Điện Biên Phủ Cemetery
"All that is transitory is but a metaphor." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The dead understand blood should not be
the world’s favorite metaphor.
September 2012, Year of the Water Dragon,
two mates and I visit old battlefields
siege of Ðien Biên Phu, 1954.
Waterloo deja vu, repercussions relentless,
French withdrawal from Indochina,
American War in Vietnam. I'm here
on a lifelong quest to understand why
human beings go to war and why I volunteered
to come to this haunted land,
Year of the Monkey, 1968.
Valley-floor rice paddies ready for harvest
verdant hillsides planted with maize
idyllic visions of Shangri-la
not yet discovered by KFC or Pizza Hut.
I am sobered. I wouldn't have been exposed to
all this poignant splendor were it not
for the thousands who perished here.
Sara Teasdale once wrote that beauty more than bitterness
causes the heart to break. For years I thought
she was wrong, now I understand.
Pain makes the heart vulnerable,
beauty does the rest.
In the center of town, the cemetery.
Evergreen shrubs trimmed topiary perfect
immaculately-manicured lawns
Viet Minh dead by the hundreds
mostly tombs of the unknown
each with blue ceramic vase
joss sticks smoky fragrant
only four graves bear names.
All the other headstones just blank granite
gold stars within red circles, nothing else.
Some bear rudely-chiseled names on the reverse
inscribed by relatives seeking resolution
hiring clairvoyants to find loved one's
earthly residuum, pain enduring long
after last contorted body falls to muddy ground.
The dead remember. I do too.
by Founding Poet Paul Hellweg Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in Gargoyle 2016
"All that is transitory is but a metaphor." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The dead understand blood should not be
the world’s favorite metaphor.
September 2012, Year of the Water Dragon,
two mates and I visit old battlefields
siege of Ðien Biên Phu, 1954.
Waterloo deja vu, repercussions relentless,
French withdrawal from Indochina,
American War in Vietnam. I'm here
on a lifelong quest to understand why
human beings go to war and why I volunteered
to come to this haunted land,
Year of the Monkey, 1968.
Valley-floor rice paddies ready for harvest
verdant hillsides planted with maize
idyllic visions of Shangri-la
not yet discovered by KFC or Pizza Hut.
I am sobered. I wouldn't have been exposed to
all this poignant splendor were it not
for the thousands who perished here.
Sara Teasdale once wrote that beauty more than bitterness
causes the heart to break. For years I thought
she was wrong, now I understand.
Pain makes the heart vulnerable,
beauty does the rest.
In the center of town, the cemetery.
Evergreen shrubs trimmed topiary perfect
immaculately-manicured lawns
Viet Minh dead by the hundreds
mostly tombs of the unknown
each with blue ceramic vase
joss sticks smoky fragrant
only four graves bear names.
All the other headstones just blank granite
gold stars within red circles, nothing else.
Some bear rudely-chiseled names on the reverse
inscribed by relatives seeking resolution
hiring clairvoyants to find loved one's
earthly residuum, pain enduring long
after last contorted body falls to muddy ground.
The dead remember. I do too.
by Founding Poet Paul Hellweg Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in Gargoyle 2016
Bio: Paul Hellweg is the Founder of this VietnamWarPoetry.com website.
For more info, please see his bio on the About Us page and on his Bio / War Poetry page.
PaulHellweg.com PaulHellweg.com/poetry
For more info, please see his bio on the About Us page and on his Bio / War Poetry page.
PaulHellweg.com PaulHellweg.com/poetry
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Westerly, Rhode Island, USA