get one
and everyone, everywhere who saw it
would know just what it was
and would find a “thoughtful place”
to go sit down in for a week
And then maybe God would let us have
a picnic (bigger than the moon)
and all the boys and girls
of daddies whose lives they saved
could hold hands
to make a daisy chain for the sun.
And when it was all done
the big people
would make God a prayer-promise
never, never to do anything like Nam
again
And when the cheers died down
the sun would bow his head
ever so slightly
so the children might wish their necklace
`round his head
and when it was in place,
all of a sudden-
faster, even then gunfire,
everybody’s lost soul would
just come floating down like a
bright balloon
on a string
and mine would wink at yours
and pretend not to see me
and when everyone got his,
All the children would sing
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!!
over and over again….
—Steve Mason (1949 – May 25, 2005) “was a decorated United States American combat veteran of the Vietnam War and a critically acclaimed poet. His poem ‘The Wall Within’ was read at the 1984 dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. and has the distinction of being the only American work of poetry on display at the war memorial in Hanoi. The author of four books, The Moths & Violets of Vito & Me: The Story of a Poem, Johnny’ Song, Warrior for Peace, and The Human Being: A Warrior’s Journey Toward Peace and Mutual Healing, his poetry [arose out of] his experiences as a captain in the United States Army during the Vietnam War. His work was hailed by veterans and their families nationwide. In addition to being the poet laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, he worked for veterans’ causes. Diagnosed with lung cancer as a result of exposure to Agent Orange during the war, he became a participant and active advocate for the Oregon Death with Dignity Act, and spoke at the California State Assembly for a similar law proposed in that state. He died at his home in Ashland, Oregon, at the age of 65.” This poem was found here.
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