| Poetry tradition
tells, Compassion, laughter, a little sex, Politics for sure, life And death of course, and love; Song of glory on the battlefield Victory on the weald of dreams Defeat though never in the mind Shadows of experience A heat of heart, a moment Caught and savoured on a breath Of wind and stilled. A flower Afloat on air, a thorn that hews The petals of a rose. And then the leaflets start to fall Orders to flee, the harbinger Of murder, deafening blasts and smoke, Unsettled dust and fumes that choke A mushroom sunset glowing red Shining kindly on the dead As if to wake them from a sleep; In place of children’s cries, a heap Beside a crag-edged crater ringed With stumps and suppurating wounds That once we fooled ourselves had healed. Civilian casualities mount up The warring parties snarl and gnash Reason whores herself to rage In words unfit to read or hear From lips that others use to kiss What poetry can cope with this? |