Brian Turner (1) (1967–)

To be honest I'd expected a book that drew praise because it came from the warfront and not from the perceived old boy network of academics. This book is much better than that, many of the pages transport the reader into Balad, Mosul and many of the forward bases in Iraq. I think the best compliment you can give to poetry about a real event is that it held up a mirror to the experience and let the reader taste the events in Iraq. Here, Bullet did that and not just about facing danger, but the care providers, the families and girlfriends, loneliness and the suicide epidemic.
Much of this brought back memories.

From Ashbah, 'The ghosts of American soldiers
wander the streets of Balad by night
. . .
the desert wind blowing trash
down the narrow alleys as a voice

sounds from the minaret'

Whether Turner is speaking of the dead exhaustion of multiple missions or that the ghosts of the departed still linger, both realities are true and Turner allows the both a presence without interpreting for the reader.

In R&R he paints a convincing picture of the Soldier as much more than the robotic symbol of foreign policy, one who has the life of a lover, of family, of mission all fighting for space in the same mind.
'I have a lover with hair that falls
like autumn leaves on my skin.
Water that rolls in smooth and cool
as anesthesia. Birds that carry
all my bullets into the barrel of the sun.'

If there is a complaint, and it's not much of one, each poem is buried in the psyche of one Soldier. The poems are deeply confessional. There's another side of the words from loved ones, the commo between Soldiers that is hinted at but it makes me feel that something personal to the poet is held at arm's length. Again, it's minor because most writers cannot get the feeling of one set of emotions as deeply as this one does in '2000 pounds' showing how a bomb blast alters everyone.

One of the best poems at showing these lingering effects comes toward the end in 'Night in Blue.'

'I have only the shadows under the leaves
to take with me, the quiet of the desert,
the low fog of Balad, orange groves
. . . .
I have a woman crying in my car
late at night when the stars go dim,
moonlight and sand as a resonance
of the dust of bones, and nothing more.'

Worth every penny and the time it takes to read it over and over.… (mehr)

This is not my genre of choice, or one I have a lot of experience with, so take this with a grain of salt. The structure and a lot of the early sections felt contrived and overwrought, like Turner is trying too hard to be clever. I'm not sure if it settled down or if I just got used to it, but the second half seemed to flow a lot smoother.

That said, this was a very approachable book, and I'm definitely in favor of exposing the vast, under-informed American public about what their armed forces are going through.… (mehr)

THE KISS: INTIMACIES FROM WRITERS (edited by Brian Turner), fifty-plus essays by different writers, will be released this week, in conjunction with Valentine's Day. But readers should be warned that this is NOT just a book-length, artsy kind of valentine. Nope. Because there are ALL kinds of kisses to be found in this book, and it's a pretty damn profound collection, to be honest. And whoever reads it will find something that will click, that will take you back, will make you remember. I found plenty.

In "Half Fable," Terrance Hays tells of a kiss he got from his father, explaining beforehand, "I was taught as all boys are taught: boys should not be kissed; men do not kiss." Hayes was going through a divorce, something his parents had barely avoided once.

"... I had never seen him sob the way he did that morning when I told him my marriage was ending. I can't describe it, the gentleness. It shocked us: my brother, mother and me. No one said anything. Then he rose embraced me for what felt like two or three minutes. My face was against his shoulder. Before letting go, he kissed me, quickly, softly."

A father's kiss was, in my family too, a very rare thing.

Here's another, about a child's kiss. Ira Sukrungruang, in "Kiss, Kiss," describes his six-month-old son's kiss -

"My son does not give kisses. He devours. He will take your face in both hands and open his mouth wide and seek to encapsulate the whole of you. He will take your nose, your forehead, your chin. His kisses are a possession."

As a father, my favorite memories are of the wet, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses I got from my first son, when he was still so much a baby. They were so messy, so wet, and I loved them so much.

Another father's kiss - in Dinty W. Moore's "Leaning In," in which he tells of an often absent, alcoholic dad, and his parents' eventual divorce when he was ten years old. But he did go visit his father -

"In my memory, my father never once tucked me in, never once kissed me good night during my childhood. In this new phase, it took a while until we even hugged ... And then one day - I was sixteen, maybe - as we said goodbye near his front doorway, I stretched up on my toes and kissed him, on his unshaven face, on the stubble of his cheek. I can feel it still, the sharpness of the whiskers, the surprisingly soft skin undrneath. I can feel, also, him not pulling back, but leaning in. He didn't live many years longer. I'm sure I kissed him a few more times. But that first kiss. I still miss him, my dad. So damn much."

Now THAT made me cry. Because I get it. Miss my own dad so damn much too.

Something a little lighter maybe, but just as profound, can be found in Benjamin Busch's "Kissing Melissa," a memory of a fifth grade crush and a kiss that never happened, but was imagined "thousands of times."

"I've never forgotten her. It was a beautiful romance and lit my way to immensities. Melissa comes back to me sometimes, a flicker, thirty years later, but she's still a girl ... I finally know what I'd say if I were still a boy. It took me never kissing her to find the words."

A bit closer to that elusive valentine feeling, perhaps - and I remember that first crush too, Ben.

I think the piece that moved me most was Brian Castner's "A Letter to My Wife on Her 40th Birthday." The first lines immediately deepen this from a simple love letter to an understanding, a deep sense of sadness and wonder -

"My Love - Today you turned forty years old. Today my friend's wife died. My friend's name is also Brian. He and I were soldiers, we fought in the war and that meant we were supposed to die first. But he didn't die first, and now I see I might not either, so I cling to you like you never had a shadow until today ..."

Castner and his wife, who married very young, both know, perhaps better than most, how very lucky they are. This letter comes as close to a perfect valentine as the whole collection has to offer. But I've already told you that THE KISS is not really a valentine. It is more a meditation by many, on life and death, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, parents and children, grief and longing - and, of course, love. There's a lot to think about here. I will recommend it highly, even as a Valentine's Day present.

- Tim Bazzett, author of the memoir, BOOKLOVER… (mehr)

Nel 2003 il sergente Brian Turner è a capo di un convoglio di soldati nel deserto iracheno. Dieci anni dopo, a casa, accanto alla moglie addormentata ha una visione: come un drone sulla mappa del mondo, sorvola Bosnia e Vietnam, Iraq, Europa e Cambogia. Figlio e nipote di soldati, le sue esperienze si fondono con quelle del padre e del nonno, con i giochi da bambino e le vite degli amici caduti in battaglia. Così, tutti i conflitti si dispiegano sotto di lui in un unico, immenso, territorio di guerra e violenza. Nel 2003 il sergente Brian Turner diventa un poeta e quando, dieci anni dopo, la visione torna nella sue notti insonni, grazie alla poesia riesce a raccontarla così da accettarne la memoria - una memoria tanto grande che l'America non basterebbe a contenerla, e che sfrega l'anima fino a scorticarla. Liberata la nostalgia, la compassione e il desiderio di verità, "La mia vita è un paese straniero" racconta in diretta le azioni, le esercitazioni, i vuoti e i rumori, la paura e il coraggio, la tragedia e la gioia dei ritorni. E riconnettendo vita e poesia, orrore e morte, riesce a dire della guerra le parole che mancano, quelle capaci di riallacciare il filo del senso a quello del silenzio.… (mehr)