Adam Fenner's Blog, page 24

The hero (Continued)

Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

    “Jack fell as he’d have wished,” the Mother said,
    And folded up the letter that she’d read.
    “The Colonel writes so nicely.” Something broke
    In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
    She half looked up. “We mothers are so proud
    Of our dead soldiers.” Then her face was bowed.

    Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
    He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
    That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
    For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
    Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
    Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

    He thought how “Jack,” cold-footed, useless swine,
    Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
    Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
    To get sent home; and how, at last, he died,
    Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
    Except that lonely woman with white hair.

More to excavate from this one it seems.

For what purpose

For what gain, means or result, why bother
It doesn’t belong on a resume, no job offers
Your children’s bellies, your families home
It won’t pay for a car, vacation, no benefit
Society will praise you, but offer nothing
An old story for the bar, garish blustering
They will thank you, admire you, shun you
Admirable alien, reminder of their faults
For what then, all risk, no reward, why?

You are right, but…
It is right, that is all it has to be

There will be whispers, fears, speculation
Did you? Was it a lie, a story, fabrication
A tinge of truth, inflated reality, fiction
Or worse, is it true? Was it true, horrors
Blood soaked, gunpowder blackened
Capable of, violence, killer, murderer
Did you like it? Do you still want it?
Are you, do you, have that, PTSD?
Snap, you could, maybe, a risk to us all

Then what?
Stay home, send someone else, who?

There is always someone else

No, we reject, deny, refute and rebel
We are not transactional, commercial
My brothers and sisters ignore the absurdity
Move forward to the line, past it, protect it
Sleep softly, warm, safe, nestled tight
Sheepdogs protect their flock, despite
Its rejection, fear, ignorance, cowardice
Selfish, or selfless, stories, told or forgotten
That isn’t the point, that is not the purpose

Then for what purpose?

Greater purpose.

Photo by Olivier Piquer on Unsplash

The Hero

Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

    “Jack fell as he’d have wished,” the Mother said,
    And folded up the letter that she’d read.
    “The Colonel writes so nicely.” Something broke
    In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
    She half looked up. “We mothers are so proud
    Of our dead soldiers.” Then her face was bowed.

    Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
    He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
    That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
    For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
    Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
    Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

    He thought how “Jack,” cold-footed, useless swine,
    Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
    Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
    To get sent home; and how, at last, he died,
    Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
    Except that lonely woman with white hair.

There is a reason poetry like this is timeless.

That word

Jinn summoned, break glass in emergency
Consequences, situations, generation called

National pride, shame, still pride, still loss
Necessary, required, loved, appreciated
expended

Politicians’ call, a nation in need, call to arms
Great evil, defend our home, defeat our enemy

Playground banter, children trained
Mothers’, spouses’, families banner

Domestic tax, international affairs
Household duties, one time fees

Unbalanced exchange, two modest syllables
Exalted transaction, valuation pending

Fungible vocabulary, inflation devalued
Necessary evil, or good, as applied
with a catch

Bitter salve, snake oil propaganda
Our lies, history tells, history forgets

Social proof, no market value,
except
Communities decline, absent ideals

Photo by Valeria Reverdo on Unsplash

Dulce et Decorum Est (Again)

As I replied to this poem yesterday I’ll tuck it at the bottom. But I did want to offer a second counter / Prompt response to it.

Black Socks

Buzzing black, crawling, feeding, prismatic wings
Iraqi heat, wrinkled pink, sweat drenched feet

Dehydrated swarms, probuscis draws, nourishing draught
Black fly socks, woolen wrapped, exposed skin to dry

Darkened suede boots, sweat soaked edges, frayed seams
Dangling cotton blended, tired troops sipping water

A quick couple miles, only ten miles, broken promises
Almost there, we will pick you up, meet us at…

Ran out of water at mile six. just a couple more miles
Factory finish, abandoned, we will rest here, for now

Take off our boots, rest our feet, drink some water
Feed our bellies, dry our socks, feed the flies

Dulce et Decorum Est (Again)

Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Photo by Oziel Gómez on Unsplash

Dulce et Decorum est

Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

I might chew on this one a couple times. The first stanza hit me, but I can’t ignore the moment after the gas masks went on.

