Adam Fenner's Blog, page 4

The Hero – Reviewed

Siegfried 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.

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Analysis

This poem looks at war in a way that strips away the usual ideas of heroism. It doesn’t glorify sacrifice or bravery. Instead, it shows how war distorts the truth, how people believe what they need to believe, and how the idea of a hero often doesn’t match reality. The mother in the poem believes her son, Jack, died courageously. She holds onto the letter she’s been given, carefully folding it, repeating the words she’s been told: “Jack fell as he’d have wished.” But her voice wavers. Something in her knows there’s more to the story, but she doesn’t let herself think about it. She’s been given a version of events that she can bear. The officer who delivered the news knows this. He feeds her the story she needs to hear, and she takes it in, letting it sustain her. She wants Jack’s death to mean something.

But the reality is different. The officer knows what really happened. Jack wasn’t a hero. He was afraid. He tried to run. And when the mine exploded, he died quickly, without glory, without meaning. The contrast between what the mother believes and what the officer knows makes the poem so stark. She’s proud, even comforted, because she thinks her son was brave. But the reader sees the truth, and that makes her belief feel tragic.

The poem lays out two versions of heroism—the one that exists for people back home and the one that exists for soldiers. The gap between them is huge. The mother sees her son’s death as something noble. She repeats what she’s been told, as if saying it enough will make it true. She even says, “We mothers are so proud of our dead soldiers.” It’s an unsettling line, but it shows how deeply this version of heroism has been pushed onto people. There’s no room for doubt. If a soldier dies, then their death must have mattered.

The officer knows better. He lies to her, but not out of cruelty. He knows she needs this story, that without it, she would be left with nothing but loss. She listens with “gentle triumph,” as if she’s found something to hold onto. The reader, though, knows it’s all built on a lie.

The final stanza rips that comfort away. Jack wasn’t fearless. He panicked. He tried to escape. He wasn’t the soldier his mother imagines. But does that make him any less of a hero? War expects soldiers to be brave, to follow orders, to die the right way. The officer in the poem sees Jack’s fear as weakness. He calls him “cold-footed, useless swine.” But in the end, Jack still died, just like every other soldier. Does it really matter that he was scared?

The poem doesn’t give an answer. It just lays out the contrast between the comforting lie and the harsh truth. Jack’s mother believes in heroism. Jack never had that choice.

Photo by Todd Trapani on Unsplash

The Punic Wars – Reviewed

whitecatgrove

I had seen this movie before: that glee
wide-mouthed and sick at the triumph, feasting
on tears. Glory of burning hospitals,
the tumbled houses. They wrapped the bodies

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Dream poem: The Punic Wars

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Analysis

This poem moves fast, showing war as something that repeats endlessly. The first line—“I had seen this movie before”—makes it clear that this isn’t new. War, destruction, and suffering are all part of a pattern the speaker has seen before and will see again. The phrase “that glee” stands out. War isn’t just about fighting. It’s about the way people react to it, the way victory and suffering go hand in hand. There’s something sick about it, something familiar.

The destruction builds in layers. First, there’s fire. Hospitals and houses burn, places meant to be safe are wiped away. But safety doesn’t matter here. Then it gets worse. The dead aren’t just gone—they become fuel. “They wrapped the bodies / in tight shrouds and used them to light a torch / for the games.” The wording makes it feel like a public event, something people watch. War turns into entertainment, death into a spectacle. And the poem doesn’t pause to react. The horror is presented without commentary, as if this is just how things go.

Then the warships arrive, but they aren’t ordinary ships. They’re swans, creatures that should symbolize peace, turned into engines of destruction. “Shredding our flag with a merciless beak” suggests the tearing apart of identity, the loss of a nation. Then, “devouring mercy”—kindness itself disappears. War isn’t just about burning cities. It eats away at ideas, leaving no space for anything but violence.

The final section shifts into something ancient. A “living tophet” appears—a reference to sites where children were burned as sacrifices. The war in this poem isn’t just one battle. It’s something deeper, something that has happened before and will happen again. The last image—“A red mouth opens, the earth sown with salt”—pulls everything together. The mouth could be fire, could be war itself, could be history swallowing everything whole. And the salt is a direct reference to Rome’s destruction of Carthage. It’s not just about winning. It’s about making sure nothing is left. War doesn’t just kill people—it erases them.

The structure of the poem reflects its message. The images come in a rush, with no time to stop or process them. The lack of pauses makes it feel relentless, the way war moves, the way history repeats. There’s no reflection, no moment where the speaker questions what’s happening. They already know. They’ve seen it before. They’ll see it again.

