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#war poem
thenextdoormatilda · 1 month
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What should a poet do in such a world? Write poems. Zbigniew Herbert, as a Warsaw adolescent, saw the only choice clearly enough when he said: "One might still offer / even to the betrayed world / a rose."To write poetry, even in the most hopeless of situations, is an act of faith-not only in poetry itself, but in the world. And who knows? Maybe someone will even read you someday, awaken to his or her own life, and live it with little more laughter and sanity, more dignity and passion.
From "War as Parable and War as Fact: Herbert and Firche"
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sictransitgloriamvndi · 4 months
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I Have a Rendezvous with Death
I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear … But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.
- Alan Seeger
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Siegfried Sassoon
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suicideismycure · 1 month
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Scrapped metal
Once majestic, Now rusting, Now pathetic.
Big, metal machines, Stranded without use, Full of scars from their abuse.
Memories of the past, Once serving a purpose, Their remains to this day lasts.
They thought in wars, Airships, ships and tanks, Memories rotting without thanks.
Did they ever find peace? Are they happy with themselves? Or for their owners they grief?
Why are you asking these questions? They are just scrapped metal. But they should be put on a pedestal.
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khwxbeeda · 2 months
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How does it feel, to have bone crunch between your teeth?
How does it feel, to hold the knife that sinks into soft flesh?
How does it feel, to have hot, boiling red blood on your hands, dripping off the tips of your fingers?
Take that hide and stretch it over the war drum, call it a herald of a new age and of a new world.
Take that hide from a child's back, from a mother's womb, from a father's chest, and stretch it over a wardrum. Call it a herald of a new time and a new hierarchy.
Take that hide from the bodies of the infants, who lie on the side of destroyed roads. Infants, bloody and beaten to death for crimes neither they nor their parents committed.
Bang the wardrum to cover the sound of the screams and call it music.
Bang the wardrum to cover the sound of exploding bombs and call it music.
Bang the wardrum, bang the wardrum, war is here in the guise of festivity.
A festivity, not of food and music and dance, but of blood and gore and the search for false glory.
You hold the knife, you hold the gun, you hold the drum beater.
You bring war in the guise of festivity.
You bring war without admitting that it is one, while mothers, fathers, children, soldiers lie on destroyed grounds with blank eyes and bloody temples.
You bang the wardrum, bang the wardrum, bang the wardrum.
War is here.
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happilyhadesbound · 11 days
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War's a joke for me and you,         While we know such dreams are true. Siegfried Sassoon                     ~~~~~~ Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death, — Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland, — Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand. We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath, — Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe. He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft, We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe. Oh, Death was never enemy of ours! We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum. No soldier's paid to kick against His powers. We laughed, — knowing that better men would come, And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.
— The Next War, Wilfred Owen (September 1917)
Happy birthday Wilfred Owen <3
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apollo-is-daddy · 21 days
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Not a poem I created but one that needs recognition
There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale 1884-1933
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallowing circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
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thecanadianweeb · 1 month
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I feel so sick and tomorrow is my actual 18th birthday. I legit have a lot to unpack.
Like turns out I was actually faking my age so I could access information that is restricted behind censorship. But just as I turn 18, this type of age faking will be made illegal in my country. Luckily I won’t be affected I think.
But also I have like homework that deals with an extremely serious topic that is hidden behind a supposed WLW story. Like I thought it was about love but it turns out it’s actually about a serious war that my parents have lost people to.
FML cuz like not only am I finally 18, but I also have so much homework, responsibilities and got sick.
Also I can legally swear now! But I prefer not to as it is banned in my school.
TLDR: I was faking being 18 but now I biologically am and got sick with a lot of homework about traumatic subjects that I have to complete on my birthday.
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veronicaaldous · 8 days
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For World Poetry Day
And the Destroyed We embroider the hemsThe old star worn sky is pricked throughEmblems of linked children, wingedHorses parade, in blue soaked windowsHere, as we hug ourselves close We were magicians, are witches, mermaidsWriting poems on walls, on our tonguesOn our very underwear. Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2024 Artwork Jus by Veronica Aldous copyright
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View On WordPress
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adarkstarintheorbit · 26 days
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I wonder of the reactions on their faces when the letter read, "I regret to inform you" of the ache and knot in their stomachs when the realization that their son will not be home dawned upon them for what are the worths of crosses, and medals, and ribbons if the recipient is not here.
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mitskey · 2 years
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— Ilya Kaminsky, excerpt from a poem in 'Deaf Republic'
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Anthem For Doomed Youth
- Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, —
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmer of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
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delilah-in-the-forest · 2 months
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I loved the opressor
On my way home from the goodbye party for my dearest colleague who had to leave against her wish I cycled down Helmerstraat and Greta Thunberg was in the news again, this time chanting in front of the Peace Palace ‘Free Palestine’
When you told me you only wanted peace, I understood in an instant what I couldn’t for 30 years - how the world’s most disgusting acts against humanity were committed with the complicity of seemingly innocent people like you who chose to be willfully blind
and in the name of ‘peace’ and ‘truth’ you proclaimed you never wanted to see me or speak to me again by wishing me, really, a nice life, so as I made love that night you crossed my mind
that time we lied on your bed around midnight and as I caressed your face, I thought that maybe, just maybe if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t be able to unsee it
but we were too busy fucking six or seven times to contemplate war, peace and apartheid and too infatuated with each other to picture in our minds bombs, amputated limbs and all the other war atrocities, and I just let it go when you told me ‘it’s way too complicated’ four years ago
even now you shut out the news, the truth, and your heart, you place a wall between your brain and your feeling parts as you decided your hatred-filled homeland is the only fire worth keeping alive in that empty shell of a man you are
my old friend, your country is built on people’s tears, sweat and blood, screams, hopelessness and unfinished meals as they were ushered away from their homes with empty hands and broken hearts
and your troops, almost 100 years later will just not stop, but Gaza may as well be the moon in your eyes, empty, desolate and far - you don’t see the hunger, thirst and despair all around, you keep repeating whatever lies your media served you without so much as asking why, and here I thought you were a ‘nice guy’
I made you out in my mind to be an extension of me and ever since the war broke out I am fighting cognitive dissonance even in my sleep so I made it my duty to participate in the freedom fight any way that I can, by protesting, spreading the truth and even through my anonymous poetry, and sending the people’s news to all my friends each day so they won’t be able to, like you did, just look away
It is my way to atone for my sins of having made love to you so many times
for the hatered you feel for the oppressed and for the affection I still feel for you and for Palestinian homeland, Palestinian life and Palestinian rights
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the-sound-ofrain · 9 months
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i wrote a song about war and the world called it 'romantic'.
---apollo---
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jannahcore · 3 months
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If I must die,
You must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze —
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself —
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above,
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love.
If I must die
let it bring hope,
let it be a tale.
- Martyr Refaat Alareer
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postmodernsapho · 4 months
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Autumn days are for sipping mulled wine.
For sewing and baking, for sage leaves and thyme.
My house is our nest. No home without you.
We dance in the kitchen, we break bread into two.
I mend your dress, you come home to warm soup.
When it's all over and he knocks on my door,
thanks me for caring for you
through the war.
When he takes you away. No,
when you take him home,
My kiss will show when I've made peace
with letting you go.
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