“They have their beauty
But night’s is better”—wrote
Jeffers, in ‘51,
On the quarrels of his age,
The cold and world wars.
Friends, the cold pleasure
Of war is pleasant indeed,
And beautiful—Mars has
More undone than Venus—
Man, like ant, the martial
Race. But night’s is better.
“Better to be silent than make
A noise; better to strike
Dead, than strike often—
Better not to strike.”
The paradox of war:
The heart is made for war.
Only the brain will win it.
The soldier holds his hate
In a cage: for fire only,
Not direction. The soldier
Always takes pleasure
In a fight. He never fights
For pleasure. His glory
Is order and security.
Night’s beauty is better.
To blow up a tank,
Shoot an enemy officer—
Divine. Peace is better.
Ambush it with that same
Cold pleasure; scent it
Coming and lay trap—
Peace, this object of war,
Is rarely lost by the soldier,
Mistress of his own hate.
The paradox of peace:
Peace is the toy of the peaceful,
The toddler with a Fabergé,
Cast careless from his crib
For the glow and flash of bombs,
The bullet’s sexy whine,
Cold pleasure of the hit—
Even death a dream
Of blissful suicide—
Civil war is always
A civilian project.
The hot ones are bad.
The cold ones are worse:
Mars will not heal them.
“And often save without
Love.” Reaching the hand
Inside the fist is the project
Of the strong and not the weak.
“It is better not to strike.”