Vox Populi
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Doug Anderson: Memorial Day
They could not wish for a more perfect day: eighty degrees
and the sky so blue they can’t look at it for fear of opening
themselves to the past—a childhood in the woods
or falling in love the first time, all of this in flood surge.
The smell of basted steaks brings back the solidity of purpose.
The grandmother naps in her sunhat, a tender breeze on her arms.
A little boy turns the crank of the ice cream maker
and a badminton game is in full heat, the players imagining
themselves professional, getting testy and competitive
until the cold beer quiets them. There’s an off-color joke
(it’s allowed as long as there’s nothing as specific as condoms)
and the wives gossip about the queer scoutmaster,
or the man down the street who, caught in a cathouse, lost his job.
It’s only old Herman sitting a few yards off in the recliner
who looks beyond them into a burning village where a marine
drags a wounded man by his heels behind a tank for cover
and the tank backs up and runs over them both.
Herman, come get some potato salad. Herman would you like
another beer? Put on your hat so you don’t get those cancers.
Stop moving your mouth like that —who are you talking to?
He gets up and limps to the table and loads up his plate.
Then goes back to his chair where he will sit, alone, and those
pushed beyond trying will not come to his side and listen.
~~~~
Copyright 2025 Doug Anderson
Doug Anderson’s books include Undress, She Said (Four Way, 2022) and Keep Your Head Down: Vietnam, the Sixties, and a Journey of Self-Discovery (Norton, 2009).
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Wow wow wow. This poem is beyond remarkable. It is one I must save and share. Thank you, Doug Anderson! I’ll be looking you up!
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Oh yes, Doug is one of the best poets in the country, in my opinion.
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Amazing poem
Sent from my iPhone
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Amazing indeed!
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All the precise details add up to a devastating whole. Thanks, Doug. Hope you are well.
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And a tragedy and travesty that so many old Hermans are abandoned on our streets with their terrifying memories and other woundeds for company
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Yes, it’s a national disgrace.
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“It’s only old Herman sitting a few yards off in the recliner
who looks beyond them”–
One of the only times I saw my West Point dad cry was when he came home from Vietnam and learned that a classmate was killed in a helicopter crash just days later.
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Oh, so sorry for this, Lisa. I’m older than you, so it was my friends who went off to war. In those days, there was a lottery for the draft. I got lucky with a high number, so I didn’t have to go.
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Powerful, as always, from Doug xo
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Doug is consistently masterful.
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Masterful always!
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Nice to see you back on Vox Populi, Luz!
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The pictures in the mind that can never be erased.
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A heartfelt thank you for such a vivid description of what so many face
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Wow. Yes. Thanks for this Michael. ~Jan
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I’ve known men like old Herman. Their minds never came back from the war.
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What a devastating poem. How much more we need to do for the people who give so much.
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Yes, or perhaps we should stop sending people to fight meaningless wars.
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Agreed
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There is a kind of pain that has no language, and the only solace is to sit quietly and let the pain find its way to expression. I’ve known several veterans and abuse victims who are in the same place. It’s brutal.
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Well-said, Marc. PTSD lasts a lifetime.
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Yes, it does. I can attest to that…
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