Yusef Komunyakaa - Hanoi Hannah

I take my poetry before I take my music.  I will follow a poet before I follow a musician.  For me, poetry is more capable of a linguistic rhythm, a natural expression of speech, an attempt to express the human spirit.  I don’t always get that from song lyrics sung.  When I do happen across words to a song that I like, it’s more likely that I will read it or recite it as poetry.  Having said that, there is something about a song and music that can preserve emotional memory so that every time you hear the particular song again, even years later, you’re taken back to being nineteen or whenever, and you recall the smells, the taste, the vision, the history of events that once played out in front of your eyes while you were transitioning with that music.  My favourite poem for this post does some of that.  It centres on the Viet Nam war and offers nostalgia through a weave of popular song titles and artists who would have been well known to American troops at the time, along with typical propaganda lines from ‘Hanoi Hannah’ (real name, Trinh Thi Ngo).  ‘Hanoi Hannah’ who was given her nickname by American troops, was a North Vietnamese radio announcer who broadcast propaganda in English.  The poem is by the American poet, Yusef Komunyakaa, and is titled, Hanoi Hannah.  Komunyakaa himself, served in Viet Nam so writes from experience.  Here it is, Hanoi Hannah.

Hanoi Hannah

(Yusef Komunyakaa,  1947 - )

 

Ray Charles!  His voice

calls from waist-high grass,

& we duck behind gray sandbags.

“Hello, Soul Brothers.  Yeah,

Georgia’s also on my mind.”

Flares bloom over the trees.

“Here’s Hannah again.

Let’s see if we can’t

light her goddamn fuse

this time.”  Artillery

shells carve a white arc

against dusk.  Her voice rises

from a hedgerow on our left.

“It’s Saturday night in the States.

Guess what your woman’s doing tonight.

I think I’ll let Tina Turner

Tell you, you homesick GIs.”

Howitzers buck like a herd

of horses behind concertina.

“You know you’re dead men,

don’t you?  You’re dead

as King today in Memphis.

Boys, you’re surrounded by

General Tran Do’s division.”

Her knife-edge song cuts

Deep as a snipers bullet.

“Soul Brothers, what are you dying for?”

We lay down a white-klieg

trail of tracers.  Phantom jets

fan out over the trees.

Artillery fire zeros in.

Her voice grows flesh

& we can see her falling

into words, a bleeding flower

no one knows the true name for.

“You’re lousy shots, GIs.”

Her laughter floats up

as though the airways are

buried under our feet.

 

You know, I started writing this post more than a week ago now.  I’ve never read anything else by Yusef Komunyakaa – never heard of him until this poem was in a rock and roll and poetry anthology amongst forty poetry books a bloke was selling on Gumtree for twenty dollars the lot down at Budgewoi, but that’s another story ….  So I really like Hanoi Hannah – not only for how it reads, but because it takes me back to a familiar era.  Right, wrong or indifferent, we had a war, we had music and it’s great that somebody captured the memory of that as poetry.  So I’m interested in Komunyakaa, and I decide to do some research before I go and hit the ‘post’ button, and I’m struck by a couple of events in this poet’s life.  First, I feel he’s almost family when I discover Yusef was once married to an Aussie novelist, Mandy Sayer – married for 10 years – a bit of Aussie influence must have rubbed off in that time, surely.  Then I read of tragedy when another wife, Reetika Vazirani (also a poet), murdered her and Yusef’s two year old son before taking her own life – such tragedy.  It stuns me, the stark events that surprise in the lives of successful and public poets.  Here I am, private, not read, and spared such trials of which I doubt I could find the strength to endure.  It causes me to approach the work differently.

Reading Hanoi Hannah, I’m reminded of my own time when the songs had to be played over and over again, burning a track in my memory, accompanied by a video of current events recording in real time, when my emotion was my heart and I burst to express it, not just to tell of it, and it’s the music that relives itself in the poor attempt of my words.
My poem for this post is a piece I wrote many years ago when I was a very young sailor being ferried in an era of special song.

