War Poet
2017
What a time it was! I was on active duty as an officer in the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War Era, torn between the man I was in my soul and privately, and the man I had to appear to be publicly. The 61 poems in War Poet, about half of which were written during my active duty status, reflect the tension between two sides of my consciousness: self-sacrifice versus self-protection, domination versus submission, obligation versus pleasure, dehumanization versus love. During the 1960s, when being gay in the military would’ve ended my career if not much worse, I was proud to serve and loved the Navy environment even though I had to keep my private thoughts to myself and a few fellow officers. Taken together, these poems tell a tale every gay military man knew well back then: duty, honor, sacrifice, hard work, danger, friendship, self-control . . . and silence. The poems capture moments of coming awake and self-realization, relaxation and stress, heartache and rejoicing, and I offer them as one veteran’s experience.
Sample Poems from War Poet
Thoughts on a Suicide Bomber’s Cowardice
Here, in the deepening blue of our corruption, let
love be at least one corruption we chose together.
— Carl Phillips
The fleshy thrill of 72 virgins not being enough
to overcome the spiritual chill of sudden death,
you balked, begged, bared your vest to us, and
somehow we didn’t shoot you. Your young eyes
caught mine, your fright and tears touched
my own, your youthful tenor cry awakening
the thought, there but for the grace of God go I.
Young man, you’re a strange thing sitting here,
handcuffed, chained, stripped bare. How easy
it’d be to send you back from whence you came:
they would surely kill you. There, other fanatics
would wield the whetted knife: snicker-snack!
and then your head would roll out bleeding life,
your healthy body coated hopelessly with red.
Our gods have put us here, done this to us,
yours as unforgiving of life’s soft blasphemies
as mine, mine as hateful of impiety as yours,
neither willing to leave us alone to flower.
Both would have us kill and kill and kill until
the human race breeds automatons, myrmidons,
the planet quiet, the ungodly a past disgrace.
Thank you for not killing me. Thank you
for not dying. Ah, Love, I would bathe you,
salve your interrogation’s welts and wounds,
take off your binding cords, have you trust
in what your body believes. Our soft bodies
don’t want to die. They fight our hard minds
that would sacrifice us all for someone’s lie.
Annapolis
We are all beautiful in our uniforms
that cover lovely bodies only one remove
from celestial, each of us with a body
able to soothe another body, brace another soul
to face the trial of duty, honor, and the sea.
We are all beautifully uniform, cocky, plucky,
buff. Tight-lipped, tight-laced on the outside,
inside we can’t get enough and are lucky
to survive the Academy’s strict regimen
when all we want is to party and come alive.
We are young and trusted, hale and hearty,
eager and aware of things no longer believed
like God and country, dogma and dicta,
laud and lusty blessings given or received,
we smart, smooth future denizens of the sea.
The United States Navy wants us to be pure.
United States women (and not a few men)
want us, too, and we say “Sir!” and “Ma’am!”
when “Sir!” and “Ma’am!” should be said
this side of slaughter and creation of the dead.
Sea-warriors all, we are in training to lead
warships on perturbed waters, to dominate
outraged oceans, to perform heroic deeds
to keep civilian citizens living undisturbed
and corporations sating their reptilian needs.
Take pictures of us even if you can’t admit
publicly you find us a bit erotic, a little
tempting in our incredible physical fitness,
in our soon-to-be-history innocence, in our
willingness to fight, kill, and bear witness.
A strange and narcotic thing about love:
we bond, we bind, we treat flesh savagely
in battle or in bed. We are stellar lovers
of war and subjugation, awesome actors
in the devilish play of orgasm and dread.
Unrequited
. . . it is
forbidden to love where we are not loved.
— Sharon Olds
I won’t touch you, though everything
about this night was made for love: stars
large enough for a Broadway musical,
moon so wide and high Joe Howard
would’ve penned a Tin Pan Alley tune
taking advantage of its luster and bloom,
breezes so free fragrance of honeysuckle
would pierce walls of the remotest room
with perfume craftier than those of Paris.
I won’t kiss you, though everything
in this room screams, “Do it!” The floor
loves your feet, your weight, as do I, and
the walls bearing up the house would love
to bear you up, too, while couch and chairs
would worship your lithe, careless sprawl.
While they are busy with their own affairs,
houseplants gawk, even calm sansevierias
alarmed, wondering if lust will run amok.
I won’t hug. I won’t say sweet nothings.
Charmed to foolishness by your flesh,
I hang on, gripping with both my hands,
to societal standards coming to tatters
under your eyes, your lips and hips, and
I tell myself it’s propriety that matters
even if my libido remains unconvinced.
I’ll never taste you, nor will I hold you
with a love most would find misplaced.
One of us is too young or too old, and
there are laws, commitments, dogma
and dicta, not to mention cultural norms
that preclude my holding your hand,
and you don’t know, and you don’t care,
you thinking I’m just another guy who,
for no known reason you can fathom,
likes your company while you wait for
something to happen, something sublime.
