David Wilson

David Willson served in Vietnam from January 20th, 1966--June 30th, 1967--an SP 5 when he left the Republic of South Vietnam. He works as a reference librarian at Green River Community College where he also acts a moderator of the Vietnam War Writers' Symposium, currently in its 10th year.

USARV* POEMS

*(U.S. Army, Republic of Vietnam)

The following poems, numbered 4, 8, 10 & 12 were written in Vietnam, September 1966--October 1967.

#4 FROGS SYMPATHY

I am not just sound but seeing too
I hear rock and roll on my electric can-opener
And violins from low-flying bats
I strain to read by lights yellow red green
From hovering helicopters
And to see geyser steam in spray hissing from
Trailered insect killer
I look up at shutters on second story windows
And wonder at our cranked tight jalousie love
I stare at sky and hear lizards and crickets
Accompanying radios

I watch bushes and buildings take on new darks
Familiar objects intensified by dusk
Troughs of speckling grey appear
Between banked but featherthin clouds
No stars but a few and dim
Above Tan Son Nhut

# 8 A FRAGMENT OF MEMORY--1965

When you've chased down alleyways Shall we have it over again
And cried at right angled darknesses-- At normal speeds?
Been taunted by madmen in garbage cans Let's lap dimples with our tongues
And jeered from tar paper roofs, Let's suck up swamp water with reeds
The springed resiliency of love And walk holding hands down dry
Has been tested past the test bobsled runs
Stretched beyond the strength innate Let's have it all over again
Forced beyond the forcing

#10 BONE IN THE SOIL

There is bone in this red soil
That points itself against the treads
of the fire machines

The soil that burns
is not rare earth
But of commonest variety

The blood that turns
To clay
Will remain earth

The soldiers come in the night
Burn the fish and rice
The soil they burn
Is not rare earth
But of commonest variety

The blood rain that falls on the machines
Falls on the soil too
The soil is red
The machines are becoming so:
Treads clay caked red
Bodies flaked metal red

It is not rare blood
That is turning
The machines to earth
But of commonest variety

The machines that turn to earth
The blood that turns to clay
Will remain
And clothe the bone
In this red soil

#12 ALMS FOR THE BURNED

An image of her keeps coming back
The bands of grief that bind her features
The grey disgrace of the letter
Written in a spidery script
Held out in a red rashy hand
held out to a man who pushes by
Annoyed at the touch
She's attempted to make of him.
But an image of her keeps coming back
Although it's shoved away
Again the taut pulled muscles
Of her cheeks
Again the red rash etched
Across her fingers
Spatter the time, the thought of the man
with a question of why
There is always the blame of the note
The suspicion of the man
That it's not the skillful
Act of a professional
Tagging alms from those susceptible to guilt
But a woman whose family were truly
Napalmed by Americans
As the note claims
It's not really, is it.

MY WAR DREAMS
(Written 6 October 1995)

Once in a while
I have Vietnam War dreams
That aren't about typing and filing.
I had one the other night,
And I awoke shaken,
Still scared from AK 47 fire
I'd never heard,
Still sickened by the blood
Of the dead buddies
I'd never known.
It took me a while
To figure out that I was safe
In my big house
In Maple Valley
Protected by my big mean dogs
And threatened only
By the images
Of war movies
I showed my class by day--
Images that came back
In the night to get me.
I'd give up watching war movies
If I thought
That would help me sleep
Through each night.