Vox Populi
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David Kirby: That Happened Sometimes
Frank tells me that his grandfather
was a tower operator in 1944-45 in Burma
where he had to land bombers in the jungle
while being shot at by Japanese snipers
hidden in the tops of palms trees and that at night
they’d have to abandon the airstrip, retake it
in the morning, land and refuel aircraft,
and then repeat the same thing the next day.
One time the operator only a few feet away
got his brains blown out by a sniper,
but Frank’s grandfather had to stay in the tower
to guide the bombers in. That happened
sometimes, he said to his grandson.
Back home, Frank’s grandmother
and great-grandmother would cook pounds
and pounds of pasta al pomodoro every week
and bring it to the Italian prisoners of war
at Camp Belle Mead, New Jersey.
St. Francis tells us to preach the gospel
at all times, and if necessary, use words.
Poet, critic, and scholar David Kirby grew up on a farm in southern Louisiana. Since 1969 he has taught at Florida State University, where he has received several teaching awards. He lives in Tallahassee, Florida, with his wife, poet Barbara Hamby. His many books include Help Me Information (LSU, 2021).
Poem copyright 2024 David Kirby. All rights reserved.
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So much talent in one household, Kirby-Hamby. Not fair. Great ending, especially!
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Yes, they are a great team, aren’t they?
>
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A complex story told eloquently yet economically, with a perfectly cast hinge. Kirby’s poetry is masterly.
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Thanks, Warren
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David Kirby is one of my favorite poets. He writes serious poems that are funny and funny poems that are serious.
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” (…) and if necessary, use words.
How well you do that, David!
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“That happened sometimes”. Can see so clearly. Thank you ( and the picture)
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David: What a wonderful poem!
These worlds of the unimaginable somehow lived through and in the end we proclaim “Life is Beautiful!” Mortality always is that pesky, demanding child we can’t shake, must play hide and seek with and ultimately answer to. I want to stay awake in the tonalities of this poem and try to make it another day O seasoned Dream-Weaver…
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