When the combat finally stops, then I will come to you
like a soldier to his commander, and you will decorate
my chest
with fingers too soft and too precious for other uses, asking
my kill rate and praising my accurate eye, the night
of lemon
blossoms perfuming your underarms, your heart's land
undressed for my touch and my guilt abolished, the blood
left on the porch. The cicadas will trumpet my coming
and cancel the shriek of Tomahawks and soothe my ears.
When the combat ceases for good, I will put off the clothes
stained with shit and gunpowder, the boots eaten away
and my rusty helmet, and dress up to suit your dignity.
I will have cherry blossoms or the photo of a yellow poui
and they will speak on my behalf of the continuous war
the war that is falling in and out of the signal's compass
the signal I rode on to this gate that creaks behind me.
Combat spells the end of civility but I must begin with you.
When the combat ends, and bulldozes have crushed
the shanties
and ploughed a thousand or five corpses under the pasture
the young man has lost his legs, and has questions for
someone
and the vehicles head home to Greenwich and the janitors
empty the trash, and the captains hold their fire.
At that time
but at no time does the war cease from thunder and
the crack
of a rifle, and the book of your labyrinth has no beginning
or foreseeable respite, and I must retreat as I approach.
When the combat closes down, look for me in Tempe
and you should expect some ceremony in my face
because when the war goes bankrupt and is swallowed up
then it will be time to drink a toast, and to get on with it,
one on one, one kiss or word at a time, in good time.
---April 16, 2003
One of the things I felt most struck by in this chapter was the idea of finding grace and redemption, after struggling against the cruelty and bitterness that often lives inside us. I think this poem speaks very powerfully to that idea, since it addresses the senseless chaos and murder that soldiers immerse themselves in for their countries. But it's not a ship or aircraft that brings the speaker back from that place and enables them to move on. It's the smell of a loved one, the sound of cicadas, gentle touches, words, and kisses.
Hi Matt! I think this is poem a really unique reflection on the chapter. The title specifically draws me to what you are saying in your post. You comment that humans often have to reconcile between grace and cruelty within themselves. The phrase "Facing the Lion" reflects that so aptly because once we are able to face that metaphorical 'beast' inside us, we can begin to find peace and redemption. Poetry can be used as a vessel for this process, which is clearly what the narrator of the poem has done with their experience in combat.
I agree with Emma! This was a great poem because you can see the apparent differences that are occurring within this poem. I enjoy reading about this change in perspective that the author has and I feel like it presents a great message to the reader.
Hi Matt, I'm so glad you chose this poem. That thing that struck me at the beginning if this chapter is Hirshfield's statement that "Every poem is also about the relationship between [Heaven and Hell]." I think this poem paints that relationship perfectly. The narrator's personal Hell is the war they experienced, their Heaven is returning back home to their loved one(s).