November 2015
Martin Willitts Jr
mwillitts01@yahoo.com
mwillitts01@yahoo.com
I am a Quaker, organic gardener, visual artist of paper cutouts, and a retired librarian. When I was a child, I worked on my Amish/Mennonite grandparents' farm during the summers — using old time equipment such as gravity-fed buzz saws; I also did blacksmithing and I painted hex signs. Over the years I worked for Habitat For Humanity building houses; I finished my 100th construction two years ago, and now, at 67, I am still at it — tiring out the 20-year-old volunteers. My forthcoming collections include How to Be Silent (FutureCycle Press), God Is Not Amused With What You Are Doing In Her Name (Aldrich Press), and Dylan Thomas and the Writer’s Shed (Future/Cycle Press).
How I Got To Vietnam
I forget what year it was —
memory will provide forgiveness.
I was 17. My grandparents had died,
and we had lost the farm to the bank.
I was draft-able, and brought up
both Mennonite and Amish —
war was not an option.
I met the Berrigan brothers
while they were burning draft cards.
They suggested becoming a medic
for the American Friends Service Committee.
I saw more action than most combat soldiers,
going in and out of warzones
bringing back the wounded,
assisting with surgery,
zipping up the dark secrets of war
in black body bags.
When people find out what I did,
they ask, didn’t it bother you?
After years of butchering on a farm,
seeing men lose hands to combines,
finding a deer shot
and dragging towards death,
it was not the blood or guts
or carrying trays with amputated arms or legs —
it was the cries for mommy
Author's Note: Every once in a while, I release a Vietnam poem. It has been over 40 years and I still hear the cries in English or French (it was colonized by French) or Vietnam languages for "mommy." I am now searching for a place to publish a chapbook of the poems about Vietnam.
I forget what year it was —
memory will provide forgiveness.
I was 17. My grandparents had died,
and we had lost the farm to the bank.
I was draft-able, and brought up
both Mennonite and Amish —
war was not an option.
I met the Berrigan brothers
while they were burning draft cards.
They suggested becoming a medic
for the American Friends Service Committee.
I saw more action than most combat soldiers,
going in and out of warzones
bringing back the wounded,
assisting with surgery,
zipping up the dark secrets of war
in black body bags.
When people find out what I did,
they ask, didn’t it bother you?
After years of butchering on a farm,
seeing men lose hands to combines,
finding a deer shot
and dragging towards death,
it was not the blood or guts
or carrying trays with amputated arms or legs —
it was the cries for mommy
Author's Note: Every once in a while, I release a Vietnam poem. It has been over 40 years and I still hear the cries in English or French (it was colonized by French) or Vietnam languages for "mommy." I am now searching for a place to publish a chapbook of the poems about Vietnam.
©2015 Martin Willitts Jr