Poetry competition CLOSED 11th November 2018 3:15pm
WINNER
Astyanax (Ceejay)
Astyanax (Ceejay)
RUNNERS-UP:
PoetsRevenge
and EleazarSwan
Anti-War Poem
Poetry Contest Description
An anti-war poem to mark the upcoming Centenary of Armistice Day (end of WW1, 11/11/1918 —> 11/11/2018).
Being born into and married into families deeply traumatised by two world wars I became a life-long pacifist. I’d like to read some DUP inspired anti-war poetry.
RULES
Keep it short (max 150 words)
Add a title
One entry per person
No extreme content
Any style
Old or new
Competition ends on Armistice Day, Sunday 11th November, 2018
Winner to be judged by an old friend.
{photo: my maternal grandfather, WW1, early days of the RAF}
Here’s what I’ve just come up with (not entered in comp of course)
St INK
I would have printed this anti-war poem
in machine-gun blood
though even for such a short script
the cost is too great.
Enough blood has been spilt to print
a million copies of the Bible
in 200 languages - one book per person
killed in wars since 1900.
But red is hard to read
so I stick to plain blank ink - easier to see
and it doesn’t stink.
THROWBACK
.
I saw a young man today, a photo of him
kneeling, draped in the stars & stripes.
I found him online and was struck by
how he looks like my great-uncle David,
who's image always intrigued me, and
how he'd remind me of me: a throwback;
dropped stitches in a quilt, the two of us,
mismatched of the family, short & dark.
Don't look familiar 'cept to each other,
related by proxy, wishing he knew how
much I've loved him even though he's gone.
The first time I saw old photos of him,
my little bird voice chirped, "He was so nice!"
How did I know? his black & white grin,
and pieces that family members had put in,
of his place alongside kindred spirits,
separated by generations, and bonded
with scout pledges, and Schwinn bikes.
I've always missed him because I know him,
but, he couldn't wait that long for me.
Something went so very wrong long before
I came along too late, when time would sag.
Overturning his world, the Pawtucket kid
in a jeep, suddenly gets the news flash that
the war's over, that they'd be sending him
home, covered in a freshly draped flag.
Copyright © 2016 Jade-Pandora. All Rights Reserved.
Preview photo: original photo (circa 1928) from my grandmother's album (inherited by me) when she was a teenager, oldest 1st cousin to David, showing him with 1st cousin Henry (kid brother to my grandmother), posing with David's father, Charlie.
Author's note:
My great-uncle David, who served in the United States Army Corp, lost his life in 1945, just outside his base in France when his jeep hit a landmine, killing him instantly. He has never been far from our family, so fun-loving was he, and no newborns to the family have ever been named David since. It's like his name was retired, like the way the number for a football or baseball player on a team is retired - no other will replace him.
.
I saw a young man today, a photo of him
kneeling, draped in the stars & stripes.
I found him online and was struck by
how he looks like my great-uncle David,
who's image always intrigued me, and
how he'd remind me of me: a throwback;
dropped stitches in a quilt, the two of us,
mismatched of the family, short & dark.
Don't look familiar 'cept to each other,
related by proxy, wishing he knew how
much I've loved him even though he's gone.
The first time I saw old photos of him,
my little bird voice chirped, "He was so nice!"
How did I know? his black & white grin,
and pieces that family members had put in,
of his place alongside kindred spirits,
separated by generations, and bonded
with scout pledges, and Schwinn bikes.
I've always missed him because I know him,
but, he couldn't wait that long for me.
Something went so very wrong long before
I came along too late, when time would sag.
Overturning his world, the Pawtucket kid
in a jeep, suddenly gets the news flash that
the war's over, that they'd be sending him
home, covered in a freshly draped flag.
Copyright © 2016 Jade-Pandora. All Rights Reserved.
Preview photo: original photo (circa 1928) from my grandmother's album (inherited by me) when she was a teenager, oldest 1st cousin to David, showing him with 1st cousin Henry (kid brother to my grandmother), posing with David's father, Charlie.
