It's Remembrance Day: Some Thoughts & a Poem for Them All

Where have all the Flowers Gone? (Adelaide Australia November )

To say I have a complicated attitude towards days like today, Remembrance Day, is a massive understatement. I was born with a predisposition towards pacifism, a tendency that was strengthened by experiencing the damage done to my father from his time in the army and especially his time with the Australian army in Vietnam during the war. Then there was the impact on my family of his time there: the family basically imploded, with the subsequent effects on each of us.

Then there is my knowledge of military history, both as it is lived by the people doing the actual fighting and from the broader geo-political perspective of historical movements and imperatives, as well as the reasons for going to war. Not to mention my acute awareness of the lies we are told to justify war and the hiding of the real reasons a government will wage war.

At the end of the day it is these lies told by politicians and our so-called leaders and their manipulations of events and the revision of history, that has me now saying no to all wars.

At the same time from deep in the core of me I feel a love and affection, a pride, for the people we send (yes, we) to do the fighting, killing and dieing; I feel for and care about those who return from the fight wounded in body, mind and spirit.

Whatever the individual’s reason for ‘joining up’ to fight, they have all done the dirty work their society has demanded of them. Their efforts—their sacrifices—need to be looked at as completely separate from their governments actions and reasons for sending them to fight and what they have done must be looked at separately from any outcome of any given conflict.

I have always been deeply revolted and disgusted to the core by those who place blame and then abuse or attack those who have only been doing our (yes our) bidding in war. Anti war should and does not mean, anti those who have done the fighting.  To not make this distinction is to abdicate one’s own responsibility as a member of society.

On days like this, Remembrance Day, and all other commemorations that purport to remember and honor those who have died in war, there is a militarization that in many ways excludes an honoring of the dead by people who do not wish to, at the same time, promote or celebrate a culture of war and conflict. And that makes me sad.

My father (who had served as a Major in Australian Army Intelligence before, during and after the Vietnam War) died in 2000 as he ran for a train on a hot summer’s day. I don’t think there were too many moments in the thirty odd years between his time in Vietnam and his death that he was happy; not too many times he was at peace.

PTSD; Depression; violent mood swings and behaviours; constant and consuming distress and an ongoing inability to settle into any semblance of what we call a ‘normal life’. These were his rewards for doing his ‘duty’, for doing the things we (yes, we) asked him to do.

No need to go on. Suffice it to say, my siblings and I are the children of a Vietnam veteran, and to some degree or another we have inherited that legacy of suffering. Just like so many others, in so many wars, all over this benighted planet and through time.

About ten years ago I wrote a poem about my father and his post Vietnam life and death. Here is it as my offering at the memorial to all who have had to suffer as a result of all wars everywhere.

Lest We Forget to not only oppose war in all its guises and disguises, but let us always remember to create peace in our lives and in our communities.

Peace to you all.

IT’S A ’NAM THING

My father, many times he hit me.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father hurt my sisters.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father, he beat my mother.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father had a shrink at 150 an hour.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father tried to get sane.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, he kept his demons.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father used to run for trains.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, one day thought he was late.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father ran hard for his train.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father caught that train, of course.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, his heart attacked him.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, on that train he died.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

Hobart Australia

?2004 or 2005

James & Stacee: Forever Young

Josh & Stacee Forever Young (Terrigal June 2015)

Who is Josh? Who is Stacee? Who carved their names in the rock? Josh? Stacee? We will never know (unless the gods of art smile kindly and lead them to this blog). But here are their names, carved lovingly (yes, I think lovingly: look at the detail and the stylish nature of the carving.) on a rock shelf at a beach called Terrigal on the east coast of Australia.

Now, this rock shelf is made up of sandstone and other materials and was laid down as many as three hundred million years ago. Which means that for as long as people have lived on that shore, these rocks have looked much as they do now, but once they were high cliffs that have been eroded by time and the power of the sea.

We can wonder about Josh and Stacee sitting on this spot enjoying the spectacular views, to the north up the coast and out to sea.

In the Harsh Light of a Coming Storm (Terrigal Australia June 2015)

We can wonder at the patience and skill of the carver as she or he spent what must have been hours working on this beautiful declaration of presence and love.

And then we can wonder, whatever happened to Josh and Stacee? Are they now happily married and raising kids in the mortgage belt? Are they young and travelling the world and leaving their names wherever they go? Was it merely an adolescent passion that burned out with age, time, changing tastes and perhaps distance? Or, and this is also possible, are they middle aged (whether together, alone, or with other people) or even older? Perhaps they have even departed this life? Again, as with their identities, we may never know. But, still, we can wonder.

But whoever they are and wherever they are, their presence on that day when this carving was made is there for all to see, and to ponder on. In some way they will remain forever young as people come and go to and from "their" spot and wonder about them for years to come. But for how long? Who knows really?

Only the sea will know this. For one day, their names will be erased from this rock (just as others have been before them). Then, one day long after, this rock itself will crumble and fall into the sea. But, Josh and Stacee will be here and be together until:

"Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble"

 PS This last line is from a mesmerizing poem called Forsaken Garden by Algernon Charles Swinburne and written in 1895. You can find the complete poem here
. 

Lest We Forget: A Beach Memory

Lest We Forget at the Beach (Terrigal Australia June 2015)

Quite a few years ago in a poetry class the teacher asked us to write about our strongest beach memory. Not as a poem, just a short piece of prose describing the memory.

This is what I wrote. Well it’s been slightly edited, but not in any way that changes the original meaning and content. I came across it today as I sorted through some files. As we are actually staying across the road from a beach on the same coast right now, I thought it was a good time to resurrect this still powerful memory and to share it with you all.

