My thirst for poetry was initiated by Al Kinger. "Write poetry", he mandated to me in his persuasive way, "to express the emotional facts (i.e. truth) in your life. Let you heart speak outloud." I struggled on my own, then enrolled in a downtown U of C class taught by HPer Claudia Traudt at the Graham Center. That helped, a lot.
Many of you remember Al Klinger as the attentive family physician who, in addition to your symptoms, was interested in the health of your body ("What are you eating now ?") and health of your mind ("What are you reading now ?"). For many years with offices in the Hyde Park Bank building, he enjoyed Kenwood living in Quint Young's (also a War-time vet) big house.
Al grew up in an immigrant enclave on the West Side of Chicago, was drafted into the Big War the moment he turned 18; as was I. He was sent to Europe; I to the Pacific. Early on he was painfully wounded. That trauma resulted in the determination to become a physician; the veterans' GI-bill made it possible.
Years later he wrote and gifted me (in the way fellows do) with this:
"I was not there. I was at home
close to warm arms, flesh and
drops of blood filling all corners
of who I thought I was.
I was not there. Yet and still
all around were cannon flashes
hurling shells lighting a starless sky.
Pounding carnivores ripping
the bellies of my intestinal lambs.
Devouring them. Leaving only
terror inside my eighteen-year body.
I yearned to be heroic
not yet knowing how to die,
how to endure shrieking pain
as it invades each breath,
ravishes each waking second.
With no vision of the Rhine below me,
its swift current indifferent to my morality,
the two blue-eyed blonds from
Tennessee and West Virginia
at my feet, without life.
An hour before we had been playing poker,
do not remember who was winning when
our Sergeant said "Pick a blade of grass."
I picked short, led the squad through brush
down the relentless rise. Branches tore our
jackets, bit at our soles. Never had they been
in contact with American khaki or boots.
And I never dreamed of being so far away,
so alone, so searching for something
in everlasting emptiness.
Years later, cycling along Rhine,
I paid homage to my blue-eyed
companions whose voices were filled
with the woods of their hill country, their
beautiful faces etched into me.
They linger in the sepia of my past.
I cannot remember their names."