From Vietnam to Sydney (A Three Part Poem—1971)

From Vietnam to Sydney
(A Three Part Poem—1971)

Part One

From Vietnam to Sydney

Drifts and slitters in the sky—a horizontal sun nearby,
not much grass in this city of Sydney, wild cars (scrapes of steel).
Aimlessly from a battered war I came, out of a swarm of
yellow jacks—that circled me: and here, here now I am standing,
downtown—by strange buildings, smells, brittle old buildings
in sight, not far away, by the bay (to be torn town they say).
A park is by my eighth-level hotel; leaves stripped from their branches;

by nightfall, the moon will be high on the lake,
like a shadowy tail. All week I softly talked, left:

two-hundred miles of walking back and forth, in this city.

Man is the heart of this city, the upshot of rudiments: born
to war, eat, drink and die—; hell with philosophy, there’s enough noise…!

What bothered me from Vietnam to Sydney—(now I know)
someone (they) created a war and nailed it on the cross—to
the only decent carpenter that ever was. I know I must fall—
face doom, but I told myself back then, not in Vietnam.


Part Two

On the Roof Top of the Hotel

I sit here without thought on the roof top of my hotel
(as if—living in a myth) watching the shadows below:
buildings, boats, shadows over the lake, creeping by,
hauntingly in a gray moonlit sky…a few seabirds fly over head,
a few forms of dogs and cats below, they look like dead dots.
It’s a shame I didn’t stay—(soon) to be back to Nam.
Deaths a new shape called –weary!
But I’ll make it through…!
A few birds drift to the rooftop (like spots in the air)
my future defined, I brush the dust from my mind;
rain from the ocean—soaks the air, over the rooftop.
A lady I met comes by, stays the night!
We jump out from under the covers (in the morning)
like seagrass and we both drift away, like seagulls.

(As for me, I will neither snare or grunt or run, I will simple go

back to Vietnam…in the morning.)


Part Three

Back Home
(To Minnesota from Vietnam)

When I got back to Minnesota, it was the first day of my world,
new born I felt: bitter coffee, bitter beer, cold dawn,
it was October…How rare to be born a human a second time;
man and beast were now alike; I even thirst for cold snow.
Now I had obscure layers of meaninglessness.
This new world was simply juggling, popular songs;
human tenderness was dry; bones and flesh just walked on by:
no regrets—I was likened to the sparrows, annulled.

And so it was, Vietnam, a mournful web with tall grass,
we were the snared rabbit’s ear; yet we danced on rooftops,
in the swamps, thinking us wise men.
Whirling from nostrils to ears swatting flies—with drunken eyes.

Note: Perhaps this poem is long overdue, it is my first poem on Sydney, Australia, where I stayed on R&R, during my time in Vietnam, 1971. Now after 40-years, I look back, perhaps I sense I now have absorbed it enough, and can express a portion of it. I did write about Sydney in one of the 35-books I wrote, “Where the Birds don’t sing,” but no poems. So I dedicated this one to the Australian Soldiers that served time in the Military in Vietnam, they were brave; and to my friend Ben Szumskyj, from Australia.

((Vietnam: a war poem) (1971))
Vietnam: Like Ants in the Rain

Confused, whirled in a tangle:
Into a land full of voices—
True men of war I met,
Here we had nothing but thoughts
Memories in common—at best;
And we all spoke out our hearts
And minds—
And without regret we did our best
In the sands of Vietnam.

And we all drank from month on month,
Forgetting, or trying to—the finery of home:
And before the end of the day
We scattered like ants in the rain—
Confused, spinning into
Knots of war.


Note: Every so often I like writing a poem about my times in Vietnam (during the war years, 1971). Being in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, the land of the Great Wanka Warrior must bring it out of me: I’m sure they would understand my reasoning.

No: 1848 5-26-2007

Spanish Version

((Vietnam: Un Poema de Guerra) (1971))
Vietnam: Como Hormigas en la Lluvia

Confuso, envuelto en una maraña:
En una tierra llena de voces—
Verdaderos hombres de guerra conocí.
Aquí no teníamos nada más que pensamientos
Memorias en común—por lo mejor;
Y abrimos nuestros corazones
Y mentes—
Y sin arrepentimiento hicimos todo lo posible
En las arenas de Vietnam.

Y todos bebimos mes a mes,
Olvidando, o tratando de olvidar—las galas de casa:
Y antes del final del día
Nos dispersábamos como hormigas en la lluvia—
Confusos, girando dentro de
Nudos de guerra.


Nota: Cada cierto tiempo me gusta escribir un poema sobre el tiempo que pasé en Vietnam (durante los años de guerra, 1971). Estando en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, la tierra del Gran Guerrero Wanka debo traerlo fuera de mí: Estoy seguro que ellos entenderían mi razonamiento.

# 1848 26-Mayo-2007