Author's note:
My great-uncle David, who served in the United States Army Corp, lost his life in 1945, just outside his base in France when his jeep hit a landmine, killing him instantly. He has never been far from our family, so fun-loving was he, and no newborns to the family have ever been named David since. It's like his name was retired, like the way the number for a football or baseball player on a team is retired - no other will replace him.
.
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
Go To Page
Mommy
is it my fault
i look like this
no baby
it's not your fault
is it your fault then
mommy
partly baby partly
why mommy
we walked a road
we didn't know
where common sence
had no meaning
where we stand at the graves
of the ones that we gave
nothing
but a short life of grieving
when we allowed
radiation
to twist
the liveing
is it my fault
i look like this
no baby
it's not your fault
is it your fault then
mommy
partly baby partly
why mommy
we walked a road
we didn't know
where common sence
had no meaning
where we stand at the graves
of the ones that we gave
nothing
but a short life of grieving
when we allowed
radiation
to twist
the liveing
Josh said:Thank you... Interesting, intriguing and stimulating. :))
You’re welcome, Josh.
You’re probably looking for more direct expressions of anti-war sentiments, but the thrust of my “Throwback” couldn’t be more anti-war than personal accounts that tell of the death of loved ones taken because of war.
I should subtitle my entry “Death: A Byproduct Of War (‘Cause It Never Stops The Next War)”⚠️
You’re welcome, Josh.
You’re probably looking for more direct expressions of anti-war sentiments, but the thrust of my “Throwback” couldn’t be more anti-war than personal accounts that tell of the death of loved ones taken because of war.
I should subtitle my entry “Death: A Byproduct Of War (‘Cause It Never Stops The Next War)”⚠️
REBEL AF
Smoke rises from the pile
of opposing armies' battle dress, burned
under the old pine
laid a prayer
zenith searches for the stars
Gift of
intrigue from a
rebel
liaison
Six miles from the front
Ninth gate is closed for now
of opposing armies' battle dress, burned
under the old pine
laid a prayer
zenith searches for the stars
Gift of
intrigue from a
rebel
liaison
Six miles from the front
Ninth gate is closed for now
Written by SatInUGal
(Kumar)
Go To Page
Hi Jade,
I'm not sure how to reply to your post only on these competition pages; it seems to post it at the (current) bottom of all the postings. Absolutely I read your poem as direct anti-war, especially because it involved a family member. Your subtitle sums it very well. Josh.
I'm not sure how to reply to your post only on these competition pages; it seems to post it at the (current) bottom of all the postings. Absolutely I read your poem as direct anti-war, especially because it involved a family member. Your subtitle sums it very well. Josh.
Fall
The Great War was autumn's rights proclaimed
Young spirits rise and fall again
The maelstrom of the swirling wind
The grey of grief hides unashamed
To blow all summers entrenched displayed
To rustle now if memory fails
Their golden youth t'ward sodden earth
The saplings broken in the gales sharp teeth
Wrap your scarf, button your coat
the draught of war the fall denotes
cannon fodder its short lived futility
leaves its scars now the memorials permanency
Young spirits rise and fall again
The maelstrom of the swirling wind
The grey of grief hides unashamed
To blow all summers entrenched displayed
To rustle now if memory fails
Their golden youth t'ward sodden earth
The saplings broken in the gales sharp teeth
Wrap your scarf, button your coat
the draught of war the fall denotes
cannon fodder its short lived futility
leaves its scars now the memorials permanency
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
Here's an old one I wrote in 2013 for a comp here--It didn't win, so I'll enter it here:
The Carol Of St-Yvon
(to the tune of Neil Young’s “Like A Hurricane”)
We called across the fields
As it began to snow
“Hey there, brother,
Where did our conscience go?”
We let our hearts be darkened
In wartime’s mad regime;
The price to pay for Country,
The Motherland Machine
All along the Western Front
There’s calm on Christmas Eve.
Truce in the Land Of No-One,
December, 1914
The gifts were of simplistic,
We gave on Belgium’s Day;
Exchanging faith in mankind,
We laid our arms away.
We all answer the same God
Who’s death has made us pure;
British, German, French, alike—
What are we fighting for?
