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Have written the enclosed poem, two pages, using a lot of material from "Operation PaperClip" which, by the way, is a great site. Any problems on your end for me to include the poem in a copyrighted book?
Jane Moore, (626) 792-3011, just a kid.
Peenemunde & Mittelwerks
The Gaming Years
Stars! And stars! To Rocket Man, blue-orange whorls of littered light,
heave particle/stream/waves of the red larger gases. Oh, God,
to land a man on the white moon to colonize with no concern for the picky
petty welfares of the different sorts, to warp straight on through blue-black fields.
Tugging against world weather, draggling exhaust along your family arrow.
To casually veer the helm into mists of chemical shock in every goggled direction,
cumulous blood shallows in all dimensions, fired for the gold, the Glow!
Handsome Germans, if not introverted, not stars, physicists, not philosophers,
they stayed for the War, they slaved for the War,
And then, the War became
the nurse mother of…
Back and forth, in spatial waves,
old school buddies, those that fled, those that bled,
those ignored the political world to just get on with their chosen professions,
feeling each other out at first, strategized and twisted to beat the scores,
bombs and men and slaves from the different sorts:
• Sport of bloody feint, connection. The acrobatic Braun never ran or swayed even after his arrest by the brute bumble-eyed S.S. He banged his V-2 rockets in the middle of the pocket of civilized London. Once the rockets are up, who cares where they come down? ("That's not my department.")
• 60,000 slave-skulls and skin in high-tech tunnels built and sabotaged his rockets, urinating on his wiring, excising his vitals, loosening his screws; saving Normandy. (He would not rewrite his political policy by following along, he had his principles. The Fuehrer he followed had unfurled the Aryan ego, grafting a Signature on flight-research economics, Braun the Rocket Man.)
• An identical racket, the American Ahimsa man declared, "I think we should not attempt a plan unless we can poison food sufficient to kill a half a million men.” Oppenheimer helped, but he certainly wasn’t the Rocket Man.
• German atrocities mushroomed with the growing
insensitivity to humanity on the Allied side,
Hamburg fire-bombed one night, 45,000 Germans died –
old, the women, children of Cologne and Dresden,
hostility skyrocketing to mutual barbarity.
The Star-Spangled Anthem to the Rocket Man
Stars! And stars! The world is full of fowls
of still births of shells. Peenemunde & Mittelwerks
arrived in America. Oppenheimer stoops, Braun shakes, not probably thinking, “Hi,” but “Where the hell are the papers? That much excitement in a nuclear bubble could get us all the way to Mercury, to Mars!”
Demo-Publicans tend to think of these guys
as saints and suspicions, but after 40 years,
the Alabama Space and Rocket Museum forgot
all the excremental bodies, Mittelwerks and London,
Stalingrad and Japan and France and the sea, paying honors out in front of all the old war rockets
the Germans helped to build the States.
Ph.D.s and grandkids pulsated vitamin lives in photos,
stellar smiles that couldn’t be held back:
• Not held back in tunnels of spindling flat flesh and bowed when standing, not from the V-2;
• Not held back from Saturn, the HVAR, the ICBM, the walk by a human being (whatever human scientists designate a human to be) on the moon;
• Not held back from billions and billions in a floating polky-dotted Space signifying peace and international cooperation, topping the scores of nations of cars, dolls, magnetism, national security issues of corporate satellites in international space;
• Not held back from the father of rockets' warmest fattest baby, that best of all the giggling contemporarily accessible Stars, Mars.
a lot of material i "cobbled" together
stay in touch
Hey, thanks for putting this up. It's been rewritten several times, of course; been getting interested in Sci Fi poetry, and Nazi thought processes are exquisite for nonhuman spaces!
Would you like to post poem on the site?