ONE HAND CONTINUES ITS CLAPPING …..

A Poem by Stefanie Bennett

(Remembering Monsanto & Dow Chemicals)

Feel in colour. The destruction of sound
Is mild green, terminable.

Easy on the eyes; paint ash or lilac
As if they could not see.

Tri-colour the body from the head’s pivot
To the realm of the Candytuft’s sad soul

And tread by the throats of flowers,
The scents or morning, the air’s

Dominion. Feel. Feel in colour! Where
The black hatband has

Nowhere to rest, and the white glove
Claps farewell…

Agent Orange ‘And Beyond Monsanto and Dow Chemicals': AFTER THE FALL

A Poem by Stefanie Bennett

– in memory of Mike

And I will love you because
The world never did.
And I will cloak you in syllables
To keep inquiring eyes at bay.
And I will cover our footprints
So daringly
That no-one will ask
Ever again –
For a sequel to love and loveliness.

And you will love me because
The world never did.
Because the gentleness of fortitude
Is a hard act to follow.
And we will scrape up
Our worldly ruins
To begin building this
Hectare of the heart
Cupped between the planet’s breast.

Know that the quiet doctrines will be
As fragile
As your face.
And the direction –
Clear as a single bird-call
Across the idioms
Of free space…

In a land where no wall stands
We will meet
And set our lives
To the the order
Of metaphysical things.
We will love
Because
The world never did – and
Give back what
Was never taken

… When the time comes.

HEARTLAND-HOMECOMING

A Poem by Stefanie Bennett

–after Monsanto & Dow Chemicals

Pick them up, the raw percentages
I’ve no longer any wish to carry.
These days I wrestle with the absolute.

Much is left over. The titan
Impersonating Zeus’ loss.
The white witch who sells

Found fortunes at the half hour.
The sack-clothed singer
With the cracked voice and sad accordion.

New league missionaries. Bionic bards.
Assurance satirists. I’d bagged
The lot in some begotten springtime.

It was the evening my brother
Returned from the war.
Quarter mooned – unlike himself

But with the sameness of quaint indolence.
Quieter than
Our mother’s grave. Speech therapy

Would put a fix to that. It never did.
Years viced his silence
… Lent me mine. I learned

Communication’s a game fit to kill,
Squander, maim – or
Tell untruths when amnesia wills.

Our sanatorium Sunday walks avoid
What it is that’s left over.
In the distance I see them

Impersonating posthumously those they’ll
Not become. Raw percentages
Crying still to be
Lifted up!

Why I Can’t Be Poetic

A Prose/Poem/Essay by Richard D. Hartwell

I write poetry, some of it good, but when I started to compose verse about the impact of Dow, Monsanto and my government on Vietnam, I cried. I just couldn’t put into poetic from the residual ills of Agent Orange on that gorgeous country and its beautiful people. I ache for it and for them and for me.I have no venom for the damage done to my flesh. For my minute part in the American War; yes, the American War, not the Vietnam War; I insist on that when I sit alone in the VA hospital–for my small part, I carry several scars, some outside, some inside, some from metal, some from chemicals. And I carry burdens of remorse that no labeled syndrome can encompass. Of this or these, my wife learned only recently, nearly forty-five years after the fact. That is my personal problem, dealt with after divorce and booze and drugs and tears and nightmares: personal.

Dow, Monsanto, Washington

– Are you all still with me? There is a public part to this as well:My first wife, Esther, gave birth to our son John in 1968. He committed suicide in 2004, after living with the rapid ravages of multiple sclerosis.

One of John’s two sons was diagnosed as developmentally delayed.

Esther had a spontaneous delivery of another son, Nathaniel, in 1971; he died within twenty-four hours, defective, premature.

My second and current wife, Sally, gave birth to our daughter Jaime in 1976. She has a genetic birth defect and is both physically and mentally challenged. She still lives with us.

Sally delivered our son, Joshua, in 1979. He struggled in school and was in special education classes throughout middle and high school. He and his ex-wife and two children live with us.

One of Joshua’s two children, while very young still, appears to be delayed in speech skills.

Our third child, Justin, has emphatically decided not to have any children.

None of this is poetic. All of this is prosaic. However, the odds of these afflictions affecting the progeny of a single sire are astronomic, unless, of course, he scouted the dead orange jungle as well as the healthy green one.

No, I have no venom for the damage done to my flesh. As for the damage I’ve done to my soul, I continue to seek absolution that has not been forthcoming. But for the damage done to my family, to my children, and to their children–yes, I do have venom. I have a personal poison that bubbles to the surface whenever I see the struggles made by them. And then I see the pictures of a reunited Vietnam

Struggling with the residual poisons left to flow and fester through generations, and I realize how lucky I am.My government refused to accept responsibility for my children’s problems, but I had a job and we’ve gotten along. The same cannot be said for those suffering still in the aftermath of the chemical warfare created and produced by Dow and Monsanto and knowingly used by that same government that denies responsibility for John, Nathaniel, Jaime, Joshua, and perhaps my grandchildren too.

It’s hard to generalize when it’s so personal. It’s hard to be poetic when it’s so public.