Vietnam Pivot

By Kent B. Carpenter

In this searing poetry collection, the poet looks back on eighty years of life, expounding on personal and ancestral history, violence, trauma, and the light at the end of the tunnel. From the poem “Ancestors”, which chronicles the Native Americans’ plight and the theft of their land, to the poem “Dismounting”, a poem about the unsteady yet transcendent experience of learning to ride a horse, Vietnam Pivot paints a tapestry of life for the reader, with wisdom, bravery, and a breadth of imagery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798892115445

Book preview

Acknowledgement

The photos and sculptures represented in this book were all created by Kent B. Carpenter. The photos have been reduced in size from 16 X 20 in order to be included in the book.  The portrait of Kent and the photo reductions are the work of Howard Stickler.

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Ancestors

Tens of centuries ago

By tedious and twisted routes,

Without signs or road maps,

They came in search of food

And open space.

And so they lived

In the undisturbed forests,

Deserts and plains

For those thousands of years

Until my white ancestors,

With their lying tongues

And grabbing hands

Beached their clumsy

Sea houses on our virgin shores

And began assimilating

All that was not theirs,

Promising peace and tranquility.

Now, they have the land

And we have the promises…

All dusty and broken,

Not worth a bottle

Of today’s amnesiac

To kill the pain of

All we have lost… along

With the sacrifice of

Our tribal self-esteem

And personal identity.

They came in greedy swarms

Consuming everything in sight.

The Scots, English, and Italians

From every ghetto of ancient Europe.

They came to devastate our forests,

Contaminate the rivers and chop the world

Into tiny parts with railroads and barbed wire.

They came and kept coming,

And still keep coming

Hundreds of years after the war.

There seems to be no end!!

Destruction of the Indigenous

It was the contract

Of European transplants

That empowered the new

Nation of colonies

To isolate and confine

The indigenous tribes

Who had only lived there

For a little more

Than nine thousand years.

Even if we had had

Firearms and fine steel,

We could not have stopped

The Caucasian flood.

There were too many…

Empowered by their greed,

And a conviction that

Our annihilation

Was the will of

Their Almighty God.

Freedom’s Birthday

Most of you, reading this

Are interlopers,

Or descendants from the like.

That’s a polite term,

Just in case you came

Legally with papers,

Like my beloved wife.

And, of course, there are

Those whose forebears

Were given a free ride

On a slaver’s ship,

But they paid dearly

For their crossing

Into hopeless bondage.

Perhaps, the very worst of

Those ancestral groups

Were conquistadores

And soldiers of fortune

Who were armed with

Gunpowder and steel.

Some of them arrived

In the early days

Of the sixteenth century.

Others were released

From English prisons

To be sold into

Indentured servitude.

A hundred years later,

For a century or so,

There were just a few

Coming to escape debt

Or burdensome taxes,

But England’s revenuers

Followed close behind.

The trickle became a flood.

The human tidal wave

Pushed us over the

Blue Appalachians

And out across the plains.

The whites were never

Satisfied with land

Or native slaughter;

They always wanted more.

So they declared their

Freedom from the English

On the Fourth of July,

In 1776,

And celebrate it

Every passing year

With explosive noises

And brightly colored

Night time pyrotechnics…

To commemorate the birthday

Of their national freedom!

However,

It’s not our freedom!!

Jamestown Ancestors

I know him only by

His sullied reputation.

He and his sordid

Companions in arms

Were sent by the

Greedy English Monarch

To protect the colonists

Until their outpost

Was strong enough

To defend itself

Against the savage

Tuscarora Tribe

Which was quite peaceful,

Covering the mid-section

Of North America’s East Coast.

My ancient ancestor

Was of marriageable age,

But potential brides

Were in short supply.

In his frustration

He deserted his post

And joined the nearest

Peaceful tribe of

Unsavage Indians.

The indigenous people

Welcomed him as a hero

And helped him

Choose a bride

From among the

Willing and lovely

Young tribal women.

As for King James…

He was not impressed

With my deserter.

To prove his point,

The king declared

Him an outlaw…

With a reward of gold

For his capture.

The king promised

To hang him in chains.

The capture never happened.

My English forebear

Was too busy producing

Half-breed children.

My People

We never owned the land

Or its life sustaining

Fruit and animals.

It was there for us

To respect and use,

And so we did

For nine thousand years,

Until Europeans came

With steel and firearms.

They assumed they had

A God-given right

To annihilate the natives

And seize all the land.

We were slaughtered

In the Indian wars.

The survivors were confined

In prisons called reservations,

That were systematically

Reduced in size and

Valuable resources.

Even our ancient

Burial grounds were

Desecrated.

All weapons were seized

And hunting made illegal,

So we were fed

Rotting meat and potatoes.

Blankets, infected with

Smallpox bacteria,

Were issued to us

To finish the job

That wars had not resolved.

Native tribes were seen

As a racial nuisance

That needed cleansing,

As if they were rats

Spreading bubonic plague.

Redistribution

Of national wealth

Was never considered.

Genocide was the

Preferred solution.

The Pipes

The Highland pipes

Speak a language

I don’t understand.

They rouse emotions

That go back

A thousand years,

But the words have

Lost their meaning.

When I was born,

They were in my DNA,

But lack of use

Has made them mute.

It’s a tragic loss

That can’t be replaced

In what is left

Of this fading lifetime,

But it’s not a total loss.

The music still touches me…

Even if it’s only an emotion.

It calls me by a name

I didn’t learn…

And speaks to me

Of kilted greatness

Among people I never knew,

Except by family name…

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