United States, (b. 1945)
Ground Forces
- We are the new militia, armed with empty arms,
- inducted now by having come to know
- the last shall be first and the first shall be last – but
- concurrently. All those pleas – God, Please –
- hushed we hear ourselves swearing in:
- Well, I’ll be and then begin to be.
- When Moses gets his huge oh-by-the-way
- from Yahweh: You will see but not get in…
- he clucked a little Well, I’ll be, and was –
- went back to star charts, rams’ horns, faced the music
- in the voices of schlemiels who still had hope
- that they could live God’s odds, husbands saying
- (trying to say), wives saying (trying to say):
- It will be all right, honey.
- Moses is using his snake rod, sea’s parting.
- I’ll take the baby. Now please, try not to say anything.
- But maybe some, more than we might guess,
- bathed themselves in the beautiful peace
- of utter, complete defeat and stepped through the walls
- of ocean water – just no point in staying home
- and washing the blood off the door.
- And like them, all those herders
- who owned the pigs full of devils, all those pigs
- sent spinning over the cliffs into the sea,
- their livelihoods – their lives – bloating below,
- – this Jesus getting wowed by those who loved him –
- climbed down for one last look. They saw
- they’d put their money on the quinella of wrong
- animals on the wrong cliff at the wrong time
- in the wrong land. Like the nation before,
- they stepped to high ground,
- saw in a moment of bright relief
- that the cosmic brass ring
- had been bolted to the pole all along.
- They clicked their tongues to their mounts,
- laughed a little Well, I’ll be and shook
- their heads, amazed they’d let themselves hurt
- and hurt their loves through so much hope
- and wanting all that time.
- So each goes home, pulls his hewn stool
- to table, not sad or afraid anymore, says:
- A god came along today and threw our herd
- into the sea. We may have to tighten our belts.
- And she, does she rail? No. She is blessed
- with the gift such knowledge is – for her,
- has always been – touches his head,
- her hands soft with grain dust one more day,
- streaks of evening in the smoky room showing
- the edges and angles of make-do she has always
- known. She laughs a Well, I’ll be, and he,
- knowing it is all out now, out and over,
- loves her, laughs with her, and finally
- the two begin to be. A victory.
- See? Winners aren’t blessed because they win
- nor win because they’re blessed.
- Get it, Hiroshima? Get it, Cherokee?
- They win because the losers have been blessed.
- Publishers Clearing House, application,
- resume, query, manuscript, bid,
- bio. So, what are you waiting for?
- Go on, send it in,
- Mr. or Mrs. Strong-work-but-there-were-others,
- oh you, you Hope-you-try-us-again.
- It isn’t called submitting for nothing.
- If you don’t send, there’s no one for the other
- guy to beat. Any jerk can lick a stamp
- or call cold contacts when there’s hope.
- You, the blessed, must try again precisely because
- there is no hope. Your duty, graceful loser,
- your final knowing it’s going nowhere
- means you must plug on from here on out.
- You have been chosen to send it,
- because you have been chosen to take it –
- on the chin again. And again.
- And all those “goals and objectives”
- (which you’ve missed),
- all those Saturdays of making lists,
- pockets full of prospects, self-help books:
- presumptuous to include them here with lives
- in wilderness and ruin beyond measure?
- Exactly! Now you’re getting the idea. You
- may be one of the blessed. Another year
- or two of this, and you might say your own I’ll be.
- If you’ve managed to stay among us, friend,
- till then, not suffered death or success,
- then join us. We meet oft:en
- shaking it off, rubbing our chins,
- chuckling in our tiny, blessed defeats.
© Paul Allen. Ground Forces. County Clare, Ireland: Salmon Poetry; [Chester Springs, PA]: U.S. distributor, Dufour Editions (2008).
About the Poet:
Paul Allen, United States, (b. 1945), is a poet, song writer and educator. He retired in 2010 as Professor Emeritus at the College of Charleston, after teaching poetry and song lyrics writing for 36 years.
Allen founded and directed the nationally known Charleston Writers’ Conference, which ran for nine years. He has given over 100 readings and performances in a dozen states and has twice received the South Carolina Individual Artist Fellowship in Poetry.
His books include: American crawl: poems (1997), His Longing (2005) and Ground forces (2008). [DES-12/21]
From the Porkopolis Archive:
- You can search “gadarene” at Porkopolis.org for many more examples of how poets and artists have considered these cliff-jumping swine.