From Graves Registry: (Korea: 1950-53)

From

GRAVES REGISTRY

(KOREA: 1950-53)

For Heloise

Aus dunklem Wein und tausend Rosen rinnt die Stunde rauschend in den Traum

der Nacht.

vi

(Korea, 1952)

We arrived at Sok To

before dawn, caught the last

of the tide & slipped the LST's bow

high on the beach.

He was waiting, bent

slightly over, hiding

his hand. He didn't

wave.

Later, after a good breakfast

aboard, an Army captain took

us on a tour of the guerrilla

camp:

& he followed, tagged

along like somebody's

dog. A tall Korean,

patient.

We were shown the kitchens, & the

tent barracks, the specially built

junks with their concealed engines

& he watched, never

leaving us with his

eyes

Through the hospital, saw 4

sheetcovered bodies from the

raid the night before, didn't

ask whose men they were, spoke

kindly to the wounded & gave

them cigarettes

until he strode up,

stuck his shattered hand

in my face, anger & hatred

flaming in his eyes &

shouted & shouted & shouted

waving that hand, the

bones crumpled by

a rifle slug & pushed

almost through the skin,

hardened into a glistening

knot

He was one of ours, a retired fighter,

about my age, my height. They told me

he wanted to know how a man

could farm

with a hand like that.

vu

The Singer

who did sing, whose voice

spoke out of a guitar's darkness;

in a clear young night he

sang midwatches away, telling

of country lands, of growing crops

green corn, tall in the fields

of Kentucky; dark songs of loves,

concerns and ancient questions

he had not yet lived to confirm

or deny.

17. About 6'1''. Heavyset,

with plowman hands & walk.

Then there was my gun.

In its way, it sang too. Clean machine

oiled & perfect, the slide flashed

back over my relaxed hand pow. pow. pow.

& .45 wadcutter slugs crimped neat holes

in the fluttering paper; the gun

was a happiness to my hand.

Many nights that boy was the whole

watch as I would lean against the flying

bridge, coffee growing cold in my cup,

listening to that voice singing out

the darkness ahead.

Then came the time in port. Just before

the invasion. The gunners' mates were

cleaning all weapons for the coming action &

claimed mine too.

I was on the bridge

checking the charts. An indistinct

popping sound. Silence.

Running feet, & shouts.

When I got back to the fantail

he was lying there, his boy's face

twisted & grey, big farmer's hands

held in his guts, guitar beside him.

My gun in the destroyed mate's hand.

Smoking faintly.

These are the things get lost.

Guitars. Guns. Hands to hold

onto them.

vi

(U.S.S. Valley Forge, 1950)

The Circle

Out of the stirrings of the Yellow Sea,

20 miles off from Inchon Channel

we came to-blue leis

thrown on the water.

Sea, glassy. no wind.

I sat atop a 5' director, the ship

steamed on, no planes in sight:

a pleasant gunwatch, little excitement,

lost in quiet.

The first I knew we

were among them, circles of men

bound in faded blue lifejackets,

lashed together

Most of the men leaned

back, heads bobbing against

kapok collars, mouths open,

tongues swollen

-hundreds of them.

We steamed by, group after group,

for all my watch. I searched for

any sign of motion, any gesture

of any hand, but soon I just

watched as

bobbing gently, each circle

undulated, moved independently.

once or twice a hand did flop

& I caught the man's face in

my binoculars instantly,

slowly let them drop

We sailed on. I suppose that's all

there is to say: wartime commitments,

the necessity for being where you must

be & when

they were dead, hundreds

of them, a troopship gone down somewhere

-Korean, uncounted.

I remember one man, remember

him clearly. God knows why

but his ass was up instead

of his head; no pants left,

his buttocks glistened

greyish white in the clear sun.

the only one.

& we steamed on, routine patrol,

launched planes at 1800 for night

CAP, leaving the last of the circles

rocking gently in our darkening wake.

... seid stolz: Ich trage die Fahne,

seid ohne Sorge: Ich trage die Fahne,

habt mich lieb: Ich trage die Fahne-

* * * *

. . und die reglose Fahne hat unruhige

Schatten. Sie träumt.

NOTE: All German epigraphs are

to be found in The Lay

of the Love aud Death of

Coronet Christopher Rilke

by Rainer Maria Rilke.