The following statement was written in response to an invitation to "comment on any topic, e.g., poetry, women, the war," on a program taped weekly by a major TV network (NBC). I could not in these times choose any "topic" but the war; however, my text (which had to be submitted a week before being taped--and which was written during the interval between Nixon's two televised speeches in May 1972--was rejected). "I feel," wrote the producer, "that, deep as my own emotions are about this futile war, it would be inappropriate for me to use it at this time. My decision is shaped not by your piece--you write so very movingly--but by the number of Vietnam statements we have already had on the program. They cover a wide range of attitudes and angles, and with them I effected a coverage and balance which I think best to let stand."

It seems to me that a "balanced" view of genocide and of actions which are leading directly toward the extinction of life on earth is itself a kind of insanity. It is evident, moreover, that a program that first invites people to speak on whatever they feel it is important to say, and then rejects their words in the name of "balanced coverage," is a little short on sincerity. Here is my statement:

I have been asked to speak on this program because I am a poet. One of the obligations of the writer, and perhaps especially of the poet, is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language. I and most of my fellow American poets nowadays find ourselves inevitably--of necessity--writing more and more poems of grief, of rage, concerning the despoilment of the earth and of all life upon it, of the systematic destruction of all that we feel passionate love for, both by the greed of industry and by the mass murder we call war. We are living at war: the shame and horror of being citizens of the country which, in its ruthless imperialism, is not only ravaging Southeast Asia but, with its military bases, its Polaris submarines, the machinations of its CIA, and the tentacles of its giant corporations, is everywhere the prime force of antilife and oppression--this shame and horror cast their shadow over all we say, feel, and do. The spring sunshine, the new leaves: we still see them, we still love them: but in what poignant contrast is their beauty and simple goodness to the evil we are conscious of day and night. And this evil, this blight, this war in which our whole lives are being spent, is present at home, here in the U.S., as well as abroad, in the form of racism, of gross injustice, of poverty and hunger in the midst of the very richest country in the world. As corrupt and self-seeking politicians erode the Constitution and bring us daily closer to outright fascism, the poet is turned away from his impulse to sing, to testify in patterns of words to the miracle of life, and is driven willy-nilly to warn, to curse, to gnash the teeth of language; and at the same time, living always in the war shadow, to celebrate the courage and high spirit of all who dare to struggle, Davids to the Goliaths of capitalism (the expression of man's greed) and imperialism (the expression of man's lust for power); to celebrate the courage and tenacity of the so-called "enemy" in Southeast Asia, and of all who here at home resist the system--people like Angela Davis, Dan and Phil Berrigan, Cesar Chavez; and to declare solidarity with them and with all who share their struggle.

Poets differ from other people only in having a specially intimate relation to words. When I say I speak as a poet, it is the same as to say I speak as a human being. In the name of humanness, then, I call on my fellow humans to stop the war; but not to think that by stopping the present slaughter in Vietnam we will have done the job--for that slaughter is only one manifestation of the total war that surrounds us. We could begin if we wanted to: we could stop the bombing tomorrow if every individual who would like to see an end to U.S. involvement would say No Business as Usual and ACT on those words. It is our own timidity that makes us feel powerless. If we acted to bring about a general strike and economic boycott, we would see we have more power than we think. But even if we stop the bombing and get rid of Nixon, let us understand that though it would be a beginning--and a good one--it would be ineffectual unless it led to a thorough change--outward and inward, institutional and personal--of the system Nixon and his bombs are part of. Stop the bombing. Declare peace. Change the system.