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Post by Archagon on Jan 16, 2004 20:35:15 GMT -5
My uncle left to go to war. Inside a yellow tent With grass beneath his feet, A messenger of steel he came to meet; And thus the sky turned red But matter it does not! For thus he went For freedom.
My brother left to go to war. Instead of smiling back, I smile now at his face. For tangled came his chute beneath God's grace; My tears now help me sleep. But matter does it not! For thus he fell For freedom.
My father left to go to war. And in a village raid He shot a fellow man With different tongue and clothes and darker tan From which he lost his mind. But matter does it not! For thus he cried For freedom.
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Post by Antid on Jan 16, 2004 20:41:04 GMT -5
Maybe I'm just really stupid, but I don't see the sarcasm. To me it sounds bitter, but not sarcastic.
Is that your poem?
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Post by Archagon on Jan 16, 2004 20:45:13 GMT -5
Nevermind then, bitter. My bad.
Yeah. I just wrote it off the top of my head.
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Post by Antid on Jan 16, 2004 21:01:11 GMT -5
Here is a war-poem I sketched early in 10th grade for a small english project. It's not sarcastic or anything, but I thougt it would still be relevant.
Silence in the Morning
A gloomy morning, smoky gray, The suffocating cotton sky, It's quiet here this time of day, Except for planes that spy up high.
A quiet morning, dull and bleak, A lonely crow announces death, And from its frost - encrusted beak, Comes weak and shallow foggy breath.
Barbed wire tangles in itself, Gray locks of it enwool the world, As if a sheep - its silver wealth Fine curls of spiky, bloodstained wool.
Dawn's frostbite helps the senses dull. My fingers numb, and lock in place, Around the rifle's trunk. I pace, For I can't feel my frozen feet...
***
I'm hungry - is it time to eat? I'm tired - is it time to sleep? Far off explosions low and deep, For victory, or for defeat - Who cares? Do I?
A soldier doesn't know the "Why" He only knows the "Who" and "How" - Naught else must he himself allow.
***
The ashen sky, so pure, so wide, And unpredictable like fate, From neither can one ever hide; One option - hope for luck and wait.
It's quiet in a fearful way - I hear explosions far away, Yet I feel silence, stark and stern, It's here, no matter where I turn, And like a toxic gas it creeps, And into every crack it seeps.
It has no might, yet breaks the psyche, It is not sharp, yet perferates its victim, like an iron pike.
Oh silence! What shall be my fate? Shall I dissolve into the earth, Shot by a sniper from the shrub? Shall I go home in noble mirth, With crosses on my jacket's hub?
Respond, oh mother of suspense! Why is it that you torture me with ignorance of fate? Cease hence, And speak, which is my destiny?
But eerie silence creeps and creeps, And listens but does not reply. I only hear how my heart leaps, and even fainter - planes up high.
***
I look around me, to my right, The woods stare back in silent dread, For they, the wise, beneath the light, Regard the dying and the dead.
They've aged from witnessing the war, Their branches desperately sag, Confused ;"What fight these humans for? - A shred they proudly call a flag?"
***
Indeed, what is it in a banner, That men behave in such a manner? Why does a scarlet rag cause ire, Like in mad bulls the boorish fire?
***
From whence these contemplations draw? A soldier mustn't seek the "why's". So, to correct my thinking flaw, I gyrate to the left my eyes.
The whispers of the trees dispersed, But in their place the moors came out - Grim graveyard lands forever cursed.
Unburied corpses lie about - Dead people. Limbs in disarray With heads and torsos smashed away, The bloody carnage on the green, Can faintly to my left be seen.
I shut my eyes, I dare not gaze Nor left, nor right in this foul daze. I'm dizzy...
There, it's leaving me... The bloody moors, the talking tree... It's silent. I now risk to peek. It seemed like death was very near,
No. It was silence, dull and bleak, Offspring of death, parent of fear.
***
Enough! I can't go on this way, Or someone shoot me where I stand! No, that's not what I meant to say...
I rend the rifle from my hand The morning's over - it is day, And sunlight pours upon the land.
The gloomy morning changed its hide, It turned into the blissful day, Yet silence carries on inside, Where, I fear, it will always stay.
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Post by Archagon on Jan 16, 2004 21:05:52 GMT -5
That was really good. Good good good good good. Makes me want to write more, for I fear of forgetting how.
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Post by Antid on Jan 16, 2004 21:09:17 GMT -5
Thank you I don't think you can ever forget how to write poetry. You either have it or you don't. As a matter of fact, I've recently started writing again after a very long period of not writing at all, and it's better than before. You just have to do it impromptu, otherwise it comes through - in a bad way.
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Post by Archagon on Jan 16, 2004 21:15:01 GMT -5
Yes; however, the quality is also in question! When one sits down and finishes a written work, one thinks - what is to happen if these phrases are naught compared to others written? What if those others are creation of a foreign hand? For quality is judged not by one's peers but by oneself, and if one thinks that limits have been reached, no need to wander forth more becomes apparent. Now that you have posted this, I strive to write better, but only I am one to judge what better really is, and there is good chance that no matter how well I shall write, better shall never be reached, even if only in my mind.
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Post by Antid on Jan 16, 2004 21:27:29 GMT -5
True, true.
The same goes for any work of art. Ali once criticized a piece of music I composed for the piano, but I still like it the way it is.
On the other hand, I had to write a journal on "values" in english, which I frankly pulled out of my rear. I still get convulsions whenever I try to read it. Surprisingly however, the teacher liked mine and distinguished it as a model for others.
You're right in that it all depends on how the artist feels about his work, but I'm saying that when you try force it out, your result is likely to be constipated and sh!tty.
It's kinda like a person trying who tries to be funny.
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Post by Archagon on Jan 16, 2004 21:32:46 GMT -5
I never try to force myself into writing poetry. Except in English (school, not the language).
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Post by Antid on Jan 16, 2004 21:40:40 GMT -5
Yeah, don't you just hate english for that?
Who's your teacher, BTW?
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Post by Archagon on Jan 16, 2004 22:46:51 GMT -5
Ms. Banana (j/k, Bonano).
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Post by Haku on Jan 17, 2004 2:00:40 GMT -5
cool poems!
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Post by Hans Lemurson on Jan 17, 2004 2:36:12 GMT -5
I concur. Did you just then write that big long one Dimitri?
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Post by Antid on Jan 17, 2004 12:37:58 GMT -5
No, it was a project for English. It wasn't supposed to be that long, but I really got into it.
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