Song of Napalm

Poems

Bruce Weigl

• Publisher: Atlantic Monthly Press
• Year: 1991
• Print ISBN: 9780871134714
• eBook ISBN: 9780802195173
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

This collection of poems by Vietnam veteran Bruce Weigl provides "a searing memento of the war that refuses to be forgotten" ( San Francisco Chronicle ). " Song of Napalm is more than a collection of beautifully wrought, heart-wrenching and often very funny poems. It's a narrative, the story of an American innocent's descent into hell and his excruciating return to life on the surface. Weigl may have written the best novel so far about the Vietnam War, and along the way a dozen truly memorable poems." —Russell Banks " Song of Napalm is one of the best books of any genre about the war—and about human endurance." — The Kansas City Star "Weigl bears true witness to the reality of war, and his work takes its place alongside the strongest war poetry of this century." — The Hudson Review "Reading these poems I am struck with something close to awe for the resilienceof the human body and the human heart. I canonly compare Song of Napalm with the remarkable poetry of Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves. I cherish Bruce Weigl's poetry as a great gift." —Larry Heinemann, author of Paco's Story

I
SAILING TO BIEN HOA

“Out of the horror there rises a musical ache that is beautiful…”

—James Wright

SAILING TO BIEN HOA

In my dream of the hydroplane

I’m sailing to Bien Hoa

the shrapnel in my thighs

like tiny glaciers.

I remember a flower,

a kite, a mannequin playing the guitar,

a yellow fish eating a bird, a truck

floating in urine, a rat carrying a banjo,

a fool counting the cards, a monkey praying,

a procession of whales, and far off

two children eating rice,

speaking French—

I’m sure of the children,

their damp flutes,

the long line of their vowels.

GIRL AT THE CHU LAI LAUNDRY

All this time I had forgotten.

My miserable platoon was moving out

one day in the war and I had my clothes in the laundry.

I ran the two dirt miles,

convoy already forming behind me. I hit

the block of small hooches and saw her

twist out the black rope of her hair in the sun.

She did not look up at me,

not even when I called to her for my clothes.

She said I couldn’t have them,

they were wet …

Who would’ve thought the world stops

turning in the war, the tropical heat like hate

and your platoon moves out without you,

your wet clothes piled

at the feet of the girl at the laundry,

beautiful with her facts.

THE WAY OF TET

Year of the monkey, year of the human wave,

the people smuggled weapons in caskets through the city

in long processions undisturbed

and buried them in Saigon graveyards.

At the feet of their small Buddhas

weary bar girls burned incense

before the boy soldiers arrived

to buy them tea and touch them

where they pleased. Twenty years

and the feel of a girl’s body

so young there’s no hair

is like a dream, but living is a darker thing,

the iron burning bee who drains the honey,

and he remembers her

twisting in what evening

light broke into the small room in the shack

in the labyrinth of shacks

in the alley where the lost and corrupted kept house.

He undressed her for the last time,

each piece of clothing

a sacrifice she surrendered to the war

the way the world had become.

Tomorrow blood would run in every province.

Tomorrow people would rise from tunnels everywhere

and resurrect something ancient from inside them,

and the boy who came ten thousand miles to touch her

small self lies beside the girl whose words he can’t understand,

their song a veil between them.

She is a white bird in the bamboo, fluttering.

She is so small he imagines

he could hold all of her

in his hands and lift her to the black

sky beyond the illumination round’s white light

where she would fly from her life

and the wounds from the lovers would heal,

the broken skin grow back.

But he need only touch her, only

lift the blanket from her shoulders

and the automatic shape of love unfolds,

the flare’s light burning down on them,

lost in a wave that arrives

after a thousand years of grief

at their hearts.

TEMPLE NEAR QUANG TRI, NOT ON THE MAP

Dusk, the ivy thick with sparrows

squawking for more room

is all we hear; we see

birds move on the walls of the temple

shaping their calligraphy of wings.

Ivy is thick in the grottoes,

on the moon-watching platform

and ivy keeps the door from fully closing.

The point man leads us and we are

inside, lifting

the white washbowl, the smaller bowl

for rice, the stone lanterns

and carved stone heads that open

above the carved faces for incense.

But even the bamboo sleeping mat

rolled in the corner,

even the place of prayer, is clean.

And a small man

sits legs askew in the shadow

the farthest wall casts

halfway across the room.

He is bent over, his head

rests on the floor and he is speaking something

as though to us and not to us.

The CO wants to ignore him;

he locks and loads and fires a clip into the walls

which are not packed with rice this time

and tells us to move out.

But one of us moves towards the man,

curious about what he is saying.

We bend him to sit straight

and when he’s nearly peaked

at the top of his slow uncurling

his face becomes visible, his eyes

roll down to the charge

wired between his teeth and the floor.

The sparrows

burst off the walls into the jungle....

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication Page
• Contents
• I. Sailing to Bien Hoa
• II. Song of Napalm
• III. The Kiss