Born Toulouse?

art of  henri de toulouse-lautrec

the thing about sad songs --

-- they make me so happy

~ Emmylou Harris

What is it, I wonder, that makes us love the blues, the sad country ballad,  the somebody done somebody wrong song, the dark forces of pulling apart?  Sure, I'm talking about song-writers, poets, and artists -- we're the worst, I suppose, but is anybody rushing out to buy totally happy music?  To buy novels or see movies without any conflict or struggle?

A lot of people, though, seem to be able to see the flick, get their safe dose of tragicomedy, and go home.  Is it only those of us striving to be creative who turn our lives, and those of people around us, into little operas?  I know people who appear to be continually happy, and it seems to me they must be running on some alternative fuel to the stuff I burn.  I fear, sometimes, that the urge to tell a good story gets all mixed up with living a life that makes a good story.  The problems really seem to arise when the tales of our existence are winding down and we try to get to a "happily ever after" line.  I keep writing, but some days I feel I'm getting farther from that ending .

   ~ 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.

May Day

After the thaw,
grass greens its blades to meet the mower,
daughters are raised, prom goers
in pinned-on flowers wilt from the nearness
of over-hot hours and days.
Sons, their hearts (and they have them)
swollen, like rivers, are unable to ever
go back, as haze lifts, descends.
Fair-weather friends smile
while plans are made and deserts storm
just over flag-draped horizons.
Now airports at night receive
flights of sun-filled boxes
and docks on the bay feel the sway
of tide on tide and May after May.

A few ships come in, there,
below the blue hills
and the gaze of gray foxes.

~ Ralph Murre

bang!

Part of the Deal

was that you owed a good death.
Whether you were a good guy
or not, you had to die right.
If I came out from behind
something and pointed my finger
and said bang! before you did
and cried gotcha, you might
say no y’didn’t or gotcha
first y’dirty Nazi,
but in the end, we all had to die
with awful groaning and kicking
and many spasms and rolling
back of eyeballs and ultimately,
as anybody who’s ever seen
a dead guy knows, the tongue
must protrude, skewed
from a corner of the bluish lips.
And then, you had to stay
really still and painfully contorted
‘til you got bored and came back
to fight again or play red rover.
But it was not part of the deal
in the bang-you’re-dead wars
of South Sixth Street
that you got your balls shot off
or came back to play
wheelchair red rover.
Nobody on our street said
bang-you’re-screwed-up-for-life
the way it happened when some
of us fought on other streets.
No amputees on Sixth.
No psych ward on Ohio Avenue.

- Ralph Murre

"Part of the Deal" was first published in The Cliffs Soundings and has subsequently appeared in my book Crude Red Boat (Cross+Roads Press) and in Wisconsin People & Ideas magazine.

Looking Up

LOOKING UP

Does the sky today
with its twelve cranes
neatly folded and calling
in gourd-throated rattles
look something like the sky
on that Friday I was born?

That day in 1944
our 386th bomber squadron
accidentally
hit a house in Belgium.

Was anyone home?
That’s important to know.
Were they aware
it was The Good War?
’cause that’s important to know.
And will folding a thousand cranes
really bring peace?
That’s important to know.

—Ralph Murre

first appeared in the Museletter of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets

Dangerous Machinery

in remembrance . . .

A Brief History of Our Products

Admittedly,

there were times of dangerous machinery.

Inquire of a Native American.

Ask a Jew.

Maybe a Cambodian could fill you in.

A Tutsi, if you can find one,

might know a little about it.

And do ask around when you're in Dresden

or Hiroshima.

Things used to get out of hand.

But you can relax now,

the new model is vastly improved,

(Dozens of changes for 2009!)

and we do not expct anyn prbolems.

*^x^xxzzt

Jsuttt st. bacccck & rlx. ax.xxxzt***Lax

~ Ralph Murre

hol⋅o⋅caust 
–noun
1.
a great or complete devastation or destruction, esp. by fire.
2.
a sacrifice completely consumed by fire; burnt offering.
3.
(usually initial capital letter) the systematic mass slaughter of European Jews in Nazi concentration camps during World War II (usually prec. by the).
4.
any mass slaughter or reckless destruction of life.

of pick-ups and prostheses

It’s not like I know you or anything,
but right now, I’ll bet you’re hoping
this is going to be the kind of poem
that talks about riding in the back
of my daddy’s Ford pick-up,
or the kind of poem that’s
about the peculiar odor
of my maiden aunt’s bedroom.
I’ll bet you’re really hoping
this will be about the way
autumn leaves remind me
of love in the woods, or
the way lying in a hammock
with you would be perfect (but, as I said.
it’s not like I know you or anything).
And, ohmygod, I’ll bet
you’re really, really hoping
this is NOT a poem about
the horrors of war, because
where in the hell is the poem in that?
Perhaps you’re hoping
it won’t be a poem at all,
maybe it will be a church bulletin
or a discount store flyer and
maybe it won’t be the poem
that mentions wars
and death and bad presidents
and shining prostheses.

