Poem about the Kent State Shootings of May 4, 1970

 Here's one of the poems I've written over the years about the Kent State shootings of May 4, 2022:

Close to My Heart

Kent State University

May 4, 1970. 12:24 PM

Forty-three years ago today,

National Guardsman’s bullet,

shot 293 miles from my college dorm,

blew through my chest, landing at my heart

where it remains today. The Doc said,

“It’s too dangerous to remove. You’ll have to live

with the chronic ache.”

That day, while my cousin Maggie ran through a fog

of teargas to the Theatre Building, and high school friends 

watched from the corners of trees and buildings,

Guardsmen, not much older than me, bayonets fixed--

then: sixty-seven shots ring out on Blanket Hill.

Four dead, nine others wounded, untold traumatized,

Guardsmen and students alike. I, with pericardium, 

peri-anima trauma,

called up Mom and Dad, back in Euclid,

Crying and yelling at them, total innocents,

for being . . . what? . . . adults, easy targets

for my pain.

Hope they forgave their hurting son,

hope the pain around the hearts of Ohioans,

Kent Staters, Americans,

hope the pain

heals.

Robert M. Coughlin / May 4, 2013

New Poem--about the Spring of 1970

Sorry I have been absent so long from this blog. Maybe I was in jail; or maybe in a mental institution; or maybe I was in Montana with my family. What in the world triggered this poem, 46 years later?

Last Month at Notre Dame—May 1970

The world being blown apart, spring of 1970,

Cambodian Invasion, endless bloody Vietnam War,

Kent State and Jackson State massacres,

Student strike at Notre Dame where we . . .

The privileged sat on a bank above St. Mary’s Lake

Or off-campus at a friend’s party, strumming our guitars,

Singing “The Children and the Flowers” or “For Baby for Bobby”

Or Dylan’s “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere.”

Steve didn’t know it, but he was going to Vietnam to die in a helicopter crash;

Me and Chris to a Cincinnati ghetto and a Peacemakers’ commune;

Others to Mexico, graduate school, one brilliant friend to a job as a garbage collector,

Many to the military, yet far from the horror of Southeast Asia.

I remember that May: Mike, Chris, Tim,

Carol, Julie, Vangie, Rene, Tom,

Warren, Dick, Steve, John , many more,

Beloved friends.

Our last month as school comrades,

In the beautiful safe womb of Notre Dame,

Eager yet afraid of what awaited us

Outside the gates.

Bob Coughlin / July 19, 2016

A Poem in Memory of the Kent State Tragedy of May 4, 1970

Old Math: The Calculus of May 4, 1970

Neil Young’s song still dances around my brain

Forty years after that fateful Monday, May 4^th, 1970:

“Four dead in O-hi-o. Four dead in O-hi-o.”

The math is both hard and simple:

4^th day of the fifth month of the 1970^th year of the Lord.

77 Guardsmen with fixed bayonets advance toward the crowd.

13-second fusillade;

67 shots fired, many into the ground or into the air;

4 dead in Ohio: Jeffrey Miller. Allison Krause. Sandy Scheuer. Bill Schroeder.

Their ages: 20, 19, 20, and 19.

9 wounded in O-hi-o: John Lewis, Thomas Grace, John Cleary,

Alan Canfora, Douglas Wrentmore, James Russell, Robert Stamps.

Dean Kahler permanently paralyzed.

Donald MacKenzie wounded from a distance of 750 feet.

Branded into memory, the image of Mary Ann Vecchio,

Horror on her face, arms extended over the lifeless body of Jeffrey Miller,

Shot through the mouth:

John Filo’s Pulitzer winning photo

Developed inside every young American’s brain.

58,000 Americans dead in the Vietnam War;

10 times that many wounded; how many with deep psychic injury?

Uncountable millions of Vietnamese soldiers and civilians.

A couple hundred million Americans torn up in anguish,

Conflicted, confused—a confusion that can never be resolved.

The old chant continues:

“Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,

We’re finally on our own,

This summer I hear the drumming,

Four dead in Ohio.

Four dead in Ohio.”

