a gentle poem Max I like the trailing along of points perhaps rather a lot
of I's??bests P
-----Original Message-----
From: Max Richards
Sent: Wednesday, April 27, 2016 12:57 AM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: 'Anzac Day, Seattle'
Anzac Day, Seattle
How good, to rise early,
slip out the door, head
down before sunrise
to the gathering place
near the lake edge,
knowing nobody here.
Vaguely pious, I’m
of a generation
spared war itself.
Uncles had known it -
France, Gallipoli -
told nephews nothing.
Second War - a cousin
or two; safe at school, I.
Dad in Home Guard boots
practiced First Aid, changed,
went off to lawn-bowls.
High-school teachers - some
had been at the War;
quietly now drilled the school
cadet battalion wryly.
Us? - conscripted at eighteen
to Camp to play at soldiers
through a slow summer.
Instructors knew Korea.
We were just America’s
little helpers, as once
Britain’s. The next war
would be nuclear.
Wrong. Vietnam.
A student of mine -
Melbourne this was -
conscripted, turned
objector, suffered
Army discipline.
Washington, Canberra,
wouldn’t give peace a chance.
Some took to the streets,
desperate, ineffectual,
till Saigon fell.
They were years when
Anzac Day made no sense.
Now I’m old, perspective
and a little reading
suggests two public days
sharing sadness, not
mere patriotism:
11th November,
think of Wilfred Owen.
25th April - especially
now we’re joined by Turks.
Even so remote a town
as American Seattle
brings together three sets
of rememberers.
I think: I could carry
two flags if I had them;
eyes would fill with tears
when the bugle plays;
and share after
in the promised barbecue.
How good to go early -
if only I’d gone.
Next year perhaps,
should I live so long,
and wake well before dawn.
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