Three years after my father's
final deployment to the Gulf of Tonkin
In first grade we spent our free time drawing
on big sheets of soft urine-colored paper
the kind that would tear with no sound
like a piece of American cheese--
it would even muffle the sound of the pencil
darkening the page.
The other girls drew houses and people
I and the boys drew planes
dropping bombs. Were there people
on the ground? I just remember the difficulty
of drawing good planes. Because we were
drawing them from another pilot's point of view--
you saw the side of the plane, the cockpit,
and the bombs squeezing out the rear
like turds—but how to show the wings?
The wings were even worse than
the girls' task of drawing feet and noses.
by Contributing Poet Ann Quinn Copyright © 2015
VWP 2016 First published in Bethesda Literary Festival contest
for a year after winning 1st prize 2015
Antiphon: Catonsville Nine, a soldier
The group spoke individually
I overheard a reference to me as a baby-killer
during the 10-minute burning period
we were met with protesters at the gate
about their objections to warfare and social injustices
with a barrage of tomatoes
They also joined hands in a semi-circle and repeated the Lord's prayer
in both the Seattle airport & the Denver airport I was spat upon
accompanied by licking flames.
Catonsville Times, May 1968
Sgt. David E. McCray, Vietnam veteran
by Contributing Poet Ann Quinn Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Navy Junior
Lemoore, California, 1967
1. Digging to China
Days we play indoors,
away from the heat and smog.
Evenings, I climb the jungle gym
my father put together
Like a big sturdy
Tinkertoy.
I dig in the backyard sand
with a spoon.
Digging to China
my mother says.
the grown-ups talk about
Indo-China
where the fathers are now.
I dig harder.
2. First Stitches
My beloved rocking horse
on springs, a bucking bronco.
Grandmother watching us
while mother joins father
in Japan, the carrier docked
for two weeks.
(What a strange thing is a war
that you can take a vacation from.)
I rear back into a brick
garden wall.
The warm blood, grandmother
frantic, the ether,
the black stitches
painless.
by Contributing Poet Ann Quinn Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
final deployment to the Gulf of Tonkin
In first grade we spent our free time drawing
on big sheets of soft urine-colored paper
the kind that would tear with no sound
like a piece of American cheese--
it would even muffle the sound of the pencil
darkening the page.
The other girls drew houses and people
I and the boys drew planes
dropping bombs. Were there people
on the ground? I just remember the difficulty
of drawing good planes. Because we were
drawing them from another pilot's point of view--
you saw the side of the plane, the cockpit,
and the bombs squeezing out the rear
like turds—but how to show the wings?
The wings were even worse than
the girls' task of drawing feet and noses.
by Contributing Poet Ann Quinn Copyright © 2015
VWP 2016 First published in Bethesda Literary Festival contest
for a year after winning 1st prize 2015
Antiphon: Catonsville Nine, a soldier
The group spoke individually
I overheard a reference to me as a baby-killer
during the 10-minute burning period
we were met with protesters at the gate
about their objections to warfare and social injustices
with a barrage of tomatoes
They also joined hands in a semi-circle and repeated the Lord's prayer
in both the Seattle airport & the Denver airport I was spat upon
accompanied by licking flames.
Catonsville Times, May 1968
Sgt. David E. McCray, Vietnam veteran
by Contributing Poet Ann Quinn Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Navy Junior
Lemoore, California, 1967
1. Digging to China
Days we play indoors,
away from the heat and smog.
Evenings, I climb the jungle gym
my father put together
Like a big sturdy
Tinkertoy.
I dig in the backyard sand
with a spoon.
Digging to China
my mother says.
the grown-ups talk about
Indo-China
where the fathers are now.
I dig harder.
2. First Stitches
My beloved rocking horse
on springs, a bucking bronco.
Grandmother watching us
while mother joins father
in Japan, the carrier docked
for two weeks.
(What a strange thing is a war
that you can take a vacation from.)
I rear back into a brick
garden wall.
The warm blood, grandmother
frantic, the ether,
the black stitches
painless.
by Contributing Poet Ann Quinn Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: Ann Quinn's father was a Navy pilot in Vietnam, 1966-1968, with VA-94 off the USS Hancock.
She is a writer, teacher and clarinetist, living in Catonsville, MD, with her family.
She is working towards an M.F.A. in poetry with the Rainier Writing Workshop
at Pacific Lutheran University. She won first prize in the 2015 Bethesda Literary
Festival Poetry Contest, judged by Stanley Plumly & has been a Pushcart Prize nominee.
She is a writer, teacher and clarinetist, living in Catonsville, MD, with her family.
She is working towards an M.F.A. in poetry with the Rainier Writing Workshop
at Pacific Lutheran University. She won first prize in the 2015 Bethesda Literary
Festival Poetry Contest, judged by Stanley Plumly & has been a Pushcart Prize nominee.
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