Three Poems and a Prayer for Peace
By Niall Twohig
Three Boys
For Oleksandr ‘Sasha’ Ivanov, an 18-year-old aspiring neurosurgeon, who was shot dead while driving to retrieve his grandfather from a warzone.
I think of the boy, Sasha.
His hands –
leafing the textbook.
His hands –
gripping the dash.
(could’ve been
neurosurgeon’s hands,
calm in the midst)
I think of the boy, taking aim.
His hands –
chafed from the gloves.
His hands –
squeezing the trigger.
(could’ve been
neurosurgeon’s hands,
such precision)
And me.
My hands –
writing this,
handling the seeds
of the healer
of the killer
that are in me
that are in us all.
(Forgive me
if I am not calm.
Forgive me
if I lack precision)
6357 Miles
Rain
through eucalyptus trees
speckles my face.
Breathing in,
I feel your old tears
Pulled to the sky
rejoined in clouds,
traveling all this way.
Breathing out,
I breathe love
hoping some force,
like wind,
some container,
like cloud,
carries it your way
rains it down
upon you
rains it down
upon the one
who forces
your tears.
Why
I taught about George Winne Jr. today
who lit himself on fire
May, fifty-two years ago.
Why? Students ask.
For context I show the map
of 1000 lb. bombs
dropped on Southeast Asia —
the black mass
reminds me of
the cancer that
ate my da’s cheek
my wife’s breast.
Why?
I can’t settle for
I don’t know
because
I feel it:
This war machine
This profit machine
This imperial machine —
Day and night
It does its work
of grinding
crystal golden living breathing stardust
to a lifeless
pulp.
It never breaks,
never pauses,
never rests.
I feel its gears
around me now,
encircling now,
moving now —
enclosing minds,
constricting hearts,
shortening breath
tearing at
our Oversoul.
There really is
nowhere to retreat
when the whole world
has been set on fire.
You felt this too,
Winne,
Didn’t you
as your hand
wrote:
In God’s Name
End the War
A Prayer for Peace
I pray to you,
My God
who peeks through leaves
who speaks through wind
who resides in emptiness,
and in form.
I pray to you,
My God
whose Face is reflected
in those who remember,
who march in step,
whose chain-linked hands
break all chains.
I pray to you,
My God
whose Eye allows me to see
behind this grape —
the sun, the worker’s hand,
her daily bread,
her joys and sufferings.
I pray to you,
My God
whose Eye allows me to see
behind the gnarled face —
hateful seeds planted,
long ago,
by gnarly hands.
I pray to you,
My God
whose Eye allows me to see
Behind the I —
an empty vessel
filled by all things,
all love,
all hate,
all peace,
all war,
the living
and the dead.
I pray to you,
My God
Whose Breath is
My breath
Whose Word is
my word.
With Breath,
With Word,
I become this prayer —
this prayer for peace.
