| Poetry by John E. Cashwell |
About The Author:
John E. Cashwell is the author of four highly imaginative
novels, twelve short stories, fifty short poems, and the
new, acclaimed six-book epic poem Toishan. He has over
forty years advertising, marketing and copy writing
experience, most notably responsible for helping to
launch the Panasonic brand to consumers in North
America. A former US Marine and a graduate of Duke
University, John lives on the Albemarle Plantation in
Hertford, North Carolina, where he enjoys writing,
fitness training and golf with his wife of forty-six years,
Ann M. Cashwell.
John E. Cashwell is the author of four highly imaginative
novels, twelve short stories, fifty short poems, and the
new, acclaimed six-book epic poem Toishan. He has over
forty years advertising, marketing and copy writing
experience, most notably responsible for helping to
launch the Panasonic brand to consumers in North
America. A former US Marine and a graduate of Duke
University, John lives on the Albemarle Plantation in
Hertford, North Carolina, where he enjoys writing,
fitness training and golf with his wife of forty-six years,
Ann M. Cashwell.
NUI CO TIEN
THE CITADEL
THE LETTER
THE CITADEL
THE LETTER
RETURN TO TOP
“Nui Co Tien”
Faerie Mountain you are called
Nestled below soft white clouds
And a perfect blue sky
In Hon Chong Tie
A large, magnificent stone promontory
Jutting out into the South China Sea.
Your huge hand print
Carved into a single large bolder
The drunken escapade
Of a lovesick giant misspent.
Ogling a lovely female fairy
Not too far for you to reach
Bathing in the nude
Down there on Faerie Beach.
Running now, the object of your reverie
To capture in the palm of your hand
Despite your most aggressive behavior
A new life together to begin.
An affront to the Faerie Gods
There under a warm and favorable sun
Angry at the two of you
For what you have done.
And what are these Gods to say?
Of what do they know?
Sending you so far away
A thousand years for your insult to repay.
Your beautiful female fairy
Waiting centuries for you to return
Sad and heartbroken
She lay down and turned into stone.
The peak on the right her majestic face
Gazing up at the sky
The middle peaks her two inviting breasts
And on the left, her crossed legs at rest.
Till one day the giant did come again
To the very spot of his fallen Queen
Whereupon he did slam down his hand
Onto that bolder in the side of this land.
And thereto did gaze down once again
Where he had first seen her
Bathing on the beach
Now so grief stricken he too turned to stone.
And thus although thwarted
By their illicit affair
Choosing a carefree but tragic ending
These two lovers did remain true to each other . . .
Forever.
©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
Faerie Mountain you are called
Nestled below soft white clouds
And a perfect blue sky
In Hon Chong Tie
A large, magnificent stone promontory
Jutting out into the South China Sea.
Your huge hand print
Carved into a single large bolder
The drunken escapade
Of a lovesick giant misspent.
Ogling a lovely female fairy
Not too far for you to reach
Bathing in the nude
Down there on Faerie Beach.
Running now, the object of your reverie
To capture in the palm of your hand
Despite your most aggressive behavior
A new life together to begin.
An affront to the Faerie Gods
There under a warm and favorable sun
Angry at the two of you
For what you have done.
And what are these Gods to say?
Of what do they know?
Sending you so far away
A thousand years for your insult to repay.
Your beautiful female fairy
Waiting centuries for you to return
Sad and heartbroken
She lay down and turned into stone.
The peak on the right her majestic face
Gazing up at the sky
The middle peaks her two inviting breasts
And on the left, her crossed legs at rest.
Till one day the giant did come again
To the very spot of his fallen Queen
Whereupon he did slam down his hand
Onto that bolder in the side of this land.
And thereto did gaze down once again
Where he had first seen her
Bathing on the beach
Now so grief stricken he too turned to stone.
And thus although thwarted
By their illicit affair
Choosing a carefree but tragic ending
These two lovers did remain true to each other . . .
Forever.
©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
“The Letter”
In the address
Never a geographical
Location
To find the beholder
Requiring a different
Motivation
Armies move
And the mail follows
The soldiers.
In the Army
The postal
System
Is always, at its core,
Bordering on nineteenth-century
Lore
Making life want to last
A while longer
During the war.
