Duramen Rose

By Andrew L. Roberts

WWI

the Spanish Flu

a boy who runs away to war

and struggles to find his way home

again thereafter

soldiers, hobos, dead men, and his Valkyrie

a modern American epic of war and innocence lost

this is Duramen Rose

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew L. Roberts
• Release date: Jul 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201969554

Book preview

Dedication:

For my brother Joe who gave me my first words, and all the good things that make me who I am.

For my Father and for my Great Uncle Frank, for the most obvious reasons.

For my friend Summer Fletcher, and the conversation that first inspired Duramen’s story.

For Earl, John, Clare, Cliff and Ashley — dear friends all — who read these poems in their most primitive drafts.

And for Dene Brimmicombe-Wood, the stranger across the sea in England whose kind words after reading this book convinced me that I had written something of true worth.

I only saw the beginning on my own, but the middle and the ending came through grace.

Thank you

Sessrumnir

This is the red place

the place where we tell our stories

standing here before the fire

the newly dead

stripped down to nothing but our essentials

bare as the newly born

we display our wounds and our scars

some are still raw

others faded and pale

composing the roadmaps of our victories

and of our defeats

but it doesn’t pay to count which are which

there’s no glory in it

but together

we’ll unwind the skeins of our lives

talk them out

using our best songs and plainest words

trying to make heads or tails of

who we are

how we lived

and how we died

it makes for a long night

so much talk

the laughter and the tears

all bound and married to so much guilt

and remorse

slow dancing with our used-up pride

but that’s okay

this is our solstice

and we’re waiting for the sunrise

but I’m a lousy storyteller

I’ll admit that right now

I don't know how to put it all together

not in a single straight line

going from the very beginning

to the very end

all neat and clean

and telling it that way

wouldn’t make much sense

my thread has too many knots

too many tangles

like me it’s a mess

so I’ll start I guess with the woman

who brought me to this place

I’ll start with Eir.

