Maxine Hong Kingston’s sangha speaks

maxinehongkingstonThis coming Monday, with “Veterans Day Sales” all over the newspapers, most Americans observe Veterans Day with flags and parades, honoring men and women who have gone to war for the United States. These days, few recollect that the original name of the holiday was Armistice Day, in honor of the November 11, 1918 end of World War I, then called the “war to end all wars.”

One who has not forgotten is Maxine Hong Kingston, whose National Book Award-winning The Woman Warrior is a staple on college campuses and who garnered a Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters at last year’s National Book Awards. Kingston famously shifted gears in 1991 when her house burnt down in a devastating fire, and with it all trace of her book in progress. “I decided right then,” she said, “that my first book needed to be a book of peace.”

Not only that, but she needed for the new book to include the voice of veterans of war. “I had lost my writing,” Kingston told interviewer Miel Alegre, “and I wanted a community of writers around me. I asked that these people who would write with me be veterans or families of veterans because I wanted to ask the hardest questions: How do we come home from war? Can we end war? Can we end war that goes on in our very souls? And How do we make peace? These are the questions that I was asking as I was working on that lost book. What can one small individual do in this big world to have any effect?”

The result was The Fifth Book of Peace, which ends by narrating Kingston’s acclaimed veterans’ writing workshop, and a collection of work by its members, Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace. Below are three short poems by veterans from her workshop, followed by a reading by Kingston and three veterans at the Commonwealth Club in San Francisco. These voices form a strong counterpart to the veterans in Monday’s parades.

Sharon Lee Kufeldt, USAF, 1969-1971.

Sharon Lee Kufeldt, USAF, 1969-1971.

Ripples in the Pond

I drop a pebble into the vast pond

Ripples spread in all directions

Wrap around rocks
, twigs

Remnants reach the farthest shore

What ripples am I spreading today

With my intentions, 
zctions,
 words

Seeking peace for our world

Bombardments

Half the night up, spent as casings of brass, face it, we begin this way: there are no women, no satellite tv, no coca-cola, not even the sun, hidden as it is behind billowing black smoke. There is only an x on this map with an arrow pointing north to a line of scrimmage. This is simply a departure, demarcation of any sign of hope: caramel apples, wet grass, cotton candy, watermelons, laughter. We are year-worn, indrawn and compact. We are small, broken toys with maps and guns. I can remember my mother, I can’t imagine a father. I can’t write you because everything’s humming a new color, unfamiliar as childhood, a distant planet. I didn’t expect to escape. I had a blueprint, the life of a famous poet, picking cherries in June, fireworks over Penn’s Landing. Now I wake to the sleep of Lorca’s apples, walk through the meadow. This is just a place. These are just words flashing in the grass. To the north, there is the whine of distant jets and heavy bombardments. We must find a way between them.

The Phoenix Program

Fred Marchant, USMC 1967-1970.
Fred Marchant, USMC 1967-1970.

Afterwards, the children stood outside
the house of their birth
to witness how it too had to be punished.

When they came of age, they fled to the capital,
lost themselves in the study of history and great works of art,
graduated in swirling carmine robes.

Burdened with a knowledge that murderers
name their deeds after winged deities,
they dream for awhile of claws on the back,

but later they become certain there was
nothing they could have done.
And they are not alone.

It is like this throughout the city.
On each corner you can see them—
leaning as if the vanishing point on their horizon

were other than ours.
They speak quietly only to one another.
They play no instruments, and do not sing.

(Originally posted on Women’s Voices for Change.)

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and because it's still Poetry Friday

maria-and-gathering-words

Academically trained in German language and literature at Colby (BA), Tufts (MA), and Harvard (ABD), Maria Luisa Arroyo (www.marialuisaarroyo.com) is an educator, a single parent, a 2004 Massachusetts Cultural Council poetry grant recipient, a 2008 Massachusetts Unsung Heroine, a visual artist, and a self-taught poet. Her collections of poems include Gathering Words/Recogiendo Palabras (Bilingual Press, Tempe, AZ: June 2008). The poem below appeared in her self-published chapbook, Touching and Naming the Roots of This Tree (2007).

On Our Drive to North Haven

95 South and no signs to warn drivers of danger,

of deer attempting to cross this highway

as if deer were like the trees here-

too plentiful too many to matter.

The first doe we passed in the breakdown lane

had collapsed under thunder clouds.

The second sunk into the tar, the swollen tan

of her side a blur to the boys in the back seat,

who were whispering about John Cena, Batista,

the Undertaker’s possible return, wrestlers on TV

more real to them than the death of does.

95 South and no signs here either

to warn drivers of turtles trying to cross.

Far away, dark helmets or rounded tire scraps.

Up close, two turtles as the speeding car

in front of me swerved but still clipped

and flipped the second one onto its back,

its feet frantic for balance, for life.

So the instant the cream pickup veered

into my lane and almost hit the back of my car

where my son and his best friend sat,

I knew in those slow motion seconds

that it took for me to jerk the wheel to the left

and out of collision’s path, in those slow seconds

the boys yelled “Mom!” as the litany of swears

erupted out of my mouth and scared them more,

I knew that the does and the spinning turtles

were the missing signs of warning, of danger.

(Cross-post from Women’s Voices for Change.)

and because it's still Poetry Friday

maria-and-gathering-words

Academically trained in German language and literature at Colby (BA), Tufts (MA), and Harvard (ABD), Maria Luisa Arroyo (www.marialuisaarroyo.com) is an educator, a single parent, a 2004 Massachusetts Cultural Council poetry grant recipient, a 2008 Massachusetts Unsung Heroine, a visual artist, and a self-taught poet. Her collections of poems include Gathering Words/Recogiendo Palabras (Bilingual Press, Tempe, AZ: June 2008). The poem below appeared in her self-published chapbook, Touching and Naming the Roots of This Tree (2007).

On Our Drive to North Haven

95 South and no signs to warn drivers of danger,

of deer attempting to cross this highway

as if deer were like the trees here-

too plentiful too many to matter.

The first doe we passed in the breakdown lane

had collapsed under thunder clouds.

The second sunk into the tar, the swollen tan

of her side a blur to the boys in the back seat,

who were whispering about John Cena, Batista,

the Undertaker’s possible return, wrestlers on TV

more real to them than the death of does.

95 South and no signs here either

to warn drivers of turtles trying to cross.

Far away, dark helmets or rounded tire scraps.

Up close, two turtles as the speeding car

in front of me swerved but still clipped

and flipped the second one onto its back,

its feet frantic for balance, for life.

So the instant the cream pickup veered

into my lane and almost hit the back of my car

where my son and his best friend sat,

I knew in those slow motion seconds

that it took for me to jerk the wheel to the left

and out of collision’s path, in those slow seconds

the boys yelled “Mom!” as the litany of swears

erupted out of my mouth and scared them more,

I knew that the does and the spinning turtles

were the missing signs of warning, of danger.

(Cross-post from Women’s Voices for Change.)