All along the Western Front
There’s calm on Christmas Eve.
Truce in the Land Of No-One,
December, 1914
“Lest we forget” where we’ve been
Note: During WWI in December 1914, the Germans had invaded France through Belgium. British troops had entered the war in as an ally to France, and at Christmastime in the St-Yvon region, despite much opposition from those in charge of running the war, the soldiers in the trenches, German, British and French, alike, took it upon themselves to call a truce. The dead were allowed to be brought back to their respective “sides” for burial, opposing troops befriended each other, sang Christmas songs, gave small gifts, played football and were “one” for a brief time period at Christmas.
The Carol Of St-Yvon
(to the tune of Neil Young’s “Like A Hurricane”)
We called across the fields
As it began to snow
“Hey there, brother,
Where did our conscience go?”
We let our hearts be darkened
In wartime’s mad regime;
The price to pay for Country,
The Motherland Machine
All along the Western Front
There’s calm on Christmas Eve.
Truce in the Land Of No-One,
December, 1914
The gifts were of simplistic,
We gave on Belgium’s Day;
Exchanging faith in mankind,
We laid our arms away.
We all answer the same God
Who’s death has made us pure;
British, German, French, alike—
What are we fighting for?
All along the Western Front
There’s calm on Christmas Eve.
Truce in the Land Of No-One,
December, 1914
“Lest we forget” where we’ve been
Note: During WWI in December 1914, the Germans had invaded France through Belgium. British troops had entered the war in as an ally to France, and at Christmastime in the St-Yvon region, despite much opposition from those in charge of running the war, the soldiers in the trenches, German, British and French, alike, took it upon themselves to call a truce. The dead were allowed to be brought back to their respective “sides” for burial, opposing troops befriended each other, sang Christmas songs, gave small gifts, played football and were “one” for a brief time period at Christmas.
How CAN They?
How CAN they??
How on fucking Earth CAN THEY??
Those poor people are running for their lives...
they are NOT Illegal Aliens...
nor are they foreign spies ...What??...
Refugees from WAR and VIOLENCE...
You want they should endure in silence?
How on fucking Earth CAN THEY??
Those poor people are running for their lives...
they are NOT Illegal Aliens...
nor are they foreign spies ...What??...
Refugees from WAR and VIOLENCE...
You want they should endure in silence?
Written by Ely
(E.A.Rothwell)
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Christmas in Vietnam
1964 - Second Tour
Christmas lights in Vietnam
were automatic weapon fire
blinking within the perimeter;
While back home in America
I broke the leg of my first Barbie
bending it too far back, my cow-
licked pixie at morning attention
transmitting code-aviation across
a cracked oatmeal bowl, a crippled
doll, a divided country, an ocean,
a continent, a gulf, a peninsula,
and Cambodian border to intercept
and slit the throats of ricocheted
bullets fiercely craning their knives
for my father, who was looking out
over a munition's crate desk
from his makeshift tent while writing
me about duty and love, his feet
rotting from jungle and words
trailing with irony at the beauty
of sparklers hopping toward him
like a warm holiday memory;
Or, childhood nightmare of captured
fireflies: forgotten POW's dying
in a foreign country of glass jar
beneath dirty clothes on his bedroom floor.
~
Christmas lights in Vietnam
were automatic weapon fire
blinking within the perimeter;
While back home in America
I broke the leg of my first Barbie
bending it too far back, my cow-
licked pixie at morning attention
transmitting code-aviation across
a cracked oatmeal bowl, a crippled
doll, a divided country, an ocean,
a continent, a gulf, a peninsula,
and Cambodian border to intercept
and slit the throats of ricocheted
bullets fiercely craning their knives
for my father, who was looking out
over a munition's crate desk
from his makeshift tent while writing
me about duty and love, his feet
rotting from jungle and words
trailing with irony at the beauty
of sparklers hopping toward him
like a warm holiday memory;
Or, childhood nightmare of captured
fireflies: forgotten POW's dying
in a foreign country of glass jar
beneath dirty clothes on his bedroom floor.
~
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Image Vietnam 1964
Photographer unknown
