The Death Of The Ball Turret Gunner Poem by Randall Jarrell
The Death Of The Ball Turret Gunner
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
One of the first poems I memorised. The enormity (and banality) of the sacrifice of this almost embryonic life is encapsulated in a mere five lines. So timely to re-read this poem just now, as another senseless war in the Middle East (July,2006) pushes up similar sacrifices of innocent and ignorant pseudo-warriors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/29/2024 11:40:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
One of the most perfect poems ever written- an economy of words with a maximum impact. I still remember this poem from my high school days in the late '60's.