Maybe, sometime,
it won’t be that poem.

- Ralph Murre

sputzies

the species of sputzies

(as the birds were known there)

would shit on your car,

would shit in your hair.

their music-less chirping

would go on all day,

as they'd perch in the barn

and shit in the hay.

the species of sputzies

(as english sparrows were called)

would shit in mid-air,

would shit on the bald.

we'd shoot 'em with bb's

and with slings and with arrows,

for we were young marksmen

and they were just sparrows.

the species of sputzies

(who just weren't very pretty)

were clouds over farms

and great swirls in the city.

they were good fun to shoot

and we had to learn killing,

for we'd enlist very soon

and we'd draft the unwilling.

the species of sputzies

(as we came home under flags)

still flew in great number

and we, in plain boxes,

slept underground slumber.

the hunted still fly

and the hunters still die,

and still,

the cold ground waits for summer.

- Ralph Murre

Somewhere

December in Colonia del Sacramento, Uraguay

somewhere a flower blooms

while somewhere a bulb holds life frozen

somewhere there is dancing

while somewhere a bomb ends the music

somewhere there is laughter

and our little planet spins night into day

and wobbles so slightly

from the weight of tears

and the lightness of joy

- Ralph Murre

Brothers

Suppose for a minute we are brothers, you and I. Suppose our mother has been attacked by a terrible disease. In the course of fighting the illness, our mother has become addicted to the drug which was prescribed to cure her. Now imagine that one of us feels that the medicine is doing her more harm than the disease and is struggling to get her off of the drug, while the other is convinced that she will surely die if she stops taking her medication, and fights to keep her taking it. Can we say that one of us loves his mother more?

- RM

Shall We Remember?

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In Memoriam

Shall we remember the believers
and forget their beliefs –
the isms and schisms and pledges
and pride, the presidents,
ayatollahs, and chiefs –
which can’t be denied?

Shall we honor only the fallen
and forget those who kneel,
praying to find some way to heal,
forget those who thought
“thou shalt not kill” was for real,
those who, unarmed, have also fought?

Shall we gather at tombs
of the heroic enlisted
as we stand on the graves
of the unsung, who resisted?
Shall we weep for the masters?
Shall we weep for the slaves?

Shall we weep for the meek
as we weep for the braves?

- Ralph Murre

ink and blood

Black River

This black river flow of nightmare night
like wartime ink and blood –
dark headlines and blind alleys
and allies blinded too –
in their >Yes, George< wet t-shirts
warm as death and prayers
like Now I lay me down
and if I should wake
oh please, if I should wake
let this have been my dream
and make the morning bright
a laughing mountain stream
and end this blackened char of night
where sacrificial lambs
lose sacrificial limbs
and they’re bleeding in the aisles
singing patriotic hymns
and they all are in the headlines
oh please, bring up the light
and stop
this black river flow of nightmare night.

- Ralph Murre

oh, please . . .

Won’t You

send us an image of peace, they say
send us some words of peace

- but I’m only 63 and haven’t seen much

tell us how the fighting will stop
tell us how a father can sleep
how the hawk and dove will fly in love
and how manna, not bombs, will drop

- but I really haven’t seen much

send us an image of peace today
send us some words of peace
surely you know to which gods to pray
to make all the craziness cease

- but I’m only 63 and haven’t seen much

except for the look in a child’s eye
and lovers on river banks in spring
and I think you could melt tanks for ploughshares
and you could teach someone to sing

- but I really haven’t seen much

I guess maybe you find it within
maybe you let the peace out and
maybe it spreads around that way
and you forget what fighting’s about

- but I’m a dreamer and haven’t seen much

- Ralph Murre

Gone Blind

* * *

Justice! they cry
save me from it, sez I
or I and my kind
would swing in the breeze
and a lonely trumpet play
and the thingies would
tug at our flesh
‘til sometime late in the day
if anyone knew
that we weren’t on our knees
begging spirits in the sky
begging please
let us try
one more time
for courage, for courage

Let us try
one more time
for courage

For I and my kind
by choice have gone blind
and our names
are signed to the checks
and our names are in the desert
of oil and blood
and our spirits
are dragged through the mud
as Old Glory waves
and we salute the ones
who send children
salute, and dig graves
for our children
Let us try
one more time
for courage

* * *

- Ralph Murre

B & W

In Black and White

Like keys of ebony above the ivory’s glow
in the bright of a single spot, and
like the raven who scratches morning’s snow,
I play a somber tune.

Like wartime headlines screaming loss
in 48-point bold atop the page, and
like the black-dressed widow darning socks,
her chair and basket the only props;
this white-washed street the stage
where a leading man once stood,
I play a somber tune.

Sunlight and time may bleach the notes
and fade them from the page,
but ‘til there’s light in this dark mood,
I play a somber tune.

- Ralph Murre

No Pretty Picture

There'll be no pretty picture accompanying this last post of 2006, just the plea that you go over and read the Friday, December 29th entry at "Baghdad Burning", http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/ .

