Hemingway’s Poems

Poem to Mary (Second Poem)

Now sleeps he
With that old whore Death
Who, yesterday, denied her thrice.
Repeat after me
Now sleeps he
With that old whore Death
Who, yesterday, denied her thrice.
Pause. Wait for them to close up.
Continue.
Did you deny her?
Yes.
Thrice?
Yes.
Repeat after me.
Do you take this old whore
Death for thy lawful
Wedded wife?
Repeat after me
I do
I do
I do.
K.I.A. 6 off. 61 em. 13 Sept. 2400 — 14 Sept. 2400.
Translate
Killed in action 6 officers 61 enlisted men from midnight 13th
September to midnight 14th September
Repeat after me sixtyseven times
I do
I do
I do, sixtyseven times
Continue
It is continued
In the next war we shall bury the dead in cellophane
In the next war we shall bury the dead in cellophane
The Host shall come packaged in every K ration
The Host shall come packaged in every K ration
Every man shall be provided with a small but perfect
Archbishop Spellman, which shall be self-inflatable (courtesy
of Air Reduction, opened — closed — previous — opened — closed — )
You don’t need to repeat this. There is not any ceremony any more.
Everyone is gone and you say this out loud to yourself.
You are alone at the time and the time now is always. Always was
a word you used in promises. It is valueless.
All officers, warrant officers and enlisted men will be
provided with a copy of their own true loves that they will
never see again and all these copies will be returnable
through the proper channels.
My own true love is Mary Welsh.
Then, of course, she will be returnable.
But I, on this day, will not accept the signature of Archbishop
Spellman. Nor of you. Nor of you. Nor of you.
You may all go now, all of you. Go as quietly as possible.
Go as far as possible. You may even take possible with you
if you can find him. And you may hang him or dispose of
him in any manner that you see fit.
Today no one uses slang because clarity is of the utmost importance.
Fucking, alone, is retained, but is only used as an adjective.
Sweating out is retained.
It means that which one must suffer without any possibility of
changing the result or the outcome.
Those of us who know walk very slowly, and we look at one
another with infinite love and compassion.
This comes only after one hundred days and is one of the final symptoms.
There has been irritation, anger, fear, doubt, accusations,
denials, misinterpretations, mistakes, cowardice, inability and
lack of talent for this work.
All this has been and will be again. To be counterbalanced
by firmness, steadiness, courage, quick understanding and the
ability both to maneuver and to fight.
But now, for a moment, there is only love and compassion.
Know how to endure. And only love and compassion.
Repeat it.
Only love and compassion.
For the B.F.’s too?
(Battle Fatigues, officers, men, midnight 13th Sept — ? midnight 14th Sept.)
No.
Then it is not compassion.
Not for the B.F.’s too. And
Yes, it is love and compassion.
How can you say that here?
How can you say the other?
Not that we ask for more. Not that we wish ever any. Not that
we wish any all. Not that we want any greater.
But when they walked away from that undiscovered country
from whose bourne no traveller returns who hasn’t been there,
They walked away from this we cannot state. And in them
died this inner knowing that grows — fresher and lovelier than
any rose. Manured by death and watered only with unshed
tears until, this day, it flowers into this love and this compassion.
Not for them.
No. I am sorry.
Then it is not complete.
No, nor will it be ever.
There is no contrition.
(No bloody fucking contrition)
Only love and compassion.
Reach out your hand to Love’s dark sister Hate, and walk with
her across that hill we slowly walked, and see if Love is
waiting at the top. Or who is waiting there instead.
Did I tell you my heart is a target of opportunity?
Love’s lovely sister
Lovingly unloving
Unworryingly succeeding
Procuring unprocuringly
Never wholly wrong
Nor more than half right
Holding unholdingly to hold where Love leaves easily without address.
Love lightly leaves without a trace and her dark sister fills in all the forms
All all the forms so neatly filled
The writing clear and good, where Love’s is often quite illegible
Scrawled lightly in a hurry as she smiled,
Giving unimportance to the page.
Do you think there upon the hill, we’ll find her there?
No. She’s long gone. She never stands to fight.
Knowing too well the idiocy of battle, Love’s always gone, leaving
us only the deserted sacrament
As one finds dinner on the table in the house of a new taken village.
So that we wear it now. Traces of it are worn on our chins. Like
remnants of the y…