War’s Over
First light in the shivering dawn, mist rising,
waves slapping against the boards, we
set out from the shore, febrile, embraced by
the sun’s warming rays, across the
mysterious river.
Existence is miraculous, having beaten all
the odds, alive, and filled with gratitude, we
cry out, gasping at the sudden grandeur,
endowed, blessed in Gaia, never to be again.
Relentless
In Gaza, the dogs are fat, having
fed on the corpses that littered
the broken roads, or were buried
in the rubble.
In Gaza, nothing changes.
Whatever the outcome, it will
favour US interests, its
hegemony in the Middle East.
And Britain, the original broker,
will look the other way.
In Israel, life is robust; here, the
people are well-fed, like Gaza’s
dogs, and go about their daily lives.
Requiem
I’ve not read The Bell Jar or Ulysses, though I was
raised by a woman who was betrayed as a child,
and suffered for it all her life.
And regarding the first Ulysses, I have Trojans to
deal with, an anthem of defeat rather than a song
of victory: South Vietnam.
I’ve read Owen and Eliot, absorbed their genius,
and loved Camus, his philosophy – realising that
revolt is the essence of existence. Without revolt,
there is only shame.
Whatever revelation awaits me, it must lift the lid
on the desolation that assails us, our worldly fate,
regardless of the chutzpah or promises of eternity.
The rats in power are more lethal than those on
the battlefields, leaving bones for a wasteland of
scholars to resurrect, life is what you make it, Mr ]
Kurtz.
And if this means living is a bell jar, I want no part
of it, and there is no getting back on the horse.
The suffering continues, ghosts remain, haunted,
ducking shrapnel – seeking cover in the hornbeams.
Reflection
An old monochrome photo, a kid in fatigues,
staring back, acting tough, so young and virile.
He’s about to go to war, action projected in his
mind, but it doesn’t seem to deter him.
Posing with an SLR, trigger finger at the ready,
he’s fully trained, prepared for anything.
But who is he really? And what will become of
him after the war, given he’ll survive?
He’s yet to fall in love, a virgin soldier, fit to kill
for King and Country, fighting for freedom.
Who is he? Has he thought about his situation?
A beguiled youth brainwashed for sacrifice.
He’s just a boy; hopefully, he’ll live to become
a man, he’ll find out, this kid who evolved into me.
Meeting Baxter
I met James K. Baxter in Whanganui in mid-1971. He was en route to a poetry reading in
Auckland, clad in an old knee-length coat, hirsute, and shoeless. His trip was
sponsored by an Auckland (Ladies) Literary Society, and when he nervously checked his
coat pocket for his sponsored plane tickets, it was apparent he wasn’t wearing much
underneath. He could easily have passed for a street beggar.
Anyway, Baxter suggested we line up in the nearby tea rooms. He threw a handful of
coins on the counter (all the cash he possessed), certainly more than he needed for his
own fare; however, I declined his generosity, as did my companion, Brian, a person well
known to him.
It was no secret he was in town, temporarily away from his river commune. Curious
locals investigating his presence nodded and pointed. On introduction, he hugged me
warmly, like an old friend. His colourful entourage of youthful commune dwellers never
left his side; some followed us in, while others waited at the entrance, like impromptu
security. There was a certain tension in the air as one of the Iwi had been picked up by
the cops, so what could he, ‘Hemi,’ do about it? Really, not a lot, and he openly vented
his frustration with a few choice expletives. He was certainly no angel.
Baxter asked us if we’d seen his daughter, Hilary, but we had no information, other than
sighting her at a party about a week before. He was clearly concerned and wanted to
find her, but first, he had a plane to catch; after all, they were calling for him in
Auckland. We bade farewell, wishing him a successful poetry reading in the big smoke.
As it transpired, I would never see him again; he died a year later after a heart attack in
an Auckland city street. He was seriously weathered after years of hard drinking. On the
day I met him, he was on the wagon. This period of his life is well documented in his
elegiac Jerusalem Sonnets. Jerusalem, being his place of residence on the Whanganui
River.
Much of Baxter’s fame, or infamy at the time, stemmed from the Vietnam War; as a high
profile protester, a dissident intellectual, and spokesman for the anti-war movement,
backed by thousands of young New Zealanders, including many Uni students, their
professors, and probably the entire left-wing apparatus.
I knew little about this. I’d recently returned from the War, oblivious to the gathering
(political) furore. I was still hungover from Asia, its pungent odours, the otherworldliness
of its culture, delicious, spicy cuisine, all in the company of madmen, driven by lust. I
couldn’t have cared less about the politics and the protest movement, although
returning vets soon realised (rather painfully) just how unpopular their position was and
subsequently went underground. Mum’s the word.
I was not entirely unaware of Baxter as a national figure, poet, and playwright. Whoever
introduced me to his work, shortly after I arrived back, quoted from his writing, “Rub
some napalm on your forehead and watch your face run down your chest.” It stuck with
me and was influential in changing me from a cautious defender of the Vietnam War to a
doubter, and finally, to an outright opponent. An opponent of all war, that is. I became a
pacifist.
As a character, Baxter intrigued me. He was different, bohemian, and after several years
in the army, I needed an out. His downtrodden appearance failed to deter me; he was
manifestly eccentric and as surfaced later, he’d serious issues from his past to deal
with, but he was unquestionably gifted, proving this at a young age, and going on to
receive many awards, until his sudden death in 1972 at the age of forty six. He remains,
to this day, a controversial, if not contentious figure.