All-Office Party

Well, we've pulled out all the stops to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Arem Arvinson Log today, the 20th of November, 2010. The party here at the home office is one for the record books and I hear that things in our overseas bureaus are totally out of hand.

Hope you'll take a few minutes to browse around the archives, scan down the list of labels on the right, see if there's something of interest. I hope too, that I am not unreasonably proud of this body of work.

Incidentally, I want to reiterate just how much I appreciate the comments that many of you have left, from time to time. I understand what a hassle it is to leave a comment at all, but as soon as I try to peel away a layer of hassle, I am inundated with machine-generated spam comments, offering everything from poetry publishing to Viagra to, well . . .Spam.

Thanks for looking in. I'll continue to try to publish a few items worthy of your attention.

~ Ralph Murre

fiction, mostly

Weak Link

No stronger the chain,
they would say,
as they cast their glances
his way, the chances
that he would not be weakest
never even considered
as he frittered away
what they called their honor,
these colonels and better
from the 1800’s ‘til today.
Every silence, every wheel
turning against him
at the family table,
he enlisted in the fray.
Every cell of his cells
resisted his decision,
as the single-bar lieutenant’s
division went to war.
His Echo Company landed
amid sporadic blasts
on the first hot day
and by December
every ember of his pride
had darkened,
every platoon sergeant
and squad leader
hoped to frag him,
but he moved them,
against orders,
to a village
at the unseen gravel border,
where an air-strike
had been called on an emir.
There are children,
There are children,
he kept calling to the airmen,
There are children.
We’re going in.

It was friendly fire
that claimed him,
from a patriot PFC,
but the bombing was averted,
and the emir, if he was there,
and the children,
one more day,
went free.

~ Ralph Murre

As the heading of this post says: fiction, mostly. It's Veteran's Day. I've never been to war, having served less than half-heartedly in the National Guard back at a time (1965-1971) when our unit had about the same clout as a Brownie troop. Still, this poem came to me. If anyone feels that I am WAY OFF in representing what might have happened in that sort of situation (allowing for a bit of poetic license) I'll be glad to see your comments.

TRUE

A Few True Things

North, of course,
and blue,
which can’t be argued.
(Though I’ve never trusted black
and white, the supposed
absence of color,
or presence of all.)
Thirty-two degrees seems a truth
if you’re a fan of Fahrenheit,
zero, if you’re not.
There’s even a truth serum,
and true love has been reported,
but not a lot.
The ivory-billed woodpecker
is said to exist.
No great auks left, I guess;
not many little old ladies
driving to church.
Pontiac's gone.
Politicians aren’t
on this list.

~ Ralph Murre