  1972.  Six month ANZUK deployments ‘up top’.  Vietnam was still on but winding down; for us, anyway.  The daily routine at sea was relaxed; shorts and a pair of sandals; lazy days; good days; we looked forward to port visits.

70’s at Sea

 

Those were the days

of suede leather coats

beneath brown fur collars,

wine colored burgundy suits

in a page boy style,

The Carpenters on reel to reel,

‘Such a feeling coming over me,

there’s won-der

in most every-thing I see’

Santana

in a deserted

dark bar

on a road

between Chong Peng & Nee Soon,

lonely,

lonely for companionship,

ceiling fans in nondescript rooms

on sultry

tropical nights,

days of blue at sea,

blue sky

with silent vapour trails of B-52’s

departing, closing VietNam,

hot days,

lifeless in the South China Sea,

asleep on a Burbank fender

X-deck,

Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazlewood

‘Some velvet morning ……

when I'm straight

I'm gonna open up your gate

and maybe tell you 'bout Phaedra

and how she gave me life

and how she made it in ………’

big tall negroes

dressed

in full length leather coats,

soft grey

black

& wide-brimmed hats

hand slapping

on street corners in Wanchai,

beautiful asian bar-girls,

laughing chatty,

you crazy,

them mens crazy,

spend too long in the jungle,

beer bourbon & coke

sick on sour whiskey

staggering back on board,

dreams of home & white young girls

who care,

The Sandpipers ‘Come Saturday Morning’

to role play with Liza Minelli

over & over again,

hot days in boiler room air-locks,

breath taken away

with the dry steam heat, ‘flowers

growing on the hill,

dragonflies & daffodils,

learn from us

very much,

look at us

but do not touch,

Phaedra is my name ………..’

 

taken away by the dry steam heat.

                                                             J. O. White

 

 

Shep Woolley - Roll on my Time

Our ANZAC day has passed for another year.  There's a tradition I have with a few of my shipmates in the local area – we meet up at the local returned services club – Swansea RSL, and we drink a few beers and relive memories and tell the same old yarns.  Funny thing is we don’t see each other the rest of the year, but we all know we’re there for each other if needed.  That’s how it is, once in the brotherhood of the Service.  I’ve made it a personal challenge that I will have a poem ready for the next ‘do’ – something appropriate, Navy or nautical of course.  I could be wrong, but I think the boys like their poetry with rhythm and beat, preferably something that rhymes and has wry humour, and even better if it’s a bit earthy and risqué.  We all have fond memories of times in ports overseas, in dingy bars, got a few beers in, singing, no, roaring – belting out all those folk songs and nursery rhymes been bastardized by the British Navy before us.  For some songs, the words were what captured the soul of our existence – that is poetry.  One of the folk singers of the time who had served in the Royal Navy, so knew enough about sailors, was Shep Woolley.  Shep Woolley songs touched a nerve, and everybody knew the words when there was a good old sing-along.  In this post I include one of my Shep favourites, It’s Roll on my Time Boys.  I’ve seen the lyrics to this song on web sites and I can’t believe how much more bastardized it’s becoming since Shep first sang it.  I can assure you these are the true words to the song (taken from his CD, Shep Woolley Chips Off The Old Block).  Shep Woolley still entertains in the UK with stage shows, private and corporate events …. I would love to attend one of his shows.

It’s Roll on my Time Boys

(Shep Woolley 1940? - )
 

Chorus:

and it’s roll on me time boys…..roll on me time,

this is my last trip…..on the Grey Funnel Line,

so I'll say farewell to…..the wind and the brine,

and sing you a song called…..roll on me time.

 

well first we have Stokers…..that work down below,

they give us fresh water…..and make the ship go,

well the ship’s broken down boys…..don’t that sound fine,

but in the cold tap there's diesel…..and in the hot one brown slime.

 

and next we have RP's…..with hands on their hips,

with chinagraph pencils…..and puckered-up lips,

well they'll get us there boys…..whatever the cost,

well where are we pilot…..we’re bloody well lost.

 

and there stands the G.I……so tall and so proud,

his voice never made sense…..but God was it loud,

and now the old G.I……is all dead and gone

they’ve give him his brains back…..and christened him POM.

