November 2015
Margaret Hasse
mmhasse@gmail.com
mmhasse@gmail.com
I live in Saint Paul, Minnesota. We in these northern parts of our country often take the close of summer pretty hard. Winter’s ahead and we think of Beret Hansa in Giants in the Earth hemmed in by snow and going mad on the Great Plains. On the other hand, this time of year offers its golden beauty and opportunities for rest. MargaretHasse.com
Author's Note: I wrote this poem after finding the name of a boy from my high school in Vermillion, South Dakota, on the Viet Nam Memorial in Washington, D.C. www.margarethasse.com
The Memorial Way
And here, the guide says, the memorial
to the war some of you can remember.
The memorial’s a study in two decades
which slant toward us, and away like giant hinge.
The war of our living sons is a new war
with other wars between now and then.
We keep looking over our shoulders
as if our spines were spiral.
What do we see?
A door in the ground only
Orpheus can budge.
Above, a brief cliff
overhung with Whitman’s curls,
the grass.
We are the living and the were-living.
We, the dead and the yet-to-be-dead.
If we lay our faces to this hard water,
it’s cool like the day-old dead.
Stepping back, we’re mirrored.
The men mark us from their niche.
A long mantra of names, the chant
in stone, row on row,
neat etchings, year by year
chiseled in the fine, shiny black.
We are shadows beside the tomb
on our little path, with flowers.
- reprinted from In a Sheep’s Eye, Darling
The Memorial Way
And here, the guide says, the memorial
to the war some of you can remember.
The memorial’s a study in two decades
which slant toward us, and away like giant hinge.
The war of our living sons is a new war
with other wars between now and then.
We keep looking over our shoulders
as if our spines were spiral.
What do we see?
A door in the ground only
Orpheus can budge.
Above, a brief cliff
overhung with Whitman’s curls,
the grass.
We are the living and the were-living.
We, the dead and the yet-to-be-dead.
If we lay our faces to this hard water,
it’s cool like the day-old dead.
Stepping back, we’re mirrored.
The men mark us from their niche.
A long mantra of names, the chant
in stone, row on row,
neat etchings, year by year
chiseled in the fine, shiny black.
We are shadows beside the tomb
on our little path, with flowers.
- reprinted from In a Sheep’s Eye, Darling
©2015 Margaret Hasse