"Every War Has Two Losers"

It was worth it to turn 65 to receive a gift like the one my friends Amira and Kadir Cannon gave me last night: poet William Stafford's (1914-1993) "Every War Has Two Losers." A collection of journal entries and poems, these are the meditations and outcries of a WWII pacifist who, to me, seems an American Taoist, practising non-violence out of instinctive, deep, comprehensive clarity and conviction. Stafford's brother was a bomber pilot during the war. In the following poem, living brother visits the grave of his departed brother. It is a harrowing moment. Stafford honors his brother by shedding tears for those he killed. The compassion here is of a profoundly unflinching kind--one that does not lead to walls with the names of soldiers on it, but walls with the names of those they killed. That's how far the mistake of war goes and that's how much farther the final reach of forgiveness for these wars must extend. The canopy of compassion must contain the whole of the bloody histories we write.

"I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact."

AT THE GRAVE OF MY BROTHER: BOMBER PILOT

Tantalized by wind, this flag that flies
to mark your grave discourages those nearby
graves, and all still marching this hillside chanting,
"Heroes, thanks. Goodbye."

If a visitor may quiz a marble sentiment,
was this tombstone quarried in a country
where you slew thousands likewise honored
of the enemy?

Reluctant hero, drafted again each Fourth
of July, I'll bow and remember you. Who
shall we follow next? Who shall we kill
next time?

And this as a blessed bonus:

A RITUAL TO READ TO EACH OTHER

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss out star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

--William Stafford, "Every Way Has Two Losers," Milkweed Editions, 2003.