                              Robert M. Coughlin

                                    Kirtland, Ohio

                                    May 4, 2010

                                    

Reprise of a Poem Written for the 40th Anniversary of the Kent State Killings

Old Math: The Calculus of May 4, 1970


Neil Young’s song still dances around my brain
Forty years after that fateful Monday, May 4th, 1970:

“Four dead in O-hi-o. Four dead in O-hi-o.”

The math is both hard and simple:

4th day of the fifth month of the 1970th year of the Lord.
77 Guardsmen with fixed bayonets advance toward the crowd.
13-second fusillade;
67 shots fired, many into the ground or into the air;
4 dead in Ohio: Jeffrey Miller. Allison Krause. Sandy Scheuer. Bill Schroeder.
Their ages: 20, 19, 20, and 19.

9 wounded in O-hi-o: John Lewis, Thomas Grace, John Cleary,
Alan Canfora, Douglas Wrentmore, James Russell, Robert Stamps.
Dean Kahler permanently paralyzed.
Donald MacKenzie wounded from a distance of 750 feet.

Branded into memory, the image of Mary Ann Vecchio,
Horror on her face, arms extended over the lifeless body of Jeffrey Miller,
Shot through the mouth:
John Filo’s Pulitzer winning photo
Developed inside every young American’s brain.

58,000 Americans dead in the Vietnam War;
10 times that many wounded; how many with deep psychic injury?
Uncountable millions of Vietnamese soldiers and civilians.
A couple hundred million Americans torn up in anguish,
Conflicted, confused—a confusion that can never be resolved.

The old chant continues:

“Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own,
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Four dead in Ohio.”
(Robert M. Coughlin, Kirtland, Ohio. May 4, 2010)

Four Dead in O-hi-o, Four Dead in O-hi-o. May 4, 1970

Tommy Fitzpatrick (left) in Vietnam. RIP 1969. Euclid Boy.

May 4th and Kent State: I Won't (Can't) Forget You

A poem put on my blog last year:

Close to My Heart

[Kent State University

May 4, 1970. 12:24 PM]

Forty-three years ago today,

National Guardsman’s bullet,

shot 293 miles from my college dorm,

blew through my chest, landing at my heart

where it remains today. The Doc said,

“It’s too dangerous to remove. You’ll have to live

with the chronic ache.”

That day, while my cousin Maggie ran through a fog

of teargas to the Theatre Building, and high school friends

watched from the corners of trees and buildings,

Guardsmen, not much older than me, bayonets fixed--

and then, in the chaos, sixty-seven shots ring out 

on Blanket Hill.

Four dead, nine others wounded, untold traumatized,

Guardsmen and students alike. I, 

with pericardium,

peri-anima trauma,

called up Mom and Dad, back in Euclid,

Crying and yelling at them, total innocents,

for being . . . what? . . . adults, easy targets

for my pain.

Hope they forgave their hurting son,

hope the pain around the hearts of Ohioans,

Kent Staters, Americans,

hope the pain

heals.

Robert M. Coughlin / May 4, 2013



[A poem from 4 years ago, the 40th Anniversary]:

Old Math: The Calculus of May 4, 1970


Neil Young’s song still dances around my brain
Forty years after that fateful Monday, May 4th, 1970:

“Four dead in O-hi-o. Four dead in O-hi-o.”

The math is both hard and simple:

4th day of the fifth month of the 1970th year of the Lord.
77 Guardsmen with fixed bayonets advance toward the crowd.
13-second fusillade;
67 shots fired, many into the ground or into the air;
4 dead in Ohio: Jeffrey Miller. Allison Krause. Sandy Scheuer. Bill Schroeder.
Their ages: 20, 19, 20, and 19.

9 wounded in O-hi-o: John Lewis, Thomas Grace, John Cleary,
Alan Canfora, Douglas Wrentmore, James Russell, Robert Stamps.
Dean Kahler permanently paralyzed.
Donald MacKenzie wounded from a distance of 750 feet.