Strawberry Jam

Strawberry jam dropped, smeared 
Wiped on my jacket, MOPP level one

Track soot blackened, sand scraped
Left behind on route one, maybe

MOPP two, Mickey Mouse boots
Sweat soaked, trench foot, puddle jumpers 

Gentle repose, gas mask pillows
Sweat smeared, green canvas nap 

Diesel fumes, chuffed smoke marked
Hip hung mask, goggle rimmed raccoon eyes

Hip bound companion wrap sling swings
Run ragged, sways, drags, protective filter

Suited deterrent, protective posture 
Mission oriented, worn, torn, and tossed

Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash

Magic in the skies

The disappointing banality 
of air travel, is not a tight
seat, or sloppy drink service
A warm cookie wouldn’t hurt

The disappointment is 
forgetting where we came 
from, for not looking at the 
clouds below, daily magic

Reposting the above, I was supposed to have a quick flight and get in at a decent time last night, but ended up being delayed 3 hours. Now I’m running on half a nights sleep and have a long day ahead. This is the kind of thing where I don’t want to get upset in the back of the plane while I’m angry for the inconvenience, but still marvel that I can jump a couple states in an hour or two. We can fly you know.

Photo by Wioson JIANG on Unsplash

In Flander’s Field – Echoed

John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

To keep working I’m going to find poetry daily, and either comment, or use it as a prompt for my own piece.

Echos in Flander’s Field

Friend, lover, neighbor, foe
Violent stripped meat from bone
Punctured, torn, rend flesh
Last action reduces him to
Soldier, warrior, enemy

Crosses stand vigil, memorial
Headstone settles, forgotten debts
Virtue, honor, heroism, courage
Skeletal remains, buried past

Father, brother, husband, son
Laid aside, beside, against
Shoulder to shoulder, grim
Formation one last time

Photo by Josh Roland on Unsplash

Prompting

Rambling a bit this morning. I’ll need to find a new anchor for my morning focus now that WP is done with letting me reply to prompts.

I was thinking about networking and collaboration among poets and its overall value. There is an element of writing that always feels isolating, in many ways I prefer that. I’d like to be able to write, release my work through some filter and then it hits the world. Without me essentially, but that isn’t the way it works. Communities are there to uplift and support.

So, I think the next step for me as a writer is to develop those meaningful relationships, find a community to support, and to learn from.

The hardest part is to be able to sound genuine at introduction. Spam ruined that for people. It certainly did me.

Photo by Marigna Roth on Unsplash

The Artilleryman’s Vision

I was reading last night a poem by Walt Whitman. The Artilleryman’s Vision, I’ll link here with some commentary and notes.

The Artilleryman’s Vision

While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath of my infant,
There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me;
The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal,
The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the irregular snap! snap!

The poem continues, and I’ll let you read it for yourself. but what I found striking, and it is the poetry critics who would miss it is the reality of that surreal moment. A civil war veteran, laying in his room. His wife beside him sleeping. His baby nearby quietly breathing in the night air. And he is thinking about the war.

In an age where we have language, intrusive thoughts and disorders this gets put into a specific bucket. Not really going to comment on those buckets and its affect upon individuals and society. But there is something comforting in knowing that the psychological affects of war, are human. That from one generation to the next there are these common threads that connect us.

Photo by Susan Jang on Unsplash

Military Review – Published

My poem Little Spoon was recently published in the July – August edition of the Military Review.

For a light introduction

Little Spoon

Tired warriors each unpacked,

In a shallow hand-dug hole,
Not fit for a grave

Afghan soil cold and hard,
An unfit mattress, a slotted drawer

…

You can find the full poem here.

I’ve also linked it on my page here.

Bitter draught

Second coffee, before the sun
Bitter draught awakens spirits

Quietly to not awaken, them
Brooding creatures, darkness slumbers

Feet pound overhead
Dresser bangs, sweatpants selection

Good morning Daddy
Good morning Buddy

WordPress is not letting me answer prompts today, I guess I’m locked out now. Still tagging in, I’ll have to find another prompt generator to keep me going. This has been actig as my morning routine for a while. A bit of exercise. And like most workouts, I strike out, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t bother. I appreciate anyone who takes a moment out of their day to read my poetry.

Photo by Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash