By Susan L. Schurman & Linda D. Brennaman
March 2013
Q: How did Last Lambs get its title?
A: The United States engaged in a secret war in Laos beginning in 1953. It arose out of a concern about the perceived growing communist threat in the region. It was another case of the peasant population fighting for their rights against a repressive regime and colonial control. The guerilla war was fought by the Pathet Lao who identified themselves as a socialist/communist group and had some backing from the Soviet Union. The sociologist, William Lederer, wrote a short book, a white paper, in 1961, A Nation Of Sheep, exposing the war in the process he criticized the American public for being passive, averse to questioning authority, which he speculated leads to government secrecy and endangers democracy.
The sixties signaled an end to the conventionality and denial after WWII that has led ultimately to the crisis we have today in the economy and society. Therefore, I see the Vietnam soldiers, draftees and volunteers alike, as sacrificial lambs, the last lambs of government controlled by wealth, an established Old Boy’s Club and authoritarian political power.
My take on titles.
Q: The tone of Last Lambs seems almost reserved, considering the intensity of the subject matter. Did you intend to show restraint in these poems, or is there another explanation for this tone?
A: This is a good question. By coincidence, I recently attended a reading at the Maui Arts Center by W.S. Merwin who lives in a small place upcountry on Maui called Hai’ku. (I think his choice of that location had more to do with the cost of the former pineapple plantation that he bought thirty-some years ago rather than its serendipitous name). Though he is known as a Vietnam War critic, I have not read any war poems he was written, though I am sure there are some.
He read one poem about an elephant who had gone mad, pulled away from its chain and gone on a rampage. He prefaced the poem about the danger of allowing anger to destroy the possibilities of imagination in art and literature. His point was that anger, while it was a powerful force in art, could be destructive to the imagination if it was not restrained, that it could easily lead to bombast, demagoguery, hyperbole, preaching, speech making, etc.
That’s a long way of getting around to answering the question. I do not like definitions of poetry; I find them meaningless, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned something from them. With respect to Wordsworth’s phrase, “contemplated in tranquility,” I agree with the idea that whether a poem leads to metaphor, narrative, factual imagery or other means a poem calls for to strike the nail on the head, the poem generally speaks for itself using the content of the idea, place, situation, person from which it derives. True, a poem can’t just be a litany of images or similes; it does need an attitude. But before a war poem explodes, it needs to have a shell, powder, shrapnel, so that when it is launched an explosion occurs.
Q: In the poem “Taps” you mention that Uncle Roy doesn’t want to hear about your war experience. Have you found this a common response to your attempts to tell your stories to other war veterans as well as civilians? How has this affected you?
A: When I returned, I found no one wanted to hear about what I had learned or experienced in the war. To them, even my close friends, I seemed an oddity. It wasn’t that they were critical of me; they knew I had been drafted and opposed the war. It was just that I was different. I didn’t fit in any more. I had changed. They had nothing in common with me nor I with them. They had married, bought first and second homes, had small children, good jobs or started their own businesses, and I had nothing except a wife who had become psychotic in my absence, which alienated them even more. My family of ten children had never been close. The war had gone on for a long time and everyone seemed bored with it and wanted to move on.
The veterans I knew never wanted to see each other again. We were tired of the war, too. We didn’t want to think about it. We didn’t want it to take up anymore of our time and energy. We had no outprocessing, no follow up, and for many years, no real benefits except for the G.I. Bill and medical assistance for those with severe physical injuries or who were psychotic.
My mythical Uncle Roy who worked for the state highway department had been wounded in World War II and thought of the Vietnam War as though it was a threat to national security and the protestors were simply cowards and druggies. He thought they should be drafted and sent to Vietnam as a way to teach them what the real world was like.
My ex-father-in-law who was basically a good man, a Marine wounded three times on Iwa Jima, suffered from PTSD, but was in denial and became enraged anytime I tried to tell to tell him what a mucked up situation Vietnam was and that I had seen almost immediately that we were fighting for the wrong side. He wouldn’t hear of it and I often got the “love-it-or-leave-it” line. After a few incidents of that kind, I kept it to myself. As for my friends, they could not seem to comprehend what I told them so, rather than alienate them further, or frighten my emotionally fragile wife, I just learned to shut up about it.
Q: The poem “Wildflowers” seems to address the changing public sentiment about the Vietnam War over the years. How did you experience your return to the States from that war. How does that affect you to this day?
A: If anything was lost in the assassination of John Kennedy, the war contributed to that loss of hope for a different kind of society in America, a society based on love rather hate, cooperation rather than competition, human values versus economic values, acceptance rather than rejection, openness rather than locked gates. Two things contributed to the disintegration of the hippie community—the war, and drugs. Vets returning from the war added to the burgeoning drug culture, brought back herpes and other venereal diseases, families broke apart, marriages failed, young people became cynical and discouraged by lies, fraud, and utter materialism. Other Americans feared the new freedoms; they reacted against it with police violence and legal retribution. Many dropped out. Many talents were lost. No one was listening.
Q: The title of the poem “Benediction” seems to be ironic, in light of the poem’s point of view. Did you, as a soldier feel let down by how the military dealt with spiritual concerns?
A: The chaplains I encountered were of two kinds: those who were really religious beings and those who were soldiers with collars. They were logically torn by their duty to the military and their duty as so-called men of God. There was really nothing they could say or do to provide honest answers to moral questions whose answers were obvious but could not be advocated because they would be contrary to the military mission. Most of the soldiers I knew didn’t have a strong religious belief; few attended services unless they were forced to. I went to confession once just so I could talk in private to someone. The man listened and was nice when I told him what I thought about the war, that I thought it was wrong, that we were fighting for rich people against poor people, slaughtering women and children with horrible weapons like napalm and scatter bombs, land mines and 50 millimeter machine guns. The only morality I found agreement about where I served was that we wanted to work together so that we could go home. The song we sang most often was not “That Old Rugged Cross,” but “We Gotta Get Out of This Place” by The Animals.
As for irony, I hope it can be heard in some way through most of the poems. It is one of the aspects of literature and art I most enjoy.
Of course, I think it must come naturally. True irony exists in nature. All we can do is try to catch it.