Poem post: We Lived Happily During the War

[radiantfracture]

We Lived Happily During the War
By Ilya Kaminsky

And when they bombed other people’s houses, we

protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not

enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America

was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.

I took a chair outside and watched the sun.

In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money

in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)

lived happily during the war.

* * * * * *

An old one (2013), probably familiar, but one of those poems that feels to me like it has always existed, that each word is inevitable.

Pádraig Ó Tuama has a Poetry Unbound episode about this poem, and gives a wonderful reading of it.

O'Tuama asks a beautiful question: "who is in your household?"

What do you notice in the poem?

I notice the enjambment, the way the line breaks press the thought into us like a reed into clay. When the speaker talks about the actions of the "we", the line breaks do a lot of work:

                And when they bombed other people’s houses, we

--followed by a line break and then a full stanza break, and then "protested." That is, the space tells us -- there was delay, hesitation, incompleteness, insufficiency.

                but not enough, we opposed them but not

-- again, there's a full stanza break before the second "enough." In that gap between "not" and "enough," I hear things like "not so much that it would get the "us" in real trouble."

And also "enough" standing by itself asks, as Ó Tuama asks: what would be enough?

The poem can also be found at the Poetry Foundation. It opens Kaminsky's collection Deaf Republic, which tells a kind of parable about resistance to tyrrany in a town called Vasenka. (I am hunting up a copy now.)

{rf}

Comments

[calimac]

"but not enough"

So what would be enough?

[elusis]

Ask Aaron Bushnell.

[sabotabby]

That's enough in its extremity, and I feel so awful for him and admire his courage, but I also think we don't need more dead people. It's possible that the death of an American serviceman will prompt some change that 30,000 dead Palestinians doesn't, but. I'm thinking people in the harbours blocking arms shipments, or shutting down factories, is probably closer to what I'd consider "enough."

[radiantfracture]

So what would be enough?

Right? Ó Tuama says that's the question the speaker is asking from within the "us" -- what would feel like enough?

Me, I hear it as two questions (or kinds of question) overlaid or sort of shimmering together: what action would truly have a meaningful effect? Do I even have that power? and/or what action would assuage my empathy and shame? (Because it's not just shame -- if it is shame, or guilt, it comes first from empathy.)

I have lived more or less happily during every war of the last five decades -- unhappy in the fact of them, but able to lead my life; and even now that a something violent and almost martial is directed against trans people just one province away, for the most part, I live happily, though very afraid for trans folks younger than me.

And what would be, in the face of that fear, enough? I ask myself this all the time, and have, like the speaker, no answer.

[calimac]

I'd suggest that people who have no answer shouldn't berate themselves, or others, quite so much for not achieving it.

[radiantfracture]

I can absolutely see your reading here, and it’s possible that’s what Kaminsky intended. But berating isn’t how I use this poem in my life, and it’s not what I am trying to say to another reader by posting it. The poem hurts me, but it also helps me to look more clearly, and I am grateful to it for that.

The poem I posted after this, my own, was written by the light of Kaminsky’s; without his clarity I couldn’t have gotten to mine (for whatever it is worth).

[sabotabby]

I love this poem.

[sovay]

An old one (2013), probably familiar, but one of those poems that feels to me like it has always existed, that each word is inevitable.

This may have been the first poem I read by Ilya Kaminsky. If not, it was the first one that made me take note of his name (and read as much of his poetry as I could get my hands on). I actually thought of it yesterday, reading this poem, much more recent.

[egret]

Thank you for this post. Great poem. Sadly so timely.

[radiantfracture]

And he wasn't even talking about these wars.