I’m not really a saltwater person. Never have been. Sure, it’s true I’ve spent time swimming in the sea: you can’t grow up in Australia and not spend a heap of time at the beach and in the water. I never liked it much though. And after the Boxing Day Tsunami in ’05, I just was not physically able to go anywhere near the sea for a long time—and I was sure I would never ever get in the water again.

But, time passes, and I did eventually get back to the saltwater. But, let’s just say that even now, it’s pretty rare for me to actually swim in the sea. In fact, I think the last time was on the Gold Coast, that soulless, heartless strip of concrete lining the coast up near the tropics. Lived there for a year.

Anyway, I did swim up there a few times. But I stopped after a few shark scares. The final straw when a shark took a Japanese tourist. Bitten in half he was. Still and all, there are some fine beaches on that stretch of coast, which have left me with some pretty nice memories of walking the dunes, picking up shells, sitting with my hood up on the sand listening to winter waves pound the shore.

 Funny thing though, none of these are among my strongest beach memories. That honor belongs to a memory that goes a long way further back in time that also involves a chopped human.

1967. Balmoral Beach in Sydney. It’s a lovely, sheltered beach with the usual assortment of palm trees, chip shops and coin operated BBQs. I was 13 and my father was in Vietnam. Not yet a pacifist, and not yet ready to be disloyal to him, I eagerly took part in the picnics put on for families of soldiers fighting ‘over there’. Fun really: a lot of other kids to muck around with, some cute girls and plenty of food. Even better, there were sometimes presents: one time I got a string tied bundle of over one hundred comics. Very cool. I had those comics for years. Wish I still had them: some would be worth good money.

Anyway, on that summer’s day in 1967, I was at the beach for one such picnic. As I recall it now, I was just wandering around early in the day, just checking out what was going on, who was there and whatever.

Then I saw him. A young man (though to my 13-year-old eyes he looked old. But he couldn’t have been more than 20) on the sand sitting bare chested and wearing board shorts. Well, was he sitting?  He had no legs you see. He’d been chopped in half, just like the Gold Coast Japanese tourist. I was stuck to the spot, just staring. Sure, it was very rude of me. But I was shocked, and the sight mesmerized me. I just could not get my head around the image that was burning itself into my brain. Still can’t really—and now I’m all grown up.

I wondered, as I stood staring, how did it happen? And I thought, with the simplistic perspective of a naive 13-year-old, how can he live like that? As if in answer to my stupid question to myself, his eyes met mine. He’d caught me staring. Before I could turn away in shame, he lowered his eyes and bowed his head. Deeply ashamed, I walked away, very confused by what I had seen, what I felt.

A bit later that day (the picnic went on all day of course), a mate told me about the bloke with no legs sitting on the sand.

‘Oh yeah, that’s ... ’, my mate said. I forget the name now. And my mate knew what had happened to him as well: Landmine. In Vietnam of course. Seems the legless guy had stepped on one. Also, my mate told me, the poor bastard was an especially invited guest at our picnic.

Now, if I’d asked the organizers why they’d invited him, why he was an ‘honored’ guest, I am sure they would have told me that he was a war hero; he’d paid plenty, sacrificed his legs, for his country. For me and everyone else.

But I never did ask them. And back then, in my immature 13-year-old mind, I thought it was bizarre. It was like he was some kind of prized exhibit, a freak to be shown off. But he wasn’t. He was just some poor kid whose number came up one night in a bloody lottery. They told him to go and fight, so he did. Then he stood on a landmine, got his legs blown off and had his whole life buggered.

I wouldn’t say I am a pacifist solely because of that chopped up boy on Balmoral Beach back in ’67. I’ve seen a lot, and learned a lot in the many long years since. Still, as I think of it now, it wasn’t long after that day when I’d turned my eyes from this bloke in shame, that my father came home and I saw what the war had done to him, and then I saw what it did to me and my family. Then later still, I saw that we weren’t alone: the war had really messed up a lot of people, destroyed a lot of lives, ruined families and left a legacy of pain and suffering that is still with us now. No, I guess you could say that the legless guy on that beach simply planted the seed. So he sure played his part.

I thank him for that. And I am sorry I stared; I am sorry that my childish and ignorant behavior forced to you bow your head in what I now know was a sign of your own shame (not that you had any reason for shame of course) and sadness. I see you now, in my mind, sitting on that beach so many years ago. Lest we forget? We always forget the things we ought to remember. But, don’t worry: I’ve never forgotten you.

            This is my strongest beach memory.

Lest We Forget

I Just Act Like I Don't Remember and Mary Acts Like She Don't Care

I come from down in the valley where mister when you're young
They bring you up to do like your daddy done
Me and mary we met in high school when she was just seventeen
Wed ride out of that valley down to where the fields were green

Wed go down to the river
And into the river wed dive
Oh down to the river wed ride

Then I got mary pregnant and man that was all she wrote
And for my nineteen birthday I got a union card and a wedding coat
We went down to the courthouse and the judge put it all to rest
No wedding day smiles no walk down the aisle
No flowers no wedding dress
That night we went down to the river
And into the river wed dive
On down to the river we did ride

I got a job working construction for the johnstown company
But lately there aint been much work on account of the economy
Now all them things that seemed so important
Well mister they vanished right into the air
Now I just act like I don't remember, mary acts like she don't care
But I remember us riding in my brothers car
Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir
At night on them banks I'd lie awake
And pull her close just to feel each breath she'd take
Now those memories come back to haunt me, they haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse that sends me
Down to the river though I know the river is dry
Down to the river, my baby and I
Oh down to the river we ride


Thanks Bruce, for the music and the lyrics that are truly poetry