Editor's Appreciation, May 2009
Sometimes you read a few poems by someone and the hair on the back of your arms stands straight up, a chill shimmies down your spine, and you know that you're reading the early stages of greatness. That's how I've felt about Ed Bennett's work for some time. Though his poetry has appeared in The Externalist before, this is the first time I've had the opportunity to present his work as an Editor's Choice. When I first selected "Gitmo Tune" for publication, I did so because it exhibits all of the elements of externalism--careful attention to word choice and form, globally significant subject matter deftly handled, a fair degree of conscientious risk on the part of the poet, and the power to inspire action. I had no idea at the time that the subject matter would be so timely when the issue was published. Today, as I put the finishing touches on the web edition of issue 12, it seems not only appropriate, but imperative that "Gitmo Tune" receive this honor.

by Ed Bennett

Gitmo Tune

The choir sang the Jesus song
when momma took me
every blessed Sunday
to wash in the blood of the Lamb.
To be like Jesus,
she would tell me,
to love my country –
it was all the same.
I’m back here now
in my place,
third row back
in the shadows
still looking for Jesus.

I served,
like momma told me,
where I could do the work
my country needed,
do it for Jesus
and momma
and the USA.

I was a jailer at Guantanamo.
I brought the pails
for the hooded rites,
would stand in the shadows
until they told me to bring more;
and Jesus never walked there
or anywhere in that room
where men would try to scream
through streams of pouring water.

And I would sing a Jesus tune
because, at first, I couldn’t look.

“Jesus loves me,
yes I know,
because the bible
tells me so.”

They would hear,
would laugh,
say to me:
“these aren’t Jesus’ people
like we are,
we’re Gitmo Guys
doing God’s work”

and when I looked
fear became my fascination;
I poured
when they grew tired
and laughed
as one of them,

until the day that one,
unnamed,
alone,
stopped screaming,
went limp with
a skull full of water
and a heart that failed
while he was strapped
to a pine board.

The interrogator was silent
for just one beat,
then went on to the next
calling for the pail.

“Jesus loves me,
hope it’s true,
though I helped
to kill a few”

I was a jailer at Guantanamo
where Jesus never walked

where we didn’t care
if He was there or not
because we did God’s work

where the sky was rent
with the scream of transports
with a maw full of prisoners

where they were naked and cold

where we hit them
because we were bored
or needed to make them say
what we wanted to hear

and I carried water
for a devil’s baptism,

like that Roman guard
under the cross
casting dice for
a dead man’s clothing.

Ed Bennett is a Telecommunications Engineer living in Las Vegas. Originally from New York City, his work has appeared in the Manhattan Quarterly, the Patterson Literary Review where he was a finalist for the 1997 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award. His most recent work appears in New Verse News, The Externalist, VIMMAG and the spring 2009 edition of Philadelphia Poets.