Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 14: With April the 14th here it is sure to be the anniversary of some battle, war, conflict, etc.  Write a poem inspired by a battle, war, conflict, etc.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

Amariya shrine Baghdad



A burnt-out bunker
covered with faces;
photos of the four
hundred civilians
annihilated here
in milliseconds
decades ago.

Shredded flesh
adhered for years
from human bodies
flash-fused into walls
as the missile, controlled
from an office somewhere
else in the world, exploded.

JM, that's really well done. Flash-fused the walls is an intense image. And the best part for me was the "controlled from an office somewhere else in the world" touching on the antiseptic nature of war that allows us to have distance and a sense with office of it also being a 9-5 typical work day when for someone else everything is gone. Fantastic tight contrast.

(04-14-2016, 01:12 PM)Todd Wrote:  JM, that's really well done. Flash-fused the walls is an intense image. And the best part for me was the "controlled from an office somewhere else in the world" touching on the antiseptic nature of war that allows us to have distance and a sense with office of it also being a 9-5 typical work day when for someone else everything is gone. Fantastic tight contrast.

Thanks Todd - the poem is one I started years ago, and couldn't quite get right. This prompt reminded me and I had another try.

I've actually done that with a few poems this NaPoMo - I hope that's OK.

The shape and rhythm of the poem are admirably controlled. My one quibble would be that "adhered" doesn't work with "from" in the second verse. (It should be "adhered to", which of course opposes your meaning.) Perhaps "sundered" would be better? Just a thought, and maybe I'm wrong about the context.

(04-14-2016, 04:08 PM)Heslopian Wrote:  The shape and rhythm of the poem are admirably controlled. My one quibble would be that "adhered" doesn't work with "from" in the second verse. (It should be "adhered to", which of course opposes your meaning.) Perhaps "sundered" would be better? Just a thought, and maybe I'm wrong about the context.

Hey thanks. The 'from' refers to the shredded flesh, but I can see how that's a bit confusing. I'll have to think more about it.

The Enemy Within.

An intercontinental kettle flew;
it landed on my head.
I'd just walked in the kitchen;
barely dragged myself from bed.
I hoped for eggs and bacon,
not a cast iron frying pan,
or four hundred grams of Hienze
baked beans still sealed in their can.
A copper pot forgot me not,
it almost broke a tooth;
and all the while the enemy
was going through the roof.

When the guns fall silent
and the skies are free from falling objects,
all normality breaks out and gains ground.
Birds sing, trees grow,
A farmer smiles at a maiden heifer’s calf.
Children laugh and draw smiles.
The city will awake and shake off the dust.
Old men will play chess and reminisce,
Young men will financially joust and take risks.

It is transitory,
the season of peace is a false treaty;
a lie behind the façade of reason.
Until mankind is no-more,
There will always be war.

The birds are struck dumb as the trees explode.
Farmers weep for the unsown harvest,
children draw bullets and forget how to cry.
The city shakes old men,
who rail at the failings of youth.
Young men take risks and most of them die.

Normal is genocide,
Sanitised in a daily dose of platitudinous tones.
Tomes of worthless words, spoken to those left at home
raising children to be nice and not play with guns.

Billy - The Enemy Within reads like a refugee from The Basement Tapes.  I am guessing that irreverence is one of your many strong suits.

JM - excellent, especially S.2.

CIdermaid - not the cheeriest of messages, but probably more accurate.  I enjoyed reading.

- - - -

April 14 is the anniversary of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln - 1865.  Of course any poetic treatment of that subject would necessarily call to mind Walt Whitman's O Captain! My Captain!  It goes without saying that I am not up such a task.  So my thoughts fell to the field hospitals and the amputations occasioned by the meat grinder of the American Civil War as today's subject.



      Civil War Surgeons

A twisted history, perhaps irony –
the roughly coextensive arrival
of surgical anesthetics together
with industrial volumes of grapeshot,
shrapnel, canister.

Mannassas, Shiloh, Seven Pines,
Gaines Mill, Malvern Hill.    

By nightfall stench and screams shrouded
the field, then shuttled to field hospitals
strewn across a stunned theatre of war.

Antietam, Stones River, Vicksburg,
the big one at Gettysburg.

Feet,
hands, legs, arms.
In truth maybe they took too few.
Their war was against
infection.
Rot.

Chickamauga, The Wilderness, Cold Harbor,
Cedar Creek, Sailor's Creek. . . .

