The Sweet Children of War

            “Baby Villon” is a poem by Phillip Levine, lamenting the struggles of child soldiers in war torn regions. This is developed through the conversation between the speaker and his child cousin. Each stanza extrapolates deeper into the horrors the children warriors face, and what everyday life has been like since their conception. The speaker realizes that though they are related and likely look and think very similarly, being born worlds apart, into vastly different situations can make a completely different individual.

            In the first stanza, the child is speaking about how he is mistaken as white, black, Jewish, or Arab in different parts of the world, yet he feels he must always fight. This is the first glimpse at the sort of life this child must lead. His race/being is mistaken and he feels harassed the world over, thus he is always on guard. “Seven thick little fingers” (Line 5), is the first time it is hinted that the speaker is talking with a child. He uses those fingers to designate rank, but that rank carries with it no pride or disgust; it just is. This helps to form the picture of an individual who is not only young, but is hardened by his burdens in the world.

            The child wishes to hear of the narrator’s father, the uncle that seems to have passed on, then immediately follows up with talk of a war in North Africa. This is the Middle East, and when matched with how his ethnicity is confused, the child is likely a young tan boy, raised in a land torn by religious and territorial wars. The child speaks of the losses he has had to endure, his brother and his father, implying that he lacks a father figure, and has had to play that role in his life. The speaker’s cousin must also come from a land which does not have enough food, for he ate glass covered bread, unthinking of the consequences. The child says, “Here they live, here they live and not die” (Line 16), describing just how much carnage he witnesses daily.

            In stanza 5, the cousin tries to lighten the speaker’s heart ache, by assuring him that he should not worry. He may seem war torn and battered, but he has the hair of a fighter, and so fight he shall. This quickly turns to the boy running his hands over the speaker’s face, noticing how fair and how unscarred it is. The speaker mentions that this is the only time he will see his cousin, and he notices just how tiny he is, “No bigger than a girl, he holds my shoulders” (Line 25).

            The final three lines capture the speaker’s revelations, and the message that must be passed on. The child “Kisses my lips, his eyes still open” (Line 26), which is a deliberate action. The kiss is not peculiar, for it is the kiss of a family member, but the eyes wide open implies that he is beckoning the speaker to gaze deep into his soul, and to derive meaning from his shattered life. With the last line, the speaker realizes just how two similar people can live such different lives all on based on the virtue of where one is born. The speaker lives in a world where he is fair and smooth, where people live and do not die, yet his own family lives in a world torn apart by war, where death is as common as eating. The speaker recognizes that he too could be this broken child, for the child is “Myself made otherwise by all his pain” (Line 36).

Works Cited:
Levine, Phillip. "Baby Villon."

So much depends on us...

I always find it interesting to read the thoughts a poet has on his work. Coming from the school of thought that all art is subjective, and that meaning is personal and can be found in all things, it is still fascinating to read an artists opinion on their creations. I mentioned in class "The Red Wheelbarrow," mostly to humor myself. That poem has always made me smile, partially for its complex simplicity, but often because I am never sure if I am kidding myself when I try to defend its merit. If that can be a poem, can anything? The book talks of the preciseness of the wording, or the structure, or the differing meaning of every passing phrase, but do those matter when it comes to poetry? I don't know if I'll ever find a satisfying answer for that question. "The Red Wheelbarrow" does take me to a perfect rainy April day in the farmlands of Tennessee. I see a barn that was once red, and a wheelbarrow that no matter how much rust appears on it, will always shine brightly red in places. The grass is always piercing green after an afternoon storm, and it contrasts the red dizzyingly. This poem makes me think of an idealized home that I am not sure I ever experienced. My mind still sees it vividly, and thus it will never forget what this poem does for me.
When I spoke in class, I said my friend had a class where someone argued that this was about WWII. That is why poetry always holds a place in my heart.  Eight lines can sum up WWII to someone, and that is just perfect. Some may see this poem as a passing thought, just as if a young man was driving a long, and thus this is nothing but brain chatter. That is also wonderful. Williams "jokingly" said that this was a perfect poem, and maybe it is. It accomplishes so much, with very little. Maybe that is the testament to true poetry, what can be accomplished with the words one is given.

Here is a song that inspires a similar feeling from me, for music is poetry's loving sister.

Works Cited:
Booth, Alison, and Kelly J. Mays. The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2011. Print.

Trading the Past for Money

Just a small reminder to what one group can do to another.

Humanity loves to turn tragedy into a new tourist attraction. Rarely do we maintain a monument to what we have lost. I can hear the cheers of gleeful investors the moments after thousands die. "This will bring us millions," they cant while blood is still spilling. In Mary Jo Salter's "Welcome to Hiroshima," the hallowed land where thousands died, lays beautifully desecrated.

"Welcome to Hiroshima...brought to you in living English by Toshiba Electric" (Lines 1-4), are the opening lines to the multitudes of tourists who visit annually. These lines are speaking to a specific tourist, though; those who one to two generations prior, caused the catastrophe that made this town infamous. Vivid remembrances, of the devastation, such as "plastic dioramas advertise mutations" (Line 15-16), litter this poem. Yet, they find themselves accentuated with enjoyments for the visiting tourist, "a pancake sandwich  a pizza someone tops with a marrachino cherry" (Line 17-18), "they pour your cup of tea in one of the countless sunny coffee shops" (Line 13-14). The town has transformed into a stop for someone to say "I've been there. The museums are wonderful, and the restaurants are lovely."

Does this honor the dead? Does it remind us of the destruction one group brought upon another? These sorts of locations are designed to keep consciences clear. "They can see what happened in a museum," is what those who benefit will say, yet will any one emotionally connect to the lives lost while Starbucks is warming their heart? The dead find themselves second to the monetary benefits of a tourist trap. This is not to say that nothing should be done with such places. Memorials are wonderful if designed to actually memorialize. It keeps what we have lost in our hearts and minds, while begging us to reconsider such actions in the future. These places, these hallowed grounds, must be kept sacred, because it is all we have left to remember of what we are truly capable. Let the spirits speak while we gather to mourn them. Let them tell us of lives not lived. Let them speak of their pain.

This is always going to remain an issue. As an American, I find myself with little desire to visit a tourist trap Hiroshima, why should I care? I can get my Starbucks down the street. I see the way we have chosen to memorialize 9/11. We build on and then charge families of the deceased to pay their respects. Another tourist trap to make a little bit more money. I visited New York a few years after 2001. Ground Zero was nothing but a hole in the ground. New York is an incredibly loud city, yet standing next to that hole, all was silent; all but a lone flautist playing somber songs of patriotism. I felt the dead speaking then, I doubt they are anything by silent now.

Works Cited:

Salter, Mary Jo. "Welcome to Hiroshima."