Poetry ain't for sissies

A remembrance.

He was a West Virginia farm boy.
His name was Walton, Cpl. John.
I s**t thee not; we called him John Boy.

Two bunks down from me
in a barracks at Fort sux Dix, NJ,
he would write poetry after lights out
by penlight. Drill Sergeants called him a sissy
when one of the recruits hung a poem in the chow hall
that Boy had written about missing his little sister.

Boy could weave a line from Whitman
or Frost or Byron, even Emily
flawlessly into a conversation.
I would try hard as hell to keep a straight face.
Boy never cracked a smile. No one else ever caught on.
Funny as hell. And pretty damn cool.

Like during the class on E and E
when asked to summarize lessons learned.
"Resist much. Obey little, Drill Sergeant".
He earned a smoke break for that.

When asked where his home was during an inspection
by the company commander, Boy replied
"Perhaps it is everywhere-on water and land" or
"under the soles of your boots, Captain".  
That one got him two days KP.

Most famously, when asked how battles are lost he replied
"Battles are lost in the same spirit as which they are won, Drill Sergeant".
That one got a big Ooorah and earned him his corporal stripe.
Drill Sergeant wasn't sure what he meant, but liked the sound of it.

We were stationed together for almost two years, Boy and I.
We deployed together. He would scribble by penlight in the bunker,
then scramble across the sand and call in close-air, then back to the poem
while the ground was still shaking, constantly blowing sand off of his journal.

Boy was hit in the left femur by a sniper round one night
while calling artillery coordinates down range.
He always left his field book in his sleeping bag.
I looked through it before it was gathered up
with the rest of his gear for shipping over to Ramstein.

Eighty-three pages of f*****g awesome poetry about his daddy's farm,
his grandfather's mountain home, the snowy woods during deer season,
the first girl he loved, dogwoods in bloom, his mother's death in an auto accident.
A beagle pup that he once had.

Boy went home to West Virginia with one less leg.
I called him one Christmas a few years ago
after finding his phone number through a mutual friend.
We shot the usual s**t. We were both a little drunk.
I asked Boy if he still wrote poetry. He said no,
he didn't have time with all the booze that needed drinking.
Not much left to write about, he said. Anyway, poetry's for sissies. 

5/17/14

Reviews

[IvorySunshine]

It's sad that society has labeled men who write poetry as 'sissies'. I literally went 'oh' with the last stanza. Well written
100/100

[Rick r]

Thank you much, Ivory.

[Nusquam Esse]

This is a heavy write, especially at the end. Sad how such talent can be lost, and the ambition to write it. Really makes you think, how many amazing works have been lost, and never seen by the world, because of things like this.

[Rick r]

Thank you, Nusquam. Yes, a loss there. JB had a talent cut short.
rick

[W.k.kortas]

It's a hell of a story, and would fit nicely in Boy's field book.