Wash the dust from my eyes, out of my ears,
from all pores where the wind has lodged it.
Wash it away—whatever is left from dusty roads
of childhood Rockport, dust of dead parents.
Let me go to Mess Hall clean,
to feed as well as my horse
for tomorrow’s ride.
Break this monotony with abundant splashing
from fountains in Renaissance Rome.
Break this dead dusty road. I am going somewhere
lined with apple trees and red rose bushes.

NL

–Nana Lampton
Wash the Dust from My Eyes
(Accents Publishing)

Your father told you, you trust too much.
You believe the generals. French and Milner
for the British, Joffre for the French,
Von Kluck of Germany, speak of themselves
as well-schooled nobility, a notch under all-knowing,
bred of kings with better boot legs, finer noses,
better posture in the saddle.

Look at the results! They make their private decisions, so jealous
they won’t consult. One army passes another allied army
in the night, by mistake, squandering troops’ energy,
too late to reach the battle, to hold the line.
Soldiers march twice the needed distance.
Infantry—the lowly troop—lacks water, rest, and food,
expected to fight next morning. (This happens, I read,
more than once.) Exhausted soldiers die, wounded are left
behind—the victims of generals’ bull-fighting.
Joffre fires 58 generals.

For glory of the battle, the lances and the pennants fly,
horses leap the shell holes, until they, too, are
hanging their heads for lack of food and water.
Fodder follows a week late, across the sea, then by rail.

Look, John Mason, we have to stop this insanity!
Listen! You’re not any better bred than the fellows who
can’t speak the language, than recruits who
might be born a different color.
Pay attention! Find the meaning of your life.
You are training first generation boys.
Teach them to go forward as Americans,
with respect and common sense. One of them
could be President one day. Try not to lose him.

NL

–Nana Lampton
Wash the Dust from My Eyes
(Accents Publishing)

A long day across the prairie, riding for hours in formation.
Look at the light cape the shoulder of this fit horse. It radiates from
Rodney’s slick coat, then slips through the blowing grasses
for miles. Watching muscle move under fine hair, I am riding with
Alexander on the Persian campaign. Trained and worked, men and
horses move together through lands they only imagined.

Trotting the hour lulls me past the day’s soldier persona,
past sun-time and ego, to a day a thousand years ago
when I was a brave riding bareback, carrying a spear
fringed with dyed strips of buffalo hide, blessings
for hunting and battle. Once I was that native born warrior
watching muscle under shoulder ripple sunlight
from the horse’s slick coat. Lift me up, straighten me
in the saddle, we have a long way to go.

NL

–Nana Lampton
Wash the Dust from My Eyes
(Accents Publishing)