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All Wars Are the Same War
ALL WARS ARE THE SAME WAR portrays the effects of war on the soldiers, the civilians caught in between, and the land. This collection of poems is divided into three sections. The first focuses on wars in the past up until the Iraq war, including the Civil War, both world wars, and the Russian Revolution from different viewpoints. The second section is about the author’s own involvement in Vietnam as a field medic for the pacifist Quaker organization, American Friends Service Committee, which portrays the insanity of war like the novel, Mash. The third section is about his return, wounded, during the Anti-War movement and how vets were mistreated when they returned. The book ends with trying to resolve PTSD issues. It is a homecoming for the wounded and survivors, often seen from the victims’ viewpoint. As the title says, all wars are the same war, and war seems endless.
Kindle Edition
First published February 7, 2022
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About the author
Martin Willitts Jr.
29 books2 followersMartin Willitts Jr. is a retired Senior Librarian in upstate New York. He has been nominated for five Pushcart awards and two Best Of The Net awards. His print chapbooks include Falling in and out of Love (Pudding House Publications, 2005), Lowering Nets of Light (Pudding House Publications, 2007), The Garden of French Horns (Pudding House Publications, 2008), Baskets of Tomorrow (Flutter Press, 2009), The Girl Who Sang Forth Horses (Pudding House Publications, 2010), Van Gogh's Sunflowers for Cezanne (Finishing Line Press, 2010), and SECRETS NO ONE MUST TALK ABOUT (Dos Madres Press, 2011). He has the online chapbooks Farewell—the journey now begins, News from the Front, and Words&Paper. His full-length books are The Secret Language of the Universe (March Street Press, 2006) and The Hummingbird (March Street Press, 2009), and THE UNCERTAIN LOVER (Dos Madres Press, 2018). ~ Amazon bio
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 1, 2023
We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us.
Excerpts:
WALT WHITMAN AMONG THE REACHING HANDS
Walt is between the army cots in a field tent.
Soldiers are passing from one life to another.
The tent fills with sawing to the bone.
He holds a bloody bandage and kisses it tenderly.
He opens the tent flaps,
sits on an amputated tree stump.
A drummer boy watches Walt make a piece of grass whistle.
The boy points to the battle: “What can you do about that?”
The boy straps on a drum as he races to the front lines.
Walt cannot do anything about war.
Morning is cold bullets.
Walt hears the drumming of a woodpecker on a dead tree.
There is nothing Walt can do about the cut timber and bone.
Walt wants to return to the outstretched hands.
He notices the dead field mouse curled into a comma.
What can he do about that?
Crosses are a line of type he could set piece by piece
until they are pebbles in clear water.
He felt a man die at sunrise, and now his hands
are useless to do much about what is happening.
Walt removes his leather boots and thick woolen socks,
plunges his feet into mud as if taking root.
This is what he can do!
For a moment, all is still—
the kind of quiet that makes a deer notice.
Even the boy dying on the red blanket of grass notices.
MEDIC IN RAIN OR SHINE
When the winds come from the hills,
I do not mind if they bring the rains
along for the ride. The sky is reflective—
black as the Vietnam Memorial Wall
where my face, mirrored, has names written on it,
though my name, thankfully, is not present.
It could have been engraved. I check—twice.
I was that close. Life and death are inches apart.
A person could have been rubbing my name.
I’ve seen them do it. Someone asked if I knew
anyone there, pointing to the massive list. I heard
bullets and rain, almost the same, with
red skies exploding. I pulled out many
of those names, feeling failure because they died.
Excerpts:
WALT WHITMAN AMONG THE REACHING HANDS
Walt is between the army cots in a field tent.
Soldiers are passing from one life to another.
The tent fills with sawing to the bone.
He holds a bloody bandage and kisses it tenderly.
He opens the tent flaps,
sits on an amputated tree stump.
A drummer boy watches Walt make a piece of grass whistle.
The boy points to the battle: “What can you do about that?”
The boy straps on a drum as he races to the front lines.
Walt cannot do anything about war.
Morning is cold bullets.
Walt hears the drumming of a woodpecker on a dead tree.
There is nothing Walt can do about the cut timber and bone.
Walt wants to return to the outstretched hands.
He notices the dead field mouse curled into a comma.
What can he do about that?
Crosses are a line of type he could set piece by piece
until they are pebbles in clear water.
He felt a man die at sunrise, and now his hands
are useless to do much about what is happening.
Walt removes his leather boots and thick woolen socks,
plunges his feet into mud as if taking root.
This is what he can do!
For a moment, all is still—
the kind of quiet that makes a deer notice.
Even the boy dying on the red blanket of grass notices.
MEDIC IN RAIN OR SHINE
When the winds come from the hills,
I do not mind if they bring the rains
along for the ride. The sky is reflective—
black as the Vietnam Memorial Wall
where my face, mirrored, has names written on it,
though my name, thankfully, is not present.
It could have been engraved. I check—twice.
I was that close. Life and death are inches apart.
A person could have been rubbing my name.
I’ve seen them do it. Someone asked if I knew
anyone there, pointing to the massive list. I heard
bullets and rain, almost the same, with
red skies exploding. I pulled out many
of those names, feeling failure because they died.
Displaying 1 of 1 review