Trilogy of War

Part I

"The Poetry of War"

We all lie still
In the poetry of war
We all lay slumped or draped
And do not move anymore
Strike a pose macabre
A pose more resolute
Than lines drawn in shifting sands
The fields our lives pollute
The eyes that cloud
In an opaque glassy stare
Do not see the dogs that feed
Upon our carcass' bare
Of life. That spark is gone
Robbed by the poetry of war
Humbled, frail, broken, torn,
We do not move anymore


Part II

"Long Corridors"

Hard won the closing of my eyes
pillow my head upon dreams
Weeping the loss of one too many
and each day lost
in the hard won war
Sheets muslin and opaque
diseased with ochre 'd age, and torn
rough spun upon my cheek
Eyes closed with slumber unchecked
and rough dreams of gore
of pain
and loss
Hard won it is
each second of mindless rest
night and day
heat or cold
frigid and burning, both
beneath similar skies
The clamor of war about
yet i lay a’ sleeping
still and undisturbed
calloused hand clenching
the spasm of dreams translated
into moments brief and unconscious
preternatural, perhaps,
to one set above such things ~
Eyes gummed in sleep
delicate
and fragile
beneath twin veneers of flesh
covering tumultuous wells
from whose depths
dreams are stirred…
Breath shallow
stirring molecules
and shaping the next moment
in eddies and currents...
a grace under pressure
and soon forgotten
on pillowed dreams
And subconscious i
kneading the id
in preparation for i's rising…
Yet for now i sleep
and hard won it is
each measure of time
wound like thread upon the Sisters skein
Fates chasing with shears at ready
and i
blissfully oblivious
chasing sleep down long corridors


Part III

"Euphrates"

We claimed her soil and changed her name
Euphrates now
Not merely a river
But the whole of the land
Euphrates… west of the Tigris and
East of our homes
But it was the space between rivers-
Ribbons of life amid desolate wastes,
Green palms and empty palaces,
Where we slept ‘neath vaulted ceilings
Pillowed our heads on marbled floors…
And where kings once bathed
Washed the war from our skins

And the souvenirs, toppled like dictators
Cached in our packs
For reminders down the long years
Of where we had stood…
Where friends of old found sleep unwanted
Sent home with taps ringing
Like the staccato sound of weapons fire…
Ringing…

Not unlike the clink of Turkish teapots
Upon saucers and cups
The sound of boots scraping cross roadways
Not unlike the propagandas rolled like posters
For souvenirs…
Photo stills of camaraderie and bravura…
Pieces of statue
Like lucky rocks in our pocket
And the memory of lives taken
And lost.
Was it really so easy?
Despite the toll in lives lost
Did we gain all this
Only to lose more, much more
In the Honor esteemed us
In the Eyes of the World?
Is Honor lost
In the fires of Vitriol,
Or is Honor burnished bright
And proud?
Despite the blood we've shed... and bloodshed?

Now I find I’m caught, weeping
Upon the precipice
We were not made to kill
Yet neither was the world meant for peace
And I remember Yeats who aptly penned
“The world’s more full of weeping
Than you can understand”



ELAshley


Part I

December 17, 1995
Between 2 and 3am


Part II

122000.020645.1
"...chasing sleep down long corridors"
Revised: 122100.112407.1
[deemed perfect with but one revision]
but how wrong I was…revised again on:
051501.024817.1
and again on:
052001.054625.6
and again on:
061401.013611.1
and again on:
091201.113924.6
and again on:
042602.012741.1
and finally on:
092905.021644.6


Part III

040903.123920.1
Revised on:
092105.092331.1


..::Original Comments::..

You have the gift. Etienne! You have the gift!
Posted by romantica on 09/30/2005 05:51:39 PM