Wow.
I need to work on my poetry.
Judging from these comments and the e-mails I've gotten, I completely missed that one. But that's ok. That's why I blog...to be refined.
So. Here's the scoop on Dulce.
1. It is not a comment on patriotism, the war, or current politics.
2. It is not a statement about current restrictions on television viewing resulting from my affiliation with a certain university or religious credo.
3. It is not a brood-ish piece...at least, I didn't intend it to be so.
What is it, then?
Visit a friend's house. Open the door, and walk into the living room. Friend is sitting in the arm chair, limp. She's staring at that box-in-the-corner again. Sit down to stare at it with her.
It's a TV show of the Police Shoot-Out strain. But this episode is based on a true story. Good stuff. Watch some more. And get really worried about that one Cop that you really hope doesn't get shot, but you know he will. You bite your lip and wait as all the people around him get torn by semi-automatic-shots. No, forget the semi-bit. Don't you remember what your Uncle told you? That's automatic all the way, baby. Tense. The muscles in your neck are really tight. The gunman points right for the cop, Your Cop. Gasp. Commercial break. The third one you've sat through already.
Make small talk. Very small talk. You're both worried about him. So talk doesn't make sense. Show resumes. He's shot. Heart pounds.
[interruption] (from somewhere back in your consciousness.)
"In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking drowning."
"But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one."[/interruption]
Images from Wilfred Owen merge with the box-in-the-corner. The lad in arms. The sacrificed son. The coughing of blood from war-torn lungs.
And for the first time, you're sickened by all the men rolling around on the grass, spurting blood from needless wounds. You've been sitting there for an hour. A whole stinkin' hour. You've blushed and turned away during the commericials, but it wasn't a big deal, I mean, really. The show's based on a real story. A real one. That's important. And you're a writer, too. That counts for something. Doesn't it.
You squirm inside. Writer. You. Wilfred Owen wrote because he couldn't escape those images. They changed him. And he wanted to be sure that everyone knew what was going on. You? You just sat there and drank in the death of twelve cops. No, thirteen. The red-headed one, remember? Owen called for action with his images, his graphic, putrid images. This show only calls you to stay tuned for next week's blood bath.
Go home. Try to sleep. Try to go to work the next morning. But Owen's still there. His cause. His reason for writing. Blog a poem. Blog a poem about how we just sit there, how we just like to sit there and watch men die. Maybe you don't agree with Owen's political stance. But you can't blame him after seeing what he saw. And he's done so much more than you. He had a reason and a reaction. Me? I just sat there.
Posted by stephanie at April 21, 2004 08:22 PM | TrackBack