From Wendell Berry's great 1968 poem, pondering the cost of war, addressed to a Russian worker. I wish Russian and Georgian soldiers could read the whole thing. I wish John McCain, with all his breast-beating rhetoric, would. I wish Barack Obama would. I wish we all would. Here's the final stanza:
There is no government so worthy as your son who fishes withyou in silence besides the forest pool.
There is no national glory so comely as your daughter whose hands
have learned a music and go their own way on the keys.
There is no national glory so comely as my daughter who
dances and sings and is the brightness of my house.
There is no government so worthy as my son who laughs, as he comes up the path
from the river in the evening, for joy.
I dunno, I just can't quit thinking about Dr. Bacevich this evening, and his dead son, killed fighting in Iraq.
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"To a Katyn Woodsman, or, We're Not In Kraków Anymore" -
Word to the Siberian Woodsman:
Not to tell tales out of forest,
But I just spotted Rubini the Permabear
Only two post-lengths south;
And take care to mind the log across the path -
He's been hitting the Wendellberries bigtime.
Posted by: Scott Lahti | August 18, 2008 9:14 AM
Nice.
You forgot Putin. HE is the guy who should read it.
"To Wendell Berry", by a Siberian woodsman:
You dirty American farmer
You no poet
Like Pushkin
Now give me back my vodka
Or
I keel you
Rod,
I have noticed the majority of the comments left on your blog are negative or disrespectful. On the this post especially so. You say important things in a poinient way. None of these comments seem to engage your thoughts but seem to be more like witty come backs. It really is unfortunate. Some blogs are quite charming exactly because of the fine comments. I just wanted to write you and say I really appreciate what you are saying. And I really enjoyed your lecture on Wendell Berry in 2007 I just discovered. I am thinking of writing an indi-folk-rock album based upon Bill Kauffman's lecture from that day. And happy feast of St Vladimir!
http://dangreeson.tumblr.com/post/120646361/i-sing-of-olaf-glad-and-big
i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or
his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but--though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments--
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"
straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)
but--though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat--
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"
our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died
Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too
preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.
by e.e.cummings
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