TSM 197

There is no poem here, just my uncle
in the first hours of August 6th, 1945
watching in darkness the Enola Gay gain speed
on runway Able, North Field, Tinian Island.

Mid-morning the sky – a blue and turquoise axe handle – 
swings down a flaming red blade
on Hiroshima. He said they saw the light
1,500 miles away, a second dawn.

No poem. Talked with the ground crews, 
went to mess, played poker 
with his tail gunner 
and the navigator.

Will meaning come later, if ever?
If he drew to a flush of hearts, he does not remember.
Or if Tokyo Rose played Blue Skies
on the radio.

The Sunday Muse

17 thoughts on “TSM 197

  1. This is an amazement of a poem. Very sobering to think of that flash of light like a second dawn. It is incomprehensible, the things humans do to each other. The supposedly “wild” ones must think we are all mad. (Sort of proving it in Canada these days.)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Those last lines–man. I really admire where you took this, and the axe metaphor for the sky worked perfectly–the relative brevity just provides more force to the swing, and at the end I’m seeing a thousand years of evolution boiling down to the biggest stick and the most murderous heart, while the unaware tribe gets called in to make it happen ‘for the greater good.” Fine writing, qbit.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you. I’ve never known how to write about this piece of family/human history, how any art (or artifice) of mine wouldn’t take away more than it could add. I was surprised it found expression here but am glad for it. Hopefully “less is more.”

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Brilliant and startling, just as the flash from the detonation. This is my favorite:
    “Mid-morning the sky – a blue and turquoise axe handle –
    swings down a flaming red blade”
    Still can’t wrap my mind around it either…

    Liked by 1 person

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