In a letter to me, Austin Smith (b. 1982) characterized “That Particular Village” vividly and candidly: “I realized I hadn’t shared my angriest antiwar poem with you. I’m not sure it’s a good poem, but it sure is angry. I’ll paste it below for the hell of it.” I wrote back that I liked the anger and didn’t think it hampered the poem—for all its anger at then–Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld for his unwillingness to deal with the painful particulars of the Iraq War, it is a poem of considerable imaginative range, exploring Rumsfeld’s sensibility knowingly and sometimes sympathetically. The poem has not been published elsewhere.
Asked for a short sketch of his life, Smith responded as follows: “Austin Smith grew up on a farm in northwestern Illinois. His first collection of poems, Almanac (2013), was chosen by Paul Muldoon for the Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets. He is currently a Jones Lecturer in fiction at Stanford University, and thinks officials in the U.S. government should read more Thomas Merton, paying particular attention to this passage: ‘Do not think yourself better because you burn up friends and enemies with long-range missiles without ever seeing what you have done.’”
“On October 22nd and 23rd, 2002, U.S. warplanes strafed the farming village of Chowkar-Karez, twenty-five miles north of Kandahar, killing at least ninety-three civilians. When asked about the incident at Chowkar, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld said, ‘I cannot deal with that particular village . . .’”
Look, here’s the thing. I can deal with that
particular village about as well today
as I could deal with it yesterday, which is
to say, I cannot deal with that particular
village at all. Other villages I can deal with,
have dealt with and will deal with in the future,
but not that particular village. Look, think
of the situation I’m in like this: I’m a tightrope
walker in a circus tent in a prairie town in 1911.
I perform with my wife and without a net.
Unbeknownst to me my wife, who happens
to be a very beautiful woman, has fallen
in love with the tiger tamer. On this night,
while walking the tightrope towards her
where she stands on the platform, I see
she has a big pair of golden garden shears
and she’s preparing to cut the rope. Tell me,
what do I do? If I start to scream,
she’ll cut the rope. If I say nothing,
she’ll cut the rope. I can’t deal with that
village in particular because I really
have to try and focus on sinking this
putt. I can’t deal with it today because
tomorrow I’m flying to Chicago to participate
in the Associated Writing Programs Conference.
I’ve been invited to appear on a panel called:
“Tangled Umbilical: What We Can Learn
From Paying Attention to Syntax in Political
Discourse and How We Can Use It to Write Better
Flash Fiction.” I can’t deal with that particular
village because I was born in 1932. I cannot
deal with it today or yesterday because
my senior thesis at Princeton was entitled
“The Steel Seizure Case of 1952 and Its Effect
on Presidential Powers.” I can’t deal with it
because I have three children and six grand
children none of whom will have to go
to the holy wars. I can’t deal with that village,
that particular village, right now because I live
in Mount Misery, the former plantation
house where a young Frederick Douglass
was sent to have his teen spirit broken
by the brutal slaveholder Edward Covey.
I can’t because one day, after being beaten
many times by his master, Douglass fought
off Covey’s cousin and then Covey himself
in the very yard where my wife grows camellias.
I can’t because Douglass was never assaulted
by Covey again. I can’t deal with that particular
village in this life nor shall I be made to answer for
what happened there in the next. Certain things
about my past make it impossible for me
to deal with it: when I was little I was an Eagle
Scout, I wrestled in high school, I didn’t graduate
from Georgetown Law. Nixon called me
a ruthless little bastard. I sold the company
I was CEO of to Monsanto for $12 million.
I cannot deal with that particular village.
I can’t deal with it because once upon a time
I delivered a few pistols, some medieval
spiked hammers, and a pair of golden cowboy
boots to Saddam Hussein on behalf of
President Reagan. I can’t deal with it because
a few years ago I had to make a special trip
to Abu Graib to personally turn the volume
of a Bach symphony up to make a man’s ears
bleed more profusely. I can’t deal because
on the afternoon of September 11th an aide
scribbled down in shorthand what I was
saying on the phone: “Best info fast—
Judge whether good enough hit Saddam
at same time—not only Bin Laden—
Need to move swiftly—Near term target
needs—go massive—sweep it all up
—Things related and not.” I can’t . . . Look . . .
That particular village? That particular one.