When the fog seeped out ot the mountains
into villages and paddy fields,
we moved like ghosts
into cool grey dawn.
Beyond. as artillery lobbed errant thunder
into mists and shadows,
we moved like cats
from night to day.
Crossing decades and time zones
into nightmares
we moved like boys
on red trails.
When the sun rose
above the clacking medevacs,
we moved long past
your comprehension.
"You give me go,
you give me go Qui Nhon?"
the boy had asked us.
We gave him go,
We gave him go Qui Nhon.
A contest entry
- Early in the Morning by Utok Bulinaw.
450 points, ended November 16, 2007, 13 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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I don't know why stories of Vietnam hold me in such thrall when I was only a child when it was all going on - perhaps because it demanded my father's full attention every night at 6 pm and because my favorite aunt was a nurse there. There is a stealthy adventurous feel to this piece, though stoic and foreboding. I am thinking about this idea of where the Black and the Red Rivers meet but I will have to research it to write anything believable. I do so love that collection "The Things We Carried."
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I met Tim O'Brien a few years back and he offered to read and comment on an early iteration of my first novel, "Walking Point". He thought it was horrible -- which it was.
I re-worked it, but it probably didn't get much better. In any event, I never sent it back to him, that initial review was imposition enough on my part.
The idea you have of tracing the Red and Black Rivers to their sources has compelling promise. It reminds me a bit of Apocalypse Now/Heart of Darkness. It also reminds me of a novel by a Vietnam veteran/novelist/attorney that I know named Alfredo Vea. His novel is called: god's go begging -- all lower case. I don't know why.
The poem you read references a very tragic event I encountered while on patrol in an area along the South China Sea. On Easter Morning we encountered a dead Vietnamese woman, her dead daughter and her critically wounded son -- who was about six years old. These poor people were blown apart probably by random shots of American artillery (called "harassment and interdicting fire ") or less likely, by a Viet Cong mine. It was so very, very sad.
Thank you for reading my stuff and for your intelligent commentary.
I trust that we are friends again?
Mac
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This is a dismal illustration of an early morning and a very sad subject to write about. Some people just take their mornings for granted without thinking that a lot of our soldiers out there wakes up to another day of death and fear. Some of these brave ones don't even have the privilege of sleep when you mentioned "we moved like cats from night to day". I just learned what "qui nhon" and "aubade" means today and that made this poem affect me more. Aubade as a song of lovers evoking dawn or simply a song evoking daybreak makes me think if this poem portrays the song of farewell to the dead and at the same time it sings the melody of hope for a new day. Thank you for this entry.
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Thank you
Your understanding of the poem is sensitive and comprehending. Thanks again. I see the light within you.
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