Eir

The first time we met

was in the churchyard

she was on horseback

I heard her before I saw her

and I will never forget that voice

bright as a good axe ringing against

heartwood

and her words

so sharp about the edges

hard and yet not quite so

powerful —

I guess that’s what I’m trying to say

powerful —

though it did not come to me at the time

I was soaked clean through and freezing

half-buried in mud

my dead German still lying on top of me

he and I had fought the night before

I’d been bayoneted in the side

and was already a dead man

even before he shot me

his bullet

tore through my left shoulder

clean

with the hum of an angry hornet

and the crack of breaking branch

but it didn’t slow me down

I was too mean

we banged into each other

making the sound of two oven mitts

being clapped together

that big sort of woomph! sound

you know the one

and when we fell we fell down hard

with my trench knife and its brass knuckles

buried deep in the center of his chest

I figured

we were both going to die together

so enemy or not

after everyone else had fallen

and the guns had gone quiet

I slipped my arms around him

pulled him close and held him tight

he didn’t resist

seemed to understand

he pressed his cheek against my throat

and we both

wept

then he shuddered

died real sudden and ugly

but I kept on holding him

the rain came and the rain went

over and over again

all through the night

with me waiting for my own death

slow

so slow in its coming

morning brought gray mist and no sun

there was a bitterness in the air

just a hint of chlorine

drifting in from the somewhere

beyond the trees

it wasn’t enough to do any damage

but it was there

an ugly rumor

ready to kill anyone who wasn’t already dead

I couldn’t feel my hands or legs anymore

and the woman on the horse —

she was speaking with the two farmers

who stood over me

they were robbing the dead as good farmers will

when their fields have been plowed under by artillery

and she had arrived as they were about to bash in my skull

the larger man had a hammer

and the other

who moved like a rat

was tugging at my right hand

holding a straight razor

eager for my granddad’s ring

and that pissed me off bad

but there was no fight left in me

and the woman —

I couldn’t have been seeing her too clearly

but she was real all right

yellow haired and tall

dressed in a long gray cloak

perched way up high atop a dappled mare

and even now

when I close my eyes

I can still smell the horse’s sweat

mixing with the woman’s strange perfume

honey and hemlock and something else

so different from the stink of mud, blood and shit

and still

all the same

I knew

I knew

it was just another smell of death

the men were speaking in hurried French

she in slow Dutch I think

first everything was polite

then the tone of the conversation turned sideways

went from discussion to argument in a matter of

six 

seven

maybe eight heartbeats

then there was a loud bang and flash of light

followed by another and a third

after that everything was silent among the graves

with only the woman and her horse left upright

dismounting

she picked her way

between the headstones among which we’d fought

loomed over me

staring for a time

thinking I guess

working out some sort of decision

about what to do with me

then she knelt

pulled away my dead German

and with the corner of her cloak

wiped the mud from my face

then she spoke 

said something I couldn’t understand

and when I didn’t answer

she looked into my eyes

leaned in real close

and inhaled my breath

I felt it plain as day

all intimate and unnerving

beautiful even

and up close

her face was so bright

pretty and handsome too

milk and strawberries 

surrounded by corn silk

but moonlight cold and polished iron smooth

and those eyes

God

those eyes

then she kissed me right on the lips

shocked me

tasting like dandelions and sunshine

like summer

and home.

Home

There’s always someplace

that wears that word

be it a city

a mountain

or some farm

mine was Eden

a small town

lost in a sea of trees and hidden meadows

not far from the Oregon Border

a world of redwood and cedar

with that one sacred grove of Douglas Fir

where we cut our Christmas trees each December

it was a place of hard work

mutilation and broken bones

a place of frequent pain

punctuated by fits of quick laughter

and good fist fights

a place where everything

felt

clear-cut

honest

true

and true in that spiritual sort of sense

that can’t be bound in a single book

or list of rules

I wish I had not lost my innocence so soon

but I know now the world is anything but simple

half of what surrounds us moves in a blur

while the rest remains impossible to see

let alone take aim upon

what stands still is either dead

or soon will be

and that thought makes me tremble

inside

makes me shake

like a hunter who’s watched his quarry too long

because as any sharpshooter must confess

eventually your target gets inside of you

becomes a part of you

he is no longer an it

he is you

indistinguishable

and once that happens

if you are able to squeeze the trigger

you’ll find yourself wondering after

what part of myself did I just end?

was it the good or was it the bad?

but it doesn’t matter how you answer

because once the bullet flies

there is no calling it back

and I seldom missed

my lieutenant called it my talent

I suppose it could be such

if murder were an art

instead of what it truly is

before the war

I was already a fair shot

but I never cared for hunting

I liked my deer and quail living

pork always suited me better on the table

and beans —

oh how I loved our neighbor Mrs. Pimentel’s beans

along with her Morcela

and her sweet Folar

freshly baked and steaming

as though every day was Easter morning

I can still see it

waiting at the center of the table

on her favorite fancy plate

with the painted rooster

standing beside it

I loved that woman’s cooking

and think I loved her daughter even more

once upon a time

I am sure of it

though it gets harder for me to believe

that América could ever have loved me

América and home.

América

Amy — for short

named by her grandfather Anthony

for all the hopes and dreams

he carried away from the Island of Faial

she with her nut brown skin even in the winter

molasses black eyes —

large as a doe’s

and her cedar burl hair —

all swirls of copper and honey

she was my first kiss

and I hers

she made me feel alive just being near her

a smile and laugh you couldn’t contain

no matter how hard you might try

I know

those are funny thoughts

for a dead man

yet I lost her

gave her away

ran away

became a soldier

what a fool

and she after three long years of waiting

surrendered

found someone else who was

not a soldier

not a fool

someone who wasn’t me

I thought of her

every night on the transport ship

slow steaming across the Atlantic

surrounded by cigarette smoke and seasick men

all vomit and false bravado

it was easier to miss her in that tedium

but when we reached the front

I couldn’t even begin to recall her face.

too bad for me I suppose

so much better for her I’m sure

but it was a good lesson

wasted on a lousy kid

and isn't that how it always works?

the most important lessons

we learn too late

at least that’s how I learned all mine

every single damned one

especially with Amy Pimentel

princess to our Holy Ghost Queen

América

my first and almost

love.

Departure

In our town we were Portuguese mostly

and Greeks

there were some Swedes and Danes too

an abundance of Irish and a few Mexican families

yet in our talk

and in our bones

we were all the same

in spite of any hyphen we might wear

we knew how to get along

we had no choice

real Europeans — the ones I met later

they were a confusion to me

I couldn’t see the difference between

Austrians and Germans

and the French

and all politics tangled between them

well

that was a mystery of which I had no interest

in unraveling

I was a kid after all

and satisfied with knowing what

I