Here The Nation presents a few of the works posted on "Poets Against the War," (www.poetsagainstthewar.org), the website set up by Sam Hamill, poet and editor, when he called for poems and statements against war in Iraq. At last count, there were 8,200 entries. Hamill’s summons to poets followed Laura Bush’s invitation to a symposium on American poetry at the White House, which was "postponed" when it was learned that antiwar poems were to be presented.

  Statement

It would not have been possible for me ever to trust someone who acquired office by the shameful means Mr. Bush and his abettors resorted to in the last presidential election. His nonentity was rapidly becoming more apparent than ever when the catastrophe of September 11, 2001, provided him and his handlers with a role for him, that of "wartime leader," which they, and he in turn, were quick to exploit. This role was used at once to silence all criticism of the man and his words as unpatriotic, and to provide the auspices for a sustained assault upon civil liberties, environmental protections and general welfare. The perpetuation of this role of "wartime leader" is the primary reason–more important even than the greed for oilfields and the wish to blot out his father’s failure–for the present determination to visit war upon Iraq, kill and maim countless people, and antagonize much of the world of which Mr. Bush had not heard until recently. The real iniquities of Saddam Hussein should be recognized, in this context, as the pretexts they are. His earlier atrocities went unmentioned as long as he was an ally of former Republican administrations, which were happy, in their time, to supply him with weapons. I think that someone who was maneuvered into office against the will of the electorate, as Mr. Bush was, should be allowed to make no governmental decisions (including judicial appointments) that might outlast his questionable term, and if the reasons for war were many times greater than they have been said to be I would oppose anything of the kind under such "leadership." To arrange a war in order to be re-elected outdoes even the means employed in the last presidential election. Mr. Bush and his plans are a greater danger to the United States than Saddam Hussein.

W.S. MERWIN

  State of the Union, 2003

I have not been to Jerusalem, but Shirley talks about the bombs. I have no god, but have seen the children praying for it to stop. They pray to different gods. The news is all old news again, repeated like a bad habit, cheap tobacco, the social lie.

The children have seen so much death that death means nothing to them now. They wait in line for bread. They wait in line for water. Their eyes are black moons reflecting emptiness. We’ve seen them a thousand times.

Soon, the President will speak. He will have something to say about bombs and freedom and our way of life. I will turn the TV off. I always do. Because I can’t bear to look at the monuments in his eyes.

SAM HAMILL

  New Hampshire, February 7, 2003

It’s snowing again. All day, reruns of the blizzard of ’78 newscasters vying for bragging rights how it was to go hungry after they’d thumped the vending machines empty the weatherman clomping four miles on snowshoes to get to his mike so he could explain how three lows could collide to create a lineup of isobars footage of state troopers peering into the caked windows of cars backed up for white miles on the interstate.   Nowhere, reruns of the bombings in Vietnam 2 million civilians blown apart, most of them children under 16, children always the least able to dive for cover when all that tonnage bursts from a blind sky. Snow here is weighting the pine trees while we wait for the worst: for war to begin. Schools closed, how the children love a benign blizzard a downhill scrimmage of tubes and sleds. But who remembers the blizzard that burst on those other children? Back then we called it collateral damage and will again.

MAXINE KUMIN

  Letter to a Fellow Activist

Still, I keep thinking it’s not really fitting To send a "no thanks" when I wasn’t invited. And I’m glad I won’t have to be cold to a person Apparently decent and kind, a reader Whose outlook poems and fictions have broadened.

Loyal, I think, to this nation, I hereby Inculpate myself for making slapdash, Insufficient and tardy efforts to save it From the brutal, disastrous, avoidable brink Our misguided Executive and Congress have brought us to. Demonstrations, petitions, and reasoning seldom Make an impression on heat-packing chauvinists. They don’t give a flying…whatever, bent as they Are on showing the world who’s in charge.

The practice of politics (always beyond belief Boring) will take care of us if we fail To take care of it. Despair is suburban, So we soldier on, casting our ballots for candidates Who won’t be elected, we write those who were, We canvass and organize. No, in all honesty I can’t, at age sixty, pretend I would welcome Being clubbed or imprisoned; but I do root for those Nonviolent actions performed in the interest Of liberty, justice, and peace–for Americans, Sure, but as well for all people everywhere. To save the skin of one Arab, Israeli, or Yank Would I write an obvious poem? You bet I would! If only it could save. When gauging results Of our deeds, though, I take an agnostic approach. Seek justice: The aftermath’s not in our hands. Since "All wars are boyish," would that all war Criminals present and future would grow up And not dream it’s cool or effective to pistol-whip Erstwhile allies they’ve turned into enemies. Should one ever resort to violent measures In the name of a righteous cause? I’d say not. Aren’t we a global concern, the Blue Planet’s Symbiotic affiliates? Yes, because no man Or nation’s an island, entire of itself. If the bell should toll for Iraq or for Palestine, It will toll for these States and Israel, too– For the threatened ideals of fair play and loveliness Embodied in poems we’re moved to live by.

PFC Corn here, reporting for peace watch.

ALFRED CORN

  Umoja: Each One of Us Counts

One went the way of water, one crumpled under stone; one climbed the air but plunged through fire, one fought the fear alone.   Remember us, though we are gone.   A star flares on an epaulet, a ball rolls in harm’s way; the glowing line onscreen goes flat, an anonymous bullet strays–   Remember us! Do not forget!   One lay slathered in garlands, one left only a smear; one cracked a joke, smiled, then shrugged to show he didn’t care.   Do not forget that we were here.   Do those who failed still miss the wind, that sweet breath from the sky? Do they still covet rock and moss or the swift, hard blink of the lizard’s eye?   We walk on water, we are written on air. Let us honor the lost, the snatched, the relinquished, those vanquished by glory, muted by shame. Stand up in the silence they’ve left and listen: those absent ones, unknown and unnamed–   remember!   their whispers fill the arena.

RITA DOVE