It Began by Mary Rose O'Reilley

It Began

by Mary Rose O'Reilley

It began, then, the war that never ended,

though for a while we kept doing the old things:

shopping thrift stores, digging through bins of toys,

looking for plain clothing a little worn.

Winter, in that latitude, never forgave;

but we could pay off the electric,

buy pills for the dog when she got sick.

There was mulled wine left over from Christmas

and two bags of candles somebody found on sale.

We kept putting suet out for the birds,

drowsed in the south window as we had always done,

watching the purple finches,

getting the last of the game.

We saw light mauled in the alders,

the traveling shadow claim our yard,

our street becoming the crust

over a bowl of flame.

This poem was published in Mary Rose O'Reilley's book, Half Wild. It was the Walt Whitman Award winner for 2005, chosen by Mary Oliver, and was published in 2005 by Louisiana State University Press.

I don't know if O'Reilley was speaking of a specific war in this poem, or all wars, or a war she completed invented, or some of all of the above. But it seems to me very realistic based on first-person accounts I have read (including poems) and history sources. At first, the/a war is over there. Life goes on. Maybe prices go up. Certain things become difficult, then impossible, to buy. A few people in the neighborhood are particularly stressed as their son or daughter, spouse or sibling, parent or grandchild is off fighting.

In the poem, the speaker tells us in the third stanza that people do the things "as we had always done." Christmas has already been described in the first two stanzas, and we have been given other information as well. The holidays were not as extravagant as in the past, but the speaker and her family are still staying warm, taking care of the dog, and feeding the birds outside.

Although the finches eating "the last" of their food supply--insects, seeds, berries--may be due to winter, there's the suet. Until there isn't.

Suddenly, in the fourth stanza, the war is not elsewhere. It has "mauled" (what great use of this word here!) its way through the trees. Its shadow has taken over the speaker's yard. And then the speaker's street is bombed (or something else has happened causing her neighborhood to become immersed in flames).

Although this is a winter poem as far as its setting, it seems, unfortunately, very relevant right now, at least in tone. Let’s hope not as far as war.