Two Poems: Battlefield Confession & Life

in #poetry6 years ago (edited)

The following two poems are a couple of more Iraq War era verses. Both were published in print at Small Brushes, a small press literary publication in New York, in 2005 while I was still playing toy soldier in Rumsfeld's sandbox. They were published under my real name, Allen Taylor. If you like these poems, you can see more in my collection titled affectionately "Rumsfeld's Sandbox (Not an affiliate link)."

battlefield poem.jpg
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Battlefield Confession

I have been to war
That much is true
Though halfway I can say at best;
And when the day is done
I turn out the light
And sleep cozy in my nest.

I’ve ridden hard the battle
That most men adore
And would fight the good fight again;
But to be honest and fair
I’d like to admit
That I’ve never killed a man.

‘Tis true, and I’ll say it again;
It’s not so bad,
I’m half a pound glad
Not to have killed a man.

poems

Life

Oh, when the sadness of death comes knocking
And the people move to their rooms,
When the dry rapt of laughter
Fills their minds with tombs,
Crypts for the common man to keep
At his bedside,

Yes, and when the tears of joy
Fall on children
Staring dull-faced into the future
As far as the eye can see,

When February casts its pall
Of false hope on August or December,
You’ll see the light.
You’ll see it flicker and burn,
Burn and glow; glow, enflame, then burn,
And you’ll know;
Yes, you will know
That life is what you really need.
It is. There. Take it.

That's all I have for this glorious Sunday. Enjoy your life.

poems


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I really enjoyed the battlefield confession... It felt raw and thrilling.. thanks for sharing...

Thank you very much. Glad you liked it.

This line in Life, has locked in, multiple surprises - confusing, and disturbing, but also enlightening. The pun on rapt, I think, is the stroke of grace,

When the dry rapt of laughter
Fills their minds with tombs

.. leading in to those crypts for common people to hold onto, where grand things are fast turned into apparent nothings. I have no way of knowing what your intentions were, but I read rapt (passionate) laughter, contrasts with an allusion to drying of tears (after rapt or empassioned sedding of tears). Adding to this, rapt implies also spirits having left. So after the passionate life, is a hollowness and confused disturnbance: so the common are in need of things to hold onto (to help us sleep).

I need to disturb myself a lot more to tie the last stanzas into my understanding... wait (edit) it's all about grabbing onto hope, as false and ellusive as it may be, because there is Life and it's what we need. It takes courage. I got it!

Live long and prosper, Sir.

Quite insightful commentary. Thank you for sharing. :-)

And when the day is done
I turn out the light
And sleep cozy in my nest.

But to be honest and fair
I’d like to admit
That I’ve never killed a man.

That's so well-thought! I absolutely love reading your poems man :) It was great the last time and so is it this time. Keep 'em coming!

Thank you very much. I publish one every Sunday. More will definitely be on the way.

Intersante, my father tells me that poetry can be made of any situation, and that the words can be united to create great writings. With this reading I appreciate your words, about the war written in poetry. I liked reading it.
A hug.
Good energy.

@blockurator,

Interesting writes.

I could definitely feel that these poems were written while "in the moment."

I wonder what a poem about your time in Iraq would sound like in retrospect. Sight sees things differently than does hindsight. Your mind (or at least mine) zooms in on different things.

Quill

Naturally. I'm not sure what "in the moment" means in the context of a yearlong event. These definitely have a passion and pathos that would not be present some 13 years later. Perhaps sights sees things differently because hindsight is half blind. The human mind forgets things, almost as soon as it experiences them, and the longer in time it moves the less it remembers. In fact, memory is altered by events between then and now, so, of course, I would be writing different poems today. It's a waste of time to think on such matters, I believe.

@blockurator,

The human mind forgets things, almost as soon as it experiences them, and the longer in time it moves the less it remembers.

The mind filters out that, which for whatever reason, it concludes is unimportant to remember. I am often surprised, looking back, what my mind has decided to remember. Often, I can remember seemingly inconsequential events in great detail, while other things that ought to have been memorable, weren't particularly.

What I have noticed, however, is that my memories seem to be focused on things "pregnant with meaning" ... learning something unusual or that which sparked an unexpected insight. I find it is these things that most inspire me when writing poetry. I was curious if it worked the same way for you.

Moreover, the way I think about certain things, in terms of what they meant (and mean), has changed over time. Rights or wrongs. Justifications or excuses. War plumbs something very deep within us, reality stripped of its posturing and platitudes. Raw, fundamental truths. For me, there is something akin to spirituality about my recollections from that time.

Quill

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Thanks for this, my friend.

You're welcome. Thanks for reading.

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