DISPATCHES FROM THE (WAR) HOSPITAL |
August 25, 2008
DISPATCHES FROM THE (WAR) HOSPITAL
Name: Jennifer M. Pierson
Posting date: 8/25/08
Volunteering in: Walter Reed Army Medical Center
Hometown: New York City
Email: jmpmerton@starpower.net
NIGHTWATCH ONE
But in their brilliance angels do not lift us above our ruinance
you arrive in the night
your body laid down and wait
a hand or a shoulder braces it
grief moves through us
as
our bodies lift your stretcher oh
the body moves the heart the hands how
rough they love
(a careless angel hovers)
THE BOY IN 5715: Visions
*
stumped:
above the leg the leg
a stump-with-knee
& then
a stump
above
two legs cut off
at Landstuhl
*
three
fingers lost
others
burnt and bent
trigger's absent
*
I almost miss seeing
you when coming into
the room: steam-heated
as you lie tiny on the bed
blue covers
nothing
then
your shaved
head monklike
blued
gorgeous
smile
skinny
face too
big teeth
you laugh
*
room's hot
your dad's curled up
on a steel chair in the corner
mother's gone
for a smoke and a bite
but
the effort's there
(to stand up)
ON THE BUS
his head his
neck slashed
black: the cuts
elegiac a
scarf of loss
humanness seeps out
**
as he turns
his cheek to show
the impeded bullet
tears
pool
he moves his mouth to say hello
PASTORAL
A gentle ghost will ease in his place
Seamus is famous in the hierarchies of angels
who walk quiet the long pavements of grief.
He wears his suit shiny
teeth crookt in a grin.
Seamus listens to dreams of the dying.
How I love this man
this priest who comes in the light
seeking comfort, something sweet to eat.
(A Roman Catholic priest, in service to Walter Reed 39 years).
GIRL SOLDIER
Five years out they'll all have leukemia
demerol's wearing off
she's sleepy shivering
in a chair
skin's blemished blue
shorts
tiny for her tiny frame
snakes covet her
pallid thighs then
verge with
tigers at her crotch
we bring girly things
to ease her edict of dying
Great tattoos!
My daddy did em, when can I rest?
SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS
Oh sorrowed one
how we negate the absent
self, body and its particulates.
How we distance hearts: your,
not our, loss.
Who grieves once
condolence is drawn
from the mouth? Smear us with ash.
Who pulls hairs? Rends cloth?
Lifts the chest, wailing?
Sorry for your loss.
From your lips to God's ear.
Save us.
Around the stone church
in Provence gitanes ride
horses to encircle us.
The crypt oh it's dense
with soot, votives burning
centuries of hope.
Spirit lies inside the pale glass.
Never visited the hospital nor heard so much, too hurried to listen for such; but this time without fear I stopped to peer and felt them reach out and touch.
Thanks
Posted by: Earl | August 26, 2008 at 07:47 AM
Hi Jennifer
You have a good blog.
Please visit my blog:
http://www.soldierfun.blogspot.com
Be happy.
Posted by: soldier fun | August 26, 2008 at 11:21 PM
Ms. Pierson,
This was a frighteningly accurate description of being in Landstuhl.
And you're right...why did they say to me, "Sorry for YOUR loss" when it really should have been OUR loss?
Posted by: Jecsyka | August 27, 2008 at 07:38 AM
you're words are like a knife.
they cut into my heart.
and i think.
my eyes fill up.
and i remember.
Posted by: gideon | August 29, 2008 at 10:36 AM
Really powerful stuff, and well-done. A good poem draws the reader into the moment and forms an image in the mind. You have achieved this. Painful but worth the read. Keep writing.
Posted by: Carla | August 30, 2008 at 06:12 PM
I love the poems, they are so awesome and hit the soft spot. I tear up when I read them because my cousin went through the samething.
Posted by: Kristen | September 05, 2008 at 02:30 PM
These are really great poems. They hit close to home becuase my uncle is in the hospital. He may not have been in the war, but he has a battle of his own to fight now.
Posted by: Courtney T | September 07, 2008 at 03:09 PM
Your poems are great and very powerful. They really touch your heart and really paint a picture for the reader.
Posted by: Jamie G | September 07, 2008 at 05:45 PM
I absolutely love poetry and your poems are amazing. They are straight to the point and incredible reads!
Posted by: Ashley H | September 07, 2008 at 07:45 PM
the literary quality of this verse is questionable. to call it tawdry grist for an unimaginative psychic mill would be only too kind.
Posted by: King C | September 08, 2008 at 04:46 PM
Who grieves once
condolence is drawn
from the mouth? Smear us with ash.
Who pulls hairs? Rends cloth?
Lifts the chest, wailing?
Sorry for your loss.
Yes. I've buried nine kids since I started with the PGR. Not once did I feel I had anything adequate to say to the bereaved. As if, by pagan howling and strak ritual I could prove my knowledge of your loss.
Thank Gawd business has been down these last few months.
Posted by: Richard | September 09, 2008 at 08:25 AM
King C: literary quality and critical
evaluations are beside the point when a person is expressing the truth of their unbearable situation in their own way.
Don't be a lit-snob about suffering.
Posted by: LAQRAY | September 12, 2008 at 03:50 AM
laqray,
i did not deride the person's sentiments. just the rather unfortunate expression of them. you contradict yourself, my friend. i can only be a lit-snob about lit, right?
seeing as how you have written after richard's even more disastrous verse you seem immune to bad writing (at least in this context). not everyone is.
Posted by: King C | September 13, 2008 at 05:30 PM