Poems by Joel Poudrier | Philip Metres

The following are a selection of poems written by Joel Poudrier, USMC, during tours of duty.

Americans in Spain

Soldiers of the nation

let the day wash by

like a swirl of white the water feels

in the glassy pressure the waves reveal.

The picture fades like a paper drifts

into a view we can't resist.

In a clash of living

we let the stone walls fall,

never listening to the nature cry

that a brotherhood should never die.

And when it rains, is the water clear

or does it sadly disappear?

All the beauty

in a Spanish countryside

makes the silence seem

like an eternity.

When will they listen

to the words that never have to be

spoken to be understood?

It's a miracle

we've come to last this long,

grown to be this strong.

And when the Spanish night conceals the fields

are they still as close

or do the lights seem like

a dream we've lost?

Passing courtyards

we can see the ancient style

but is the style we see the fingertip

of a classic hand, or just a trip

to the places where the sights begin

and the wine is sweeter

than her Spanish eyes?

In the morning

when we awake from the night before

do we watch the sea spread

on the Spanish shore?

Or does it wash away

and the walls fall down

on our floating heads

as the sun envelopes the yellow fields

where sunflowers sway

and farmers pray for the rains to come?

                -8 July 1989

We placed paper beanies

on our dirty heads

in respect for their synagogue.

The old, sunken Jew

smiled unevenly as we took them

one by one

our cameras in the other hand.

Some laughed quietly beneath the breaths

they took in this holy place

where Mary began

her eternal rest.

Some stared at the intricate red

and golden veil of the Torah.

I looked back

at the steady age

of the old Jew.

He smiled a little younger

then I realized

that we were all

completely silent.

                -17 July 1989

                Haifa, Israel

Haifa sits like a distant Christmas tree.

The hills are like hands of never-ending strength.

The roads are like scars on creased skin.

The rocks are shattered glass.

The buildings are like strong, confident eyes.

                The past few days were spent

                firing rounds at stones,

                                hills

                                roads

                                and chipped, concrete buildings.

In the water the ship doesn't move.

The waves pass into the sea.

The soldier reads a letter from home.

We have fought the land

and our enemies were never real.

Maybe this is the gift

below Haifa's sacred lights.

                -28 July 1989

                -to Cpl  Mark Slatton, USMC

Let's go out as friends

and drink until we're brothers

and float across the streets

like fish.

We'll swim into bars

mixing with the music

and wall to wall buzz

of ignorant laughter.

We'll sit high in cafés

along the shore as the sea melts in

and feel the breeze and watch

the crowds walk by and wish

they knew how pure

we want to be.

We'll laugh

  and unashamed we'll cry

    to release the pain

      only getting drunk can purge.

We'll reminisce as to why

we became soldiers

and the brotherhood will seem

so much closer with each drink.

Our deaths will seem so noble

now that we're high

and we'll talk softly

of how our friends will mourn us

and how the ones who never even knew us

will miss us when we're gone.

We'll make vows of everlasting faith

to each other, pledges of everlasting trust

with our fermented blood.

Then we'll swim back to the hotel

and slur our tired minds until our words

grow deep and distant.

We'll fight against the night,

too close to let it go.

                -30 July 1989

                Tel Aviv, Israel

Your reflection in the mirror

looks so much purer

than the you that I touch.

I see myself behind you

with my deep eyes

contemplating the abstraction

of sweet music that I heard on Mt. Zion,

a hum that spread

like morning sunlight in the replica

of the room where Jesus

had his last supper.

I stood on a crumbling ledge

trying to take a picture of their circle

and ancient columns

while the Jews sang meditatively

in an aura of forgiveness.

I wanted to be inside their circle

but my flash made them blink

and I

slipped back to the floor.

Outside, the heat pressed me

and the walls of Old Jerusalem

were like one giant shadow.

I might have been swallowed

in the blending of its cracks

if it hadn't been for the Arab boy

saying,

                "Fordy pustcard, un dolla."

I handed him the money

then felt the weak texture of the postcards'

damage.

Some of the pictures were stripped away

or rubbed away

and I realized it was from the constant

sweat of the boy's hand.

Turning for the bus

I wished to hear

the Jewish song one more time,

to let it descent on me

like the cool air from the air conditioning vents.

Now in Tel Aviv,

rubbing the water from my hair,

ready to leave this hotel

and swim into the cafe lights along the shore

I see two people

and realize

there was Heaven in their circle of song

and purity

in the sweat of the boy's hand.

                -20 August, 1989

Below the road

on a level more constant

with the wounded tongue of the Nile

circled by falling walls

is the City

of the Dead.

Empty buildings

roofless, naked

asleep in their own disuse

crumbled side by side

seeming to splice in their hollowness.

Years ago, Egyptian families

spent weeks visiting,

living above the rot of loved ones

sunken in the chasm

of dry sand.

I wonder what the children dreamt?

Did they feel suspended

or pressed

above grandmother's solid eternity?

Did a wind sift a sickening smell

above their restlessness

and reveal images of themselves

in a Latin

sleep of death?

                1 September, 1989

                -Alexandria, Egypt

                29 August, 1989

Waiting in the mess line

I heard two marines talking,

                "She'd locked herself in a car,"

one said with a stuck smile,

                "and cut her wrist.

                 A crowd of Egyptians

                  were around her

                 trying to get inside."

"Did they get her out?" asked the other

with a deep vee in his brow,

like a vulture descending

on a swollen corpse.

                "I don't know.

                 There wasn't much blood though

                   and she only sliced

                  one wrist."

That's when I trailed off

clamping their voices behind the heat of my head

thinking,

what did you do—

stand there in the crowd

watching her white face

sink

into the City of the Dead?

I saw myself

ripping off my blue shirt

wrapping it around my fist

and shattering the car's side window.

The glass  would spray inside.

The sound would surge

like screams surge

in nightmares.

And she would look at me

silent, still

   uncomprehending

     with no gratitude

wishing I had stood in the crowd,

wishing I were dirty

 and poor

  and weak.

3 September, 1989

The rain is sweeping on this day

and there you stand, shaking a finger at me,

saying it isn't right, it's a sin.

Upon the rise sits the castle's gray body

overlooking the sea

(which holds no comfort for me).  You begin

madly walking the cobblestones to the broken gate

so you can swim through the bars

                before it's too late.

I'll turn-in and listen to my soiled friends

proclaim a false salvation; watch them dodge

reality with eyes that roll

                into my soul.

But first, I stand here alone, as the sky sends

another sting into my eyes, watching you

disappear into the madding crowd.

                16 October, 1989