More today … We view the poetry of war ..

Today, there are 3,000 Americans boys and girls dead in a little desert stupidity. Here are pictures of other stupidities.


Slung under and about with modern machinery
fast firing guns and faster rockets
stand me in the shadow of your power.

I am awe in your fearful beauty
sculpted steel-green metal slick
Oh! So saving when you ranged above our danger

I swore that God had stood you without motion
As you lay about with David’s modern sling

We cheered your strong-arm graces then
rode your blessed highway, curving from the battle.

Alive, alive, we drank your sweet, clean wine.
Answering prayers from Khe Sanh, English
Hue and Pace and Sally, and, yes, Hill 805,

Your pilot-priests, gunner-acolytes, flying,
machine guns sighing holy rage
to save your congregation.

Behind a tropic sunlight, screaming slick,
six on six, in Vee formation, righteous,
angry, spitting, dropping justice, dropping
napalm psalms and one-point-two-inch rocket manna.

We knelt in honest fervor to your angelic escort
Wounded, dripping life along your heavenward journeys,
while we were borne again, on saving flights, born again,
in battle lust, for your sacred airborne blessing.

What God has ever stood so fast in answered prayer?
What prophet ever sounded hope so loud?



“Tonight he noticed how the women’s eyes
passed from him to the strong men that were whole.”
(From Disabled by Wilfred Owen)

Sometimes it is this I fear
when, like Wilfred Owen
I see the women staring
staring at the strong at the
beautiful gazing
and am too
lost among the love of youth

What is this my body
sometime broken
that has failed to mend
in acceptable ways?

What is this that I
not having but had
am searching to give

See I will show you
what is beauty …

I will show you that cat
whole sleek and graceful
has killed a bird
whole sleek and graceful.



A poem from the 1990s, Appropriate now, too. The machine gunner from the Americal Division who assisted Lt. Calley in the massacre at My Lai was shot to death in a bar, fighting over a glass of vodka. On the news, it was said he had been drunk for most of the 21 years since the massacre.

The blind and lost killer of children
Bled death from his bullet quick
                    How much hatred for himself
             The blind and lost killer of children
       From 21 years of oblivion
Fought to the death
Over a swallow of Russian amnesia
                    How much hatred for himself
             The blind and lost killer of children
       Fought to the death
How much hatred for himself
Can a man hold onto?
                    Fought to the death
             Bled death from his bullet quick
       Over a swallow of Russian amnesia
From 21 years of oblivion
That bullet must have been sweet.
                    From 21 years of oblivion
             The blind and lost killer of children
       The blind and lost killer of children
The blind and lost killer of children
That bullet must have been sweet.

Let’s hope we miss the headlines 21 years from now.

About dragonpoet

But sometimes what you write is neither polished nor useful. Then it arrives here. With lots of sentence fragments and beginning ideas. If you wish, please comment on what you find. If you don't like the politics, don't comment. Here, we deal with the writing.
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4 Responses to More today … We view the poetry of war ..

  1. I will tell you know why it is so difficult for me to comment on war, for one, I was born in 1951 and if WW2 was still much on everybody ‘s mind, for us it was nothing compares to the death of my youngest uncle which was haunting our lifes.
    My parents separated when I was 3 and we went back to my mum’s parents.
    When it happened, that boy was only 14, very healthy.
    No one in my family had truly suffered from the 2 wars…
    Then, this.
    He died like Rainer Maria Rilke from a rose-thorn and even if this is the subject of poetry, it has been quite horrible to grow in his shadow…
    As you know, for some, young deads gain an aura or a sainthood they would probably never achieved if they had live…

    As for your poetry, I was waiting to know a bit more about you…
    Sorry, LongShiren, there I know very well I am not playing the game…
    You see, writing can heal, you know it even better than me, well, quiet, there, Dragon!
    I say, it CAN, not always!
    And for the one who has been lucky enough to escape that horror, words about wars are or too weak or too weak…
    Yes, compares to the horror, everything is too weak…
    That’s my comment.

    For My Lay, I told you…
    But everything counts then…
    The foreword is crucial, in my opinion.

    The writer of the comments takes full responsability for it.

  2. Actually, and I suppose poetry is working that way, I can see far too good the copter as well as the lame man, and maybe, just right now, I prefer to think of birds and foxes, Dragon…
    Those are poems you need to read, well, I, of course as they kind of functionate on different levels…
    Hear me, the poetry critic…
    The most unlikely future I would have imagine…

  3. The poem Beauty wants me to quote this:

    “Because thou hast the power and owwn’st the grace
    To look through and behind this mask of me,
    (Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly
    With their rains,)and behold my soul’s true face,
    The dim and weary witness of life’s race!-
    Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
    Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,
    The patient angel waiting for a place
    In the new heavens!- because nor sin nor woe,
    Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,
    Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,…
    Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,…
    Nothing repels thee,… Dearest, teach me so
    To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good.”

    Guess who wrote this…

  4. dragonpoet says:

    Elizabeth Barret Browning, “Sonnets from the Portuguese”, # 39.
    (Forgot to note this before)

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