When there’s no gray left
 
We spent hours talking about life;
Mapping tomorrow
Over board games and endless winters.
Summers spent fishing on the dock;
Playing in the creek at the park.
Little did we know that we’d battle in vein
Against forces referred to as keep away.
Once upon us we gave them a fierce kick in the ass
But they drew a parental line, deep as a river, between us.
Every bridge we built collapsed like sand;
Every road dead ended.
Navigation fogged or faded into arcane corners of our lives
So we called a truce with an open ended good bye.
 
December marks the 40th anniversary of our finality
 

Mum there's someone at the door

The town hall clock bled poppies
from its hands to land at the statues boots.
Just like the soldier he wanted to copy
the boy chased toy gunshots down city streets.

The rivers combine birds, angel and eye,
flowing out to be drowned in sand storms
attacked by each other behind blind spots
and heat exhaustion, held in court under caution.

As the door begs not to be opened I stumble on the step
and crumple parents with papers and apologies,
still proud they take the knock, my sickle and scythe
cuts their house in two and I only find half the words.

War
 
There was a clever man,
who pushed a boulder up
a steep hill wreathed in clouds.

The rock he labored with
was heavier than the sky,
the old giant balanced

upon his shoulders. 
As the man walked, 
his feet would sink 

into the ground with each step, 
leaving a trail behind: 
the familiar contour of this journey.

Rolled onto the apex, the rock
would be at rest, and the man at peace.
For whatever reason, or for no reason

as the boulder crested the hill,
it would always slip out of control
like a secret held in confidence.
 
Each time gaining more momentum
on its way down,
like sparks that leap from the fire pit

to consume the house, leaving 
all within tasting ashes.
Then as sun follows moon follows sun

in the blinding repetition of days,
the man would push the boulder
up a steep hill.

It all began (as most things do)
across the froth of Billy's brew
last Sunday;
a harmless joke about a friend
would somehow see the friendship end
by Monday.

A newbie's innocent remark
was all it took to turn things dark
and painful;
'twas meant to most sincerely praise
and yet it earned a bitter gaze,
disdainful.

Dale tried hard to calm the air
while milo flexed upon his chair,
all tautness.
"Leanne, I only said that you
write just like Maya Angelou!"
cried Thoughtless.

Drinks were downed and pens were out --
such a blow can't pass without
reaction.
Todd joined in -- he knew the score --
soon the bar was lost to war
(abstraction)

Tom and Ella took up guard,
on the floor, the noob lay charred,
and cried:
"I take it back, your vengeful wrath
is reminiscent more of Plath,"
and died.

I will do a proper one, I promise

(04-15-2016, 05:32 AM)Leanne Wrote:  It all began (as most things do)
across the froth of Billy's brew
last Sunday;
a harmless joke about a friend
would somehow see the friendship end
by Monday.

A newbie's innocent remark
was all it took to turn things dark
and painful;
'twas meant to most sincerely praise
and yet it earned a bitter gaze,
disdainful.

Dale tried hard to calm the air
while milo flexed upon his chair,
all tautness.
"Leanne, I only said that you
write just like Maya Angelou!"
cried Thoughtless.

Drinks were downed and pens were out --
such a blow can't pass without
reaction.
Todd joined in -- he knew the score --
soon the bar was lost to war
(abstraction)

Tom and Ella took up guard,
on the floor, the noob lay charred,
and cried:
"I take it back, your vengeful wrath
is reminiscent more of Plath,"
and died.

I laughed out loud.

---

War Memorial

The earth still spits up
bits of war here
after 150 years,
like teeth from a smashed mouth,
broken rusty shards and parts,
unrecognizable, but we know
where they're from.

The final battle line
bisects my butterfly bed.
I buy two plants, put them side by side
in good soil. One thrives and the other dies.

By now the pitiful crowd of ghosts below
have their own garden to remind them
how sweet it could have been here
had there not been
war.

It would be kinder
to pave the ground
and let them sleep.

is a proper poem, any poem that makes me laugh is a good poem.

@teagan' i try to be.

(04-15-2016, 05:59 AM)Leanne Wrote:  I will do a proper one, I promise

great to see you take part and join in Luna

Leanne - I like your improper poems too. Congrats everyone - it's half way over - onto the downhill run ...

The Men On Trains

A sweaty invisible man drifts
toward the roar of subway trains.
Perspiration rolls down his face--
or tears, perhaps.

Finally he has purpose.
           
                يا إلهي ، خذني

A cold stern man sits uncomfortably
in the stench of humanity.
His blank stare is diverted to a crazed
migrant yelling what he will not understand.

Finally he feels unrelenting warmth.

Oh god, save me

War

I war with myself
over trivialities,
over one sugar or two.

I war with myself 
over sagacity,
over him or me or you.

I war with myself
over decency,
over kind turned cruel turned true.

I war with myself
over clemency,
over time I'll war with you.