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Abstraction · 61-69, M
I have many from many ages. It depends on my mood what I love best at the time. Here's a powerful poem from an obscure poet. I think because I've worked in countries where people have laid down their lives for freedom, or have watched their children die in front of them and the situation is skipped over as 'not newsworthy'...
[b]burial ceremony Hungary 1956-62
[/b]
Bury them deep
under the muffling weight
of six years’ trivia
Heap over them
the shining excrement of those
who feed on forgetting.
Under the bright
inconsequence of headlines
shut them up good.
Under the recurring
tragedy of the football star’s
slipped cartilage,
Under the ticker-taped
processionals of beauty-queens, all
gloriously living,
Under the fretful barrage
of politicians breaking public wind
to ease the embarrassment
Of breathing when so many
better men lie
elsewhere breathless
Under the brute siesta
of nation-states where freedom
remains a quaint local custom…
[b][i]...and beat drum, beat
For these Hungarian souls
Whom anger simplified
Until all answers seemed
The same, a bloody sum,
And every schoolboy in the torn-up streets
Wept to see fulfilled
The aching paradox
That life belongs to those alone
Who loving it, stand ready
To pay it the smoke-blackened
Compliment of their death...
Beat, drum, beat... [/i][/b]
[b]burial ceremony Hungary 1956-62
[/b]
Bury them deep
under the muffling weight
of six years’ trivia
Heap over them
the shining excrement of those
who feed on forgetting.
Under the bright
inconsequence of headlines
shut them up good.
Under the recurring
tragedy of the football star’s
slipped cartilage,
Under the ticker-taped
processionals of beauty-queens, all
gloriously living,
Under the fretful barrage
of politicians breaking public wind
to ease the embarrassment
Of breathing when so many
better men lie
elsewhere breathless
Under the brute siesta
of nation-states where freedom
remains a quaint local custom…
[b][i]...and beat drum, beat
For these Hungarian souls
Whom anger simplified
Until all answers seemed
The same, a bloody sum,
And every schoolboy in the torn-up streets
Wept to see fulfilled
The aching paradox
That life belongs to those alone
Who loving it, stand ready
To pay it the smoke-blackened
Compliment of their death...
Beat, drum, beat... [/i][/b]
Montanaman · M
@Abstraction Damn. That's
Intense. 👍👍💞💞🌹🌹
Intense. 👍👍💞💞🌹🌹
Abstraction · 61-69, M
@Montanaman It's not mine. I thought I had copied the author's name. [b]Bruce Dawe. [/b]
Montanaman · M
@Abstraction I love when poets posts other poems whom they've been touched by words so powerful, they stay with them forever. 👍💞💞
Abstraction · 61-69, M
@Montanaman I actually first loved it at school before I'd been out in the big wide world - and felt it then.
Abstraction · 61-69, M
@Abstraction I put a few poems up on EP. There is a major piece I wrote years ago when in chronic depression. For about three months I escaped into expressing things, carrying every syllable like I had a mouthful of marbles to feel and arrange. I stirred silent screams, loss and unfounded hope around together until I found images I could pour them into. I may have survived because of it.
But... I wrote it for no-one else. I think it's the most perfect thing I've written but I doubt it's accessible to others. It was like graffiti, spray painted where no-one goes or notices.
But... I wrote it for no-one else. I think it's the most perfect thing I've written but I doubt it's accessible to others. It was like graffiti, spray painted where no-one goes or notices.
