Photo from Arlington Northwest
Poetry by Iraq Soldier, Brian Turner

More information about Turner's collection of poems on the publisher, Alice James Books' website: Here, Bullet, a collection of Iraq war poems by soldier-poet Brian Turner.

Ashbah
by Brian Turner

The ghosts of American soldiers
wander the streets of Balad by night,
unsure of their way home, exhausted,
the desert wind blowing trash
down the narrow alleys as a voice
sounds from the minaret, a soulfull call
reminding them how alone they are,
how lost. And the Iraqi dead,
they watch in silence from rooftops
as date palms line the shore in silhouette,
leaning toward Mecca when the dawn wind blows.

We Are All Each Other’s Stories
and kidnapped rhetoric fondled
like flesh stretched and contorted
a playdough plagiarism rampant
in areas urbane and mundane
And why not? All civilization
is fodder for carry-on eventually
And you, yeah, you in the subs,
we see you and we hear you On*Star
won’t help you now its been outsourced
and you’re roaming stuck in the middle
of Wal-Mart contributing to
the sweet green decay
and golden gleam
of currency seems
a gingivitis of the soul. We dig
the past to peek but continue too
Come, part mental eyes a squint
askance in candlelight to see
ancestors bones revealing
ancient tomes re-leaved and
the greatest secret held within
said only that: “We are
all each other’s stories…”

Tuesday, July 29, 2008 3:29:20 AM
Elks
ReeechardT

Two crows dancing to the cooing of a dove,
        dark wings gleaming in the light—
In circles they spin, silent and sleek,
        honoring all things divine.

I look to the heavens, past wind, trees and clouds,
        and know you’ve found what we seek—
The white light beyond our last view of life
        and freedom from pain in sweet peace.

As the sun sinks below skies blue as your eyes,
        and spring yields to summer again—
I feel the tears flow, unbidden and slow,
        from wellsprings of sorrow unsaid.

AB Christie 6/21/08

Waltzing with the Wind

One dawn a baby robin, ensconced upon a bush,
        looked at me with wonder and greeted me with love —
I waited for its fear at my overwhelming size,
        yet it tipped its head, undaunted, and stared into my eyes.

The robin preened and postured and opened wide its beak,
        assuming in its trust that I might meet its need —
Alas I had no worm so I failed the crucial test
        of nurturing this orphan who'd fallen from its nest.

Its hunger drove it onward and on the ground it plopped,
        pecking at the earth and hopping foot to foot —
Along came a cat, stealthy stalking beast,
        envisioning the robin as a tasty piece of meat.

I screamed in helpless horror at the predatory cat,
        distracting it a second, yet that was all it took —
The robin spread its wings and rose in its first flight
        waltzing with the wind in the morning of its life.

AB Christie 5/22/08

like the snows of November, (lightly, timid in askance)
you will return to me

in due time;
without fail—you will return
(erstwhile)
to me

and my hesitant heart
(retreating, retreating, retreating)
will be a far-off beacon at dusk
to your false ardor, a poetry of obdurate conceit
—whose interval seems unceasing;

All darkness and brooding winds
You twine and spin in savage dance
(quickening, hastening some new spell)

But failing, failing … failing

while this distance increases (curing
past injuries);
the suffering amid our pleading eyes (yours
of forgiveness, mine for freedom)

neither souls knowing peace.

A spider spins a web of sticky strands of silk
        woven in a pattern known well by all her ilk—
Adorned with dew it sparkles under the soft morn light
        reflecting forth a brilliance that captivates the eye.

Mistress of illusion and dancer on the wind,
        weaving what will be from what has always been—
Teach to me your lesson of balance and of grace,
        of being in the moment and living without haste.

AB Christie 04/30/08

Henry Rollins Spoken Word

Three crows crossed my path today, silent, black and sleek, 
    reminding me to listen if I really want to hear—
The eventide is melting as I walk home with my wolf, 
    yet even in the darkness, I know I’m not alone.

In the flowers budding and on the fragrant wind, 
    I feel your wisdom flowing and hear your voice again—
I remember most your faith, and how it warmed my soul, 
    and now you’re all around me in beauty and in hope.

I miss your calming arms and long to hold you tight;
    the world feels somehow dimmer without your guiding light—
Buried deep within me, sheltered from the rain,
    is a little girl who’s loved you since the day that she began.

Tonight I lit your candle and felt you in my heart,
    and as my tears flowed freely, I let the healing start.

AB Christie 3/1/08

Poetry & Experiences from Iraq

David Smith-Ferri – an activist poet whose newly released book, Battlefield without Borders portrays his encounters with Iraqi people and events – reads poems and recounts his experiences Thursday February 28, 7:30 p.m. at the Artisans Café, 109 Capitol Way N (between 4th and State), Olympia.

The poet focuses on children who are forbidden life and who survive with precarious futures. The Olympia Fellowship of Reconciliation sponsors this exploration of the tragedy of war as seen through the eyes of a poet and peace-maker.

“I hope to portray the resilience, courage, and decency of the Iraqi people I’ve met,” Smith-Ferri says. “Everyday, Iraqi people – in Iraq and in exile – resist the degrading effects of violence and occupation, doing everything they can to care for themselves, their families, and their neighbors, and to provide a future for their children.”

All proceeds from the sale of his book (all but $2.00 of the sales price) will go directly to Iraqi victims of this war through a new program called the Direct Aid Initiative.

Three-time Nobel Peace Prize nominee Kathy Kelly says in the Foreword of Smith-Ferri’s book: “Mesmerized by the images David paints so tenderly and skillfully, we follow him onto the battlefield. We enter arenas populated by children, parents, teenagers – people similar to ourselves. What can the poet do to bring about a cease-fire, a truce, a broad and deepening belief in mercy? This poet brings the children to our very doors.”

Poet W.H. Auden said, “In the deserts of the heart, let the healing fountains start.”

Admission is free. Please join us.