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It's all very easy - even if the following sounds complicated. Try it and see! You will need to click on "Comments" then paste or type your poem in the "Post a comment" box. Select a "profile" from the drop-down list. If you have an account with one of the items on the list please use it, otherwise select "Anonymous" and post your poem. It should appear instantly on this website/blogsite.
There are many poems on this topic on The War Poetry website. http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/
In Gaza
ReplyDeleteWho will look after us
When our mother is killed
I will look after you says father
But who will look after us when you are killed
I will look after you says older brother
But you will die also, and we shall be alone,
So I ask again
Who will look after us when you are all dead
Written after the BBC programme on the effects of war on the children of Gaza. One boy about 9 years old says " I used to be happy, but now I hate people".
Marguerite Rami 23/02/2011
Butterflies
ReplyDeleteShafts of light with floating wings
Caresses my body as I wake from sleep
I here the birdsong, and feel the fluttering
Of butterflies of azure blue
Flying high on thermal skies
This must be spring, a longing sigh
I feel the warmth of the rising sun
Easing my bones for what is to come
It matters not that I die...
Today I saw blue butterflies fly...
Marguerite Rami
2011
No comment
Lies
ReplyDeleteIn the softness of your touch I am almost lost
The horrors I have stored like the placing on shelves
Of number one, two, three deaths.
Four, five and six sit behind, as if to hide
I know, I remember each one
But I am cleansed by your not knowing
You do not see the drops of blood lodged
In the depths of my soul...
So we laugh but I turn away, I am unclean
Still your eyes see this other different man
A soft face, holding no horrors, no fear
I look at him in your eyes and begin to feel
I can never erase, I can never go back
He is gone, but I can't tell you
So in your purity of thought he lives
This hero, this Demi God, he lives
But I have died.
Marguerite Rami
Early 2011
The thoughts of what has been done in the name of war,
and the coming home, what then?
With his heart in his mouth,
ReplyDeleteAnd the Adrenaline in his veins
A frontline soldier is fighting-
Alongside his brothers-his mates.
In the heat of the battle, his mind stays the same
my family and friends, i will be home some day!
Staring death in the face and laughing out loud,
An inspiration to all, A Real Man in the crowd.
In his eyes, his gaze, his thousand yard stare
He appears motionless and cold, as though his soul isn't there
For the things he has seen, and the lives he may have taken
Bear Nothing to those who have never Fortaken
For they know not fear- Or the pain we have tasted
And that the lives of our friends were not lost or wasted
For they were heroes amongst us
They were heroes who amazed us!
Good Friday
ReplyDeleteIn April, palm leaves are scattered
among the streets and back alleys
where the poor sleep, where criminals
make their plans before the hill known as Golgotha.
The night is aflame with jet fighters
as rain washes away the blood trail
left by the thousands who have fled into exile,
while Israel continues its brutal raids in Gaza.
The talk is always of silver coins, of Cesar’s men
who come camouflaged in the usual
combat attire, their neckties
betraying their class. The more transparent
traitors are dressed in tailored American suits.
It is Good Friday. As Syria burns,
prayers are beginning on television.
A musty, dry wind blows dust across the planet
as stations of the cross are mapped out
for tourists who will lose their way in Jerusalem.
Stray dogs are running through the streets
of my New England city, howling
as the gutters in Homs pile up with torn body parts
and sunlight illuminates the eyes of the dead.
The final cup is spilling
over with hope and hollow laughter
as another Passover
burrows deep into our bones like cancer.
Broken nation-states are burning everywhere
in the fury of monotheism.
Today, in a backyard, I saw two
birch trees entwined like lovers.
The Garden of Gethsemane has its boundaries.
Luis Lázaro Tijerina
Burlington, Vermont, 2012