I would love to see us all have a Happy New Year, but that will be impossible for so many. Do I think that is all the fault of us Americans or the Damned W. ? No, of course it is not that simple, but we have played a giant's part in making things what they are today, whether by design or staggering ignorance, or both. We ALL KNOW that the real reason for this war was that George Sr. had unfinished business with Saddam, who was quite certainly an evil man. "W" had to protect the family's honor. Now that Saddam has left us, Texas-style, can we find a way to mend broken eggs? Can we at least begin healing in 2007? Blessed are the peace makers, as it is written; let us deserve that blessing.

- Ralph Murre

Introspect

Eleven, Eleven

When serious November strikes deep scars
into chicken soup can Warhol souls
and limping veterans of endless wars
fire salutes to motherhood and political goals,
look within.

When the last of Summer’s fleecy clouds have past
and the gray ground freezes over graves,
when slaves are dreaming “Free at Last”,
and when the chief fails to mourn his fallen braves,
look within.

When you hear “don’t raise your sons to be cowboys”,
or “don’t take your guns to town”,
or when the crying won’t drown the noise
of another soldier stumbling down,
look within.

- Ralph Murre

Memorial

Is it time yet? Time to head out to the graveyard with a few geraniums; our dues to deaths well died, if not lives well lived?

. . . yeah, here's a geranium, got a good price on it at wal-mart - specials all over but they still had the best price - thanks a lot, by the way, for diein' & all - diein' for the U.S.A. - at least you can feel good about that. christ, how'd you feel if you died for nam, or germany, or japan, or goddam france, or some fucked-up desert full of oil for chrissake? that'd be a bummer. oh yeah, forgot that your kid's over there now. well, gotta go - three day week-end & all - goin' back down to wal-mart to buy a new grille. everyday low prices, man. yeah, it's made in china, but that's how it goes. looks like i'll have to get more geraniums next year. holy shit. florists must be cleanin' up, man . . .

Just One More

Go, my children, fight the fight.
What right have we to live
without killing, what right
the unwilling to stand
in front of rolling tanks,
no thanks offered to gods of war
and banks? No donations
to defense contractors? We
need these arms, not farms
and food, not tractors
and schools. What’s the point
of education? Shoot first,
then interrogation, that’s the order,
that’s the way old John Wayne
taught us – brought us through
bad times on silver screens.
Movie queens await the victors.
Football games and Jordache jeans.

Go, my children, fight the fight.
What right have we to throw wrenches
in history books? Let them write
of death’s stenches, the glories
of amputations, and reparations
to those who need them least.
Go now, feed the beast
that swims on tears, what fears
are worth a hero’s worry?
And hurry, don’t miss the chance
to be heroes – standing tall
on a returning flight, or at night,
lying under flags, the way
so many heroes do their flying.
Yes kids, it’ll be a better world,
stars and stripes unfurled, everywhere.
One more war should do it.
Your kids could get us there.

- Ralph Murre

Blameless?

I keep hoping that some of my old rants will become passe, but the wheels turn exceeding slow. Here's one from about a year ago :

Blame Less

It’s just too damned easy to blame George W. Bush for the war, too damned easy to blame him for all of our problems. What is he but the figurehead under the bowsprit of our capitalism, under the headsail of our greed?

It’s money that steers our ship and oil that floats it. The sea of oil is going dry and money doesn’t know where to turn. We have a hard time thinking how to save the sea, so we think in terms of carving a new figurehead.

It is not George W. Bush, or his pals in OPEC, forcing us to drive where we could walk, forcing me to ride my motorcycle where I could ride my bicycle; it is not Ford Motor Company forcing you to take your Expedition where you could take your Focus.

Will there be enough fuel left for the ambulance to haul my exercise-hating butt to the hospital?

Should I drive 40 miles to work out at the Y?

Easy, too, to lay blame for the difficulties on states whose people voted a couple per cent differently than our own; “What could those idiots be thinking?”. They must be fools, right, those people who believe in something other than men, something other than politicians? Why, some of them even suggest that there may be a (G)od. Simply inferior beings, those folks from other-colored states.

Easy to see there are no problems here in our blue-nosed, blue-blooded, blue-stockinged regions – well, none we can’t solve with money.

Sail on, Banker! Steady as she goes! Only the blameless aboard our stout vessel. Let us fly a blue flag from the main topmast, for guiltless are we, we men of the open sea! Look smart there, Sailor! Wipe that oil from your boot!

The lookout tells of dangerous shoals ahead – shall we listen, instead, to that sharply-chiseled face at the prow, the gilded wood we’ve elected?

Buffy Ste. Marie (about 40 years ago) said, “ Blame the Indians/ Blame the Fates/ Blame the Jews or your Sister Kate/ Teach your children who to hate/ and the big wheel goes around, ‘round.”

Sail on, oh Ship of State! We’re just the crew; here to take orders and eat our ration.

No one to blame here.

- Ralph Murre