 

and next we have Tiffies…..a cool bunch are these,

if you want to be one…..you need G.C.E.'s,

and to be G.C.E.'s boys…..you need a brain in your head

it's amazing how much work…..can be done from a bed

 

well then there is Vernon…..I’ve heard the bell ring,

they do demolition…..and listen for pings,

but the Sonar men too boys…..are wearing a frown,

cos what can they ping now…..the Criterion’s down.

 

well me time it is rolled boys…..no I’m not glad,

sometimes they’ve been happy…..sometimes they’ve been sad,

so I’ll raise me glass boys…..drink your health with me wine,

and hope that you’ll join me…..with roll on me time.

I would like to have added an image of Shep Woolley, but something's gone wrong with the computer and I can't figure it out.  My link for the post is the Navy poem I prepared for the boys this ANZAC day.  It’s called Bombora (ballad of a greenie).  If you haven’t figured out why it’s called that by the end of reading, then ask me for an explanation.

2012.  Electricians in the Navy are called ‘greenies’ on account of the green colour signifying the electrical engineering branch and worn on officer’s shoulder boards.  Healthy rivalry exists between all the branches, though many love to pay out on the ‘greenies’ - perhaps because of their being more intelligent - well, not always all, as the branch will attest.

                                        Bombora (ballad of a greenie)

 

He was big and both slow and it seemed he must go,

Having failed every branch in the Navy,

But a psychologist said, I’ve examined his head,

And I think he would make a good greenie.

 

So E.M. he was made, finished half of his trade,

And was posted to sea from Nirimba,

Now it’s not a surprise when the lads saw his size,

That they went and named him ‘Bombora’.

 

But they didn’t explain why they gave him the name,

So he’s loud and he’s proud when ashore-a,

Bombora’s the name, green steam is me game,

And I eat roots and leaves like a whore-a.

 

Back on board they all fear, he’s no engineer

He’ll work on a circuit alive,

If a problem won’t focus he’ll polish with crocus,

And raise a T.S.M One Forty-five.

 

But he knows a bit more about Faraday’s law,

Enough to bluff his superiors,

So they leave him alone with freedom to roam,

All day on the decks of the uppers.

 

Neither stokers below with pumps running slow,

Nor cooks without power for scran,

Or even the skipper, broken down in the cutter,

Will interfere with the work on his tan.

 

A green canvas bag and a greasy old rag,

Is all that remains of his tool kit,

One key combination, rubber tube insulation,

And a mirror he might use like a dentist.

 

He can bounce a red-dick from up off the deck

Catch and twirl it about in his fingers,

While scratching like mad at his nuts and his butt,

Through a hole in his overall pockets.

 

And what he cannot do, with a roll of twin-flex or two,

Well you wouldn’t even be trying,

From telephone line to seizing and twine,

But the best was his magazine wiring.

 

With the test lamp he uses and eighty amp fuses,

He could black out the ship in a minute,

Then run like the hell so no one could tell,

He’d been anywhere near the burnt limit.

 

Bombora! they yell, why can’t you ever tell,

Ohms from the Amps on an AVO,

And what was your thought, when you meggered for short,

On the arse of the Deputy MEO?

 

But enough was enough, and the sea was up rough,

On the day they called out for Bombara,

Come in and sit here coaxed the ship’s engineer,

While I mark up your P.P One Alpha.

 

You’re too valuable lad, and it makes me look bad,

If I held you back here as a greenie,

So my recommendation is a change in your station,

And to hell with the naval psychology.

 

In a matter of time, having signed on the line,

The crew is down one in it’s number,

Though for reasons not given, efficiency’s risen,

And a blackout’s a thing to remember.

 

Now some nights in G.I. beneath still summer skies,

When the Ensign’s been put away dreamy,

And the rattle and din of the dockyard’s packed in,

Hark, the ghost of a big and wet greenie.

 

Bombora’s the name, green steam was my game,

But now I’m a docky-yard copper,

If you greenies are late getting out of the gate,

It’s because I searches your bags good and proper!

                                                                                                                        J. O. White