Branded into memory, the image of Mary Ann Vecchio,
Horror on her face, arms extended over the lifeless body of Jeffrey Miller,
Shot through the mouth:
John Filo’s Pulitzer winning photo
Developed inside every young American’s brain.

58,000 Americans dead in the Vietnam War;
10 times that many wounded; how many with deep psychic injury?
Uncountable millions of Vietnamese soldiers and civilians.
A couple hundred million Americans torn up in anguish,
Conflicted, confused—a confusion that can never be resolved.

The old chant continues:

“Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own,
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Four dead in Ohio.”
(Robert M. Coughlin, Kirtland, Ohio. May 4, 2010)


Neil Young singing "Ohio."

Most Poignant Memories of the Vietnam Era: Tommy Fitzpatrick, Steve Shields, Kent State Killings

This is a response to question #2, asked me by my niece Rachel Sanders:

2. What are some vivid memories you have about the time? What do you consider to be the most important events? Why?

The most important events for me personally were, for the most part, not the most important events nationally. The first event that hit me like a ton of bricks was the death in Vietnam of my first cousin, Tommy Fitzpatrick. I grew up about a mile away from Tommy in Euclid and I went to grade school, St. William's, with him. Oddly, our extended family was so large and close that we hardly had friends outside the family. Tommy was killed in April 18, 1969 (http://www.virtualwall.org/df/FitzpatrickTM01a.htm). He was 21-years-old, his whole life ahead of him. His funeral was at St. William's and he is buried at All Souls Cemetery in Chardon.

Tommy in Vietnam (left)

A second vivid memory was the death in Vietnam of my Notre Dame friend and classmate, Steve Shields. Steve studied with me in Salzburg and Innsbruck, Austria. He was brilliant, fun, and funny. Everybody loved Steve. At Notre Dame Steve was in Army ROTC and became an officer after college graduation. After a period of training, he went to Vietnam as a helicopter pilot. Steve's copter was shot down in June 20, 1972 (http://www.virtualwall.org/ds/ShieldsSE01a.htm). I went to his funeral in Philadelphia and his military burial at West Point.

A third poignant memory for me was the killings at Kent State on May 4, 1970. I cannot express how terrible and traumatic that was for me. Kent State was located very close to my home in Euclid, Ohio, and so many friends attended there. Even my cousin Maggie Brock was there that day. This was a turning point in my life and I think a turning point in public approval of the war.

The huge demonstrations against the war were memorable and the My Lai massacre March 16, 1968) was one of the most significant events, but personally the combat deaths of Tommy and Steve, and the killings at Kent State were the most affecting.

Me as an Oral History Source on the Vietnam War?

My niece Rachel Sanders has asked me some questions on the Vietnam War--as part of a project she is doing in her classes at Transylvania University in Lexington, Kentucky. It's odd to think of my life, experiences, and knowledge as some sort of history or historical source! But I guess I am one of many pieces of the puzzle. Here are the questions Rachel has asked me. I intend to send my answers to her and to also put them on my blog within the next week or so:

1. How old were you during the Vietnam War? Where did you live?

The Vietnam war actually pre-dated my awareness of it. I think there were advisors there in the late 1950s and early 1960s. I became aware of the war around 1964 (I was 16). My religion teacher at St. Joesph High School, Brother Richard Pilder, began talking about the war and he seemed to be really opposed to it. There were some Barry Goldwater supporters at the high school who began to tease Bro. Pilder (even acted like they were going to picket him for being a Commie!) because of his opposition to the war. Opposition to the war grew very slowly! I started developing my own opposition to the war around 1966 or '67. By 1968 I felt the war was wrong and was eager for anti-war candidates, like Eugene McCarthy and Bobby Kennedy, to challenge Lyndon Johnson for the presidency. So I think my own position to the war became clear in 1968. These things evolve as you learn things. Until the Fall of 1966 I lived in Euclid, Ohio, about 15 miles east of downtown Cleveland. Then in 1966, at age 18, I went away to college, to the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana. In 1966-68, opposition to the war was an unpopular position--could even get you beat up!

