Why War Poetry is Like Rape Poetry

I have thought, ever since I began reading and writing poetry that poetry written by the warriors who return from battle and the poetry written by those who have experienced rape are eerily similar. This phenomenon was referenced in a piece on This American Life by a person who experienced rape and war and suffered PTSD. Listen here when it is available.

I am referencing other works in this poem as well:

Here, Bullet by Brian Turner

Daughterfuckers by me

Why War Poetry is Like Rape Poetry

Aside from the obvious

rape is a weapon in war
and a very cost-effective
high-yield weapon, at that

Aside from that

there is the trauma
the left-overs
the night-sweat screaming

And I am talking about the warriors here

not the populace
not the collateral damage
the war kind or the rape kind

‘cause I am a warrior, too, you know

ordered, without control
marching where and when told
my body not my own

I read Here, Bullet and I see myself

perched on a housetop
peering through scopes at the enemy
not sure who he was, is

I write Daughterfuckers and I see a soldier

told to suck it up
hiding the traumatic pain
wondering where to put the anger

It’s a wonder we survive at all

when we do, if we do
and the words we write-verboten
who wants to hear about that, anyway

House Guest

I was certain you were gone.
How did you get here?
Did you travel on the stream of air that flew me
home and back when Leonard died?
Were you visiting other gravesites and just happened to show up at his?

Did you think, now this would be some fun.
Let’s see how long it takes for her to notice me?
I never realized she could be so amusing.
Puff of air to the back of her neck and she brushes at me like a fly.
Wait until she is asleep and crawl into her dreams to play like old childhood friends.
Games of the mind and games of cops and robbers.
You be the dead one, I’m tired of that part.

Do you like to sit and watch me that way?
Don’t you get bored with fucking with my head?
Lord, you were always a hypersexual man.
Not getting any in the hereafter is getting to you isn’t it?
So here you are in my house in Texas trying to ramp up a little action.
All those years we spent apart before you died
left you with a mistaken impression of me.

I am not four now.
I am the Mother now.
I don’t take kindly to men who mess with my daughter
and, since I mother myself now, that includes me.
Dead or alive, with evil spirits to help you,
You
Are
No
Match
For
Me.

Be careful, dead Daddy. Oh, do be careful.
Since you are here, I can think of a few chores for you.
Take out the trash that you left in my childhood.
Scrub out the nightmares I had in the bed I shared with Julie.
While you are at it, mend the dreams you shattered.
Run out and get me something cool to wash down the choked back tears.
Oh, I think you are going to make yourself useful around here.

Maybe you could stay another week.

Eating My Words

Daddy, you are consuming my poetry.
Hungry for more of me than you ever cared to notice before.
I cannot write of cat’s whiskers and motes of dust in light streams.

Only you.

Dead and buried you live on in my creativity.
Spending more time with me now than when I was a tiny girl.
I sit with pencil and paper awaiting what has always flowed so freely.
Movement from the corner of the room shows you lounging against a wall,
tall frame of you, in taller frame of archway.
You cock your head and smirk, blue eyes chuckling merrily,
Open your mouth to speak, then don’t,
never revealing what amuses you so about my current discomfort.

You are here.

As surely as I took myself away from you those years ago,
saving myself and my child from your disdaining presence.
As surely as you looked right through me at a chance meeting in WalMart
not knowing until I blurted out, “I am Cindy, your daughter.”
As surely as you never stayed long in my life and brought havoc home when you did,
the way other fathers bring home souvenirs of pencils and t-shirts.
Why won’t you stay truly once and for all buried in the ground of Tennessee?
How did you find your way to Texas, and me, hungry for a piece of my mind?

Go away.

Or if you won’t, then let’s hear what you want
and get you gone
and exorcise whatever demons travel with you.
I don’t have space for them here.
This place of sanctuary is intended for me,
for my Ariane.
We already have a Daddy in residence
and he does nicely, thank you.
So wipe that smirk off your face and let’s get to it.
You want poems about you, well here they come.

Lunch is served.