The Road from Hiroshima

by Marc Kaminsky

An anthology of poetry based on the accounts of survivors of the Hiroshima bombing captures the suffering of the victims and given insights into the tragedy and its aftermath

Genres: Poetry, Historical Fiction

122 pages, Hardcover

Published January 1, 1984

Reviews

[Irene]

As I read this narrative poem, I forgot that the author’s name was Mark Kaminsky, and I began to believe I was reading the story of one survivor of Hiroshima.

The timeline for this poem starts on New Year’s Day in 1945, covers the actual bombing, the immediate aftermath, the effects of radiation, Japan’s surrender, and the narrator as poet years later. Within the Notes section, the author reminds the reader that this narrative poem is based upon the testimony of many survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

This narration of the bombing of Hiroshima is incredibly powerful with vivid images of death, dying, and suffering. While I found this book in a middle school library, I’m not sure every middle school student could handle the experience of reading this entire poem, particularly if they had not studied WWII yet.

[Mya]

This was a hood quick read. It was quite interesting but was very sad to read about the awful conditions of the people after the bombing. I do recommend this though I believe it is out of print.

[behsforensics]

The cutting was for A White Blouse.

[Angie]

It is a tragedy that this book is out of print; therefore, I feel that I must share two of my favorite excerpts. (The first is probably not for the weak-stomached.)

THE HOMEOWNERS

Along the main road out
of Hiroshima
all the shutters were closed.
So the wounded walked on

or lay down in front of the houses
that no cry
would open.
But at a dry-goods store

on this side of Mitaki Station
they found
a woman who had managed to sneak inside
and die in one of their closets.

The owner, annoyed
at this disagreeable consequence,
dragged the body out by its feet
which were bare

and filthy.
And his wife was distraught
and he was scandalized
when they saw

the corpse dressed in their
daughter’s best
summer kimono—a wonderful
piece of work

which they instantly tore
off the dead body,
only to find
that it had no underwear on.

And they could feel only
how unlucky they were
till the priest came
and explained what had probably happened.

She must have been burnt out
of her home—a girl
of no more than sixteen years—
who fled

all the way from the city,
looking for something
to hide her nakedness
even before she sought water.

FIRST TASTE OF PROSPERITY

Instead of the usual rations
each of us was given seven cartons of
Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum

we chewed
until the sugar was out of it
then spit it out

unfolding and working through
new sticks
at the rate of fifty an hour

trying
to outpace the growling
of our stomachs.

I watched refugees
walk along, dropping
rubbery pellets and silver

gum wrappers, ceaselessly
chewing.
And though we worked our jaws

till they were numb
who could really silence
his hunger?

When would they give us rice?
No one asked.
But how hopefully we greeted

each convoy of jeeps!
The GIs beeped in their good-natured way
and waved their arms

there was a chorus of
“Hi!
How are you?”

and lines of frightened
beggars
immediately formed—

they were barraged with
Wrigley’s
with a shower of

thousands of packs
of spearmint chewing
gum.

Already
the American century was carpeting Japan
with peculiar abundance

the road to the A-bomb ward
was now paved
with silver.