2. What are some vivid memories you have about the time? What do you consider to be the most important events? Why?

3. What were some of the tensions in society? Was there racial and gender equality?

4.  What was your role as a conscientious objector? What prompted you to become one? What was the process like?

5. Did you participate in any protests?

6.  How were your friends and/or family affected by the war? How was your life different during the war?

7.  How did you receive most of your news about what was going on in the US and world during the time?

8.  How was popular culture affected by the war?

9. Were there generational conflicts surrounding the war/ those who resisted service?

Gee, this looks more like a book than a simple blog response! But I will give it a whirl. The last question made me cry all of a sudden as I remembered the May 4th, 1970 Kent State shootings. My cousin Maggie Brock was on campus, practically in the middle of the smoke, the bullets, the blood. I called my Mom and Dad from the University of Notre Dame--I was a senior 5 weeks from graduation. And I proceeded, amid my tears, confusion, and anger, to yell at my Mom and Dad (people I loved dearly, who bore no blame for the war or the Kent State massacre). Such deep regret in me now for that phone call. I hope they forgave me!

The iconic image, tattooed on my heart.

Yes, there was generational conflict over the war. Our fathers had all fought in World War II. Opposing the war felt like being a traitor to the sacrifices our Dads had made 20-30 years earlier. There's a great book by James Carroll about his conflict with his father over the war--"An American Requiem."

Poem on the 43rd Anniversary of the Kent State Shootings

Close to My Heart

[Kent State University

May 4, 1970. 12:24 PM]

Forty-three years ago today,

National Guardsman’s bullet,

shot 293 miles from my college dorm,

blew through my chest, landing at my heart

where it remains today. The Doc said,

“It’s too dangerous to remove. You’ll have to live

with the chronic ache.”

That day, while my cousin Maggie ran through a fog

of teargas to the Theatre Building, and high school friends

watched from the corners of trees and buildings,

Guardsmen, not much older than me, bayonets fixed--

and then, in the chaos, sixty-seven shots ring out 

on Blanket Hill.

Four dead, nine others wounded, untold traumatized,

Guardsmen and students alike. I, 

with pericardium,

peri-anima trauma,

called up Mom and Dad, back in Euclid,

Crying and yelling at them, total innocents,

for being . . . what? . . . adults, easy targets

for my pain.

Hope they forgave their hurting son,

hope the pain around the hearts of Ohioans,

Kent Staters, Americans,

hope the pain

heals.

Robert M. Coughlin

May 4, 2013

Poem for the 40th Anniversary of the Kent State Killings

Old Math: The Calculus of May 4, 1970


Neil Young’s song still dances around my brain
Forty years after that fateful Monday, May 4th, 1970:

“Four dead in O-hi-o. Four dead in O-hi-o.”

The math is both hard and simple:

4th day of the fifth month of the 1970th year of the Lord.
77 Guardsmen with fixed bayonets advance toward the crowd.
13-second fusillade;
67 shots fired, many into the ground or into the air;
4 dead in Ohio: Jeffrey Miller. Allison Krause. Sandy Scheuer. Bill Schroeder.
Their ages: 20, 19, 20, and 19.

9 wounded in O-hi-o: John Lewis, Thomas Grace, John Cleary,
Alan Canfora, Douglas Wrentmore, James Russell, Robert Stamps.
Dean Kahler permanently paralyzed.
Donald MacKenzie wounded from a distance of 750 feet.

Branded into memory, the image of Mary Ann Vecchio,
Horror on her face, arms extended over the lifeless body of Jeffrey Miller,
Shot through the mouth:
John Filo’s Pulitzer winning photo
Developed inside every young American’s brain.

58,000 Americans dead in the Vietnam War;
10 times that many wounded; how many with deep psychic injury?
Uncountable millions of Vietnamese soldiers and civilians.
A couple hundred million Americans torn up in anguish,
Conflicted, confused—a confusion that can never be resolved.

The old chant continues:

“Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own,
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Four dead in Ohio.”

(Robert M. Coughlin, Kirtland, Ohio. May 4, 2010)

[This poem is copyrighted 2010 by Robert M. Coughlin]