Taken from the body
Of an American
Lieutenant
It was a precursor
Of love’s last
Remnant
An everlasting writing
Of clinging, then parting,
That sorrow can borrow.
From person to person
Handed by
Couriers
Making its way
From civilian to soldier
Slowly
Urging the recipient
By its perfume of life
To fight another day.
Yet for some
A harsher fate to
Encounter
The recipient, the sender
Or maybe both
Are dead
Before the letter
Lost in the clutter
Is ever read.
Her youth now faded
Her body heavy and
Worn
In her hand
Her only letter finally
Returned
Accompanied with thousands
Of absentee ballots
War torn.
She comes to the Wall
A grandmother of
Seven
A life fulfilled with familiar
Happiness, and some pain,
Given
Forty years after
That letter of enduring love
She had penned.
No answer received
Left her loath to write a
Follow
Of the new life stirring within
She would find a different path
Less hollow
For her oldest child
Conceived on the eve of war
Belongs to him.
Killed in their youth
A nation only now able to
Morn
Cry not the years bygone
For they are forever
Young
All those whose names are carved
Into a new and shining wall
Of black-granite stone.
Decorations are few
The memorial is its
Own
A spray of flowers
A Christian Bible
Solemn
Her only letter after 40 years
She finally
Delivers.
She wonders at what
Other mourners might
Think
A rumpled, aged letter
Among the flowers so
Sweet
Laid silently upon
This ground so
Reverent.
Then a final touch
So tentative by her
Hand
Upon his name,
Just one of 58,000,
Briceland
Whispering words
Held so long in her heart . . .
“I loved this man.”
©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
“The Citadel”
Ancient
Three-part enclosure
Are you:
Outer wall
So thick and wide
Over two kilometers
On each side
All lit up with floodlights
And Chinese lanterns too
That in the dark night
Do gently sway
Decorated for the
Holiday.
Across the ornamental bridge
To the Imperial Enclosure
Where the
Emperor’s Palace is open
A huge dark structure
Aloof
Made of stone
With a traditional
Tiled roof
Whose entrance hall,
Both long and a surprise,
Shines with red and black
Lacquered wood
Gilded golden dragons
And green demons
With glassy eyes.
Then deeper inside
To the
Forbidden Purple City
An inner sanctum
Where Emperors enjoyed
Their privacy and lechery
Only Emperors, eunuchs,
And concubines
Allowed here.
Little left now of The Purple City
No emperors
No eunuchs
No concubines
Just wide expanses
And broken foundation walls
Where buildings once stood
So tall
A few Westerners here and there
Some speaking English:
“Our American military
Bombed these architectural treasures
Into rubble . . .
We leave death and destruction
Wherever we go. Nothing but trouble”
Then for their picture taking
A quick change of demeanor
All carefree now and smiling.
My response quick and grim:
“Did you know
This city was destroyed
During the Tet Truce
By an army of Communists
Soldiers without regard or fear
For the Holiest Night
Of the Buddhist year?”
“Did you know
Communist political cadres
Executed 3,000 men,
Women and children
Shooting, bashing in
Their heads, and
Burying them alive
Without any sign of dread?”
Right here in Hue
Where the citizens
Are always better dressed
More sophisticated
Than the Viets
South of the Hai Van Pass . . .
No one smiling now.
In my dreams
The Purple River
Runs to the sea
Flowing fast
Winter rains
Making it rush past
The bodies of the dead men
Floating downstream
So many you could walk
To the other side
Across their backs
A moment of memory lost
Like some gruesome and unholy
Ghost.
Inside the Chu Chi tunnels,
Some extending
Two hundred miles long
Winding like a lonesome
Song,
The percussion grenades
Float the VC up
Like fish in a stream
Then quick green tracers
Leaving my fatigue
Pants soiled with
With brown stains
Till one empty magazine
After another
Fills the hollowed out earth
With browner yet bodies
And sweat and steam
There in the Bin Dinh Valley
In repressed, inhumane dreams.
Too soon, two co-deps
In purple ao dais
Walking by
Giggling and pointing
At me,
“Hãy đen xem! Hãy đen xem!
Chúc Mừng Năm MớI”
©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]