Guadalcanal
Rachael Mead (University of Adelaide, Australia)
.
.
this place is not like those war documentaries
viewed through the glassed distance of space and time
with the colours of ocean and jungle saturated and framed like polaroids
only the surface was captured, only the bravado
while the fear and tension remained inexpressible, unrecorded
but what’s left behind speaks of those boys being just like us
with reading glasses, coke bottles, forks, and teeth with fillings
bringing them back to us not just as heroes
but with their unbreakable humanity bursting through
we can hear them singing along to the radio, talking of home, laughing with friends
sensed now only in the tinny distance
the truth of it taken into death
the truth of it to be endured on long nights kept company only by whiskey
brave and scared, they were just like our brothers
loud and shy, quick and slow, greedy and giving
good and evil
a universal equation that will never be balanced
all skin sacks of nature destined for decomposition
some lie in the gravid, grassed sites of home
some lie here on the littered jungle carpet
she is a replacement mother with her own traditions
taking as sons those lost boys
she holds them close to her shadowed breast
.
she holds them close to her shadowed breast
taking as sons those lost boys
she is a replacement mother with her own traditions
some lie here on the littered jungle carpet
some lie in the gravid, grassed sites of home
all skin sacks of nature destined for decomposition
a universal equation that will never be balanced
good and evil
loud and shy, quick and slow, greedy and giving
brave and scared, they were just like our brothers
the truth of it to be endured on long nights kept company only by whiskey
the truth of it taken into death
sensed now only in the tinny distance
we can hear them singing along to the radio, talking of home, laughing with friends
but with their unbreakable humanity bursting through
bringing them back to us not just as heroes
with reading glasses, coke bottles, forks, and teeth with fillings
but what’s left behind speaks of those boys being just like us
while the fear and tension remained inexpressible, unrecorded
only the surface was captured, only the bravado
with the colours of ocean and jungle saturated and framed like polaroids
viewed through the glassed distance of space and time
this place is not like those war documentaries.
.
.
Rachael Mead is a postgraduate creative writing student living in the Adelaide hills with her husband, animals and an unnaturally large collection of opshop overcoats. Her poems have appeared in Going Down Swinging, Poetrix, Verandah and Artstate.