The poem feels like a nightmare, the kind where you know what’s coming but can’t stop it. The way destruction is described makes it feel distant, inevitable. The title, The Punic Wars, ties it to history, but the poem makes it clear that history never really stays in the past. War follows the same pattern, over and over. The fire burns, the salt is sown, and eventually, it all starts again.

Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash

Wild Waters – Reviewed

Hana Rubinstejnova

frogs having a blast
puddles turned lakes
raging rivers

swallowed fields

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

MIDDAY POETRY – ‘Wild Waters’

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Analysis

This poem follows the movement of rising floodwaters, starting small and growing into something overwhelming. It begins with a moment of life—frogs “having a blast.” It’s lighthearted, almost comical. The image suggests that while the rain might be disruptive for people, some creatures are thriving in it. But as the poem unfolds, the mood shifts. The puddles aren’t just puddles anymore. They’ve turned into lakes. The rivers aren’t just flowing; they’re raging. The water is no longer just something to splash in. It’s something bigger, something out of control.

The structure is short, fragmented, almost like a list. Each line is a small piece of the picture, dropping in like raindrops, one by one, until the whole scene is built. There’s no punctuation, no full sentences, just images that stack on top of each other. This mirrors the way floodwaters rise—little by little, then all at once. The biggest break happens in the middle, after “swallowed fields.” The space that follows gives a pause, as if the poem itself is letting the water settle before moving into the next stage. That’s how floods work. One moment, the ground is still visible. The next, it’s gone.

Then the poem moves from nature into something messier. Septic tanks are overflowing. The water isn’t just water anymore—it’s carrying waste, mixing everything together. The phrase “with surfers” adds something unexpected. Maybe it’s literal, maybe people are out there, riding the floodwaters like a game. Or maybe it’s a way of saying that people have been swept up in it, floating whether they want to or not. Either way, it shifts the tone again. The water isn’t just a natural force anymore. It’s taken on everything in its path.

The last lines pull everything together. “Life has blended into one.” The separation between things—land and water, clean and dirty, human and nature—has disappeared. The poem doesn’t say whether this is good or bad. It just states what has happened. The final word, “one,” lands with a kind of finality, as if everything has been reduced to a single state of being.

If this is about climate change, it’s not an alarm bell. It doesn’t talk about causes, doesn’t point fingers. It just shows what happens. The flood isn’t just a disaster—it’s a transformation. The short lines and lack of punctuation keep everything moving, like floodwaters rising without pause. The imagery shifts from life thriving in the rain to destruction, then to something beyond either—something where everything has mixed together into a single, unstoppable force.

There’s no resolution here. No sign that the water will recede. The poem captures a moment when the flood has already won. It doesn’t rely on big, dramatic statements. Instead, it lets the water rise line by line, creeping forward, swallowing things bit by bit. By the end, there’s nothing left to separate—just water, waste, movement, and change.

Photo by Jack B on Unsplash

Deus loquitur – Reviewed

Charles Sorley

That’s what I am: a thing of no desire,
With no path to discover and no plea
To offer up, so be my altar fire
May burn before the hearth continuously,
To be
For wayward men a steadfast light to see.

They know me in the morning of their days,
But ere noontide forsake me, to discern
New lore and hear new riddles. But moonrays
Bring them back footsore, humble, bent, a-burn
To turn
And warm them by my fire which they did spurn.

They flock together like tired birds. “We sought
Full many stars in many skies to see.
But ever knowledge disappointment brought.
Thy light alone, Lord, burneth steadfastly.”
Ah me!
Then it is I who fain would wayward be.

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You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

In this poem, God does not demand devotion or punish those who turn away. He is just there—steady, patient, waiting. Charles Sorley wrote this during World War I, a time when faith, duty, and sacrifice were being tested by the brutality of war. His God is not vengeful or commanding, just enduring. He watches people leave, chase after knowledge and new ideas, and then return when they are lost. He does not stop them, does not try to hold on to them, but remains a presence they can always return to.

The title, Deus Loquitur, means “God Speaks,” but this is not the voice of authority or judgment. It is quiet, reflective, almost resigned. The poem follows a clear pattern. Each stanza first describes God’s nature, then human behavior, then ends with a short, almost resigned statement. This repetition reinforces the idea that belief and doubt follow a cycle—people will always leave and come back.

At the start, God calls himself “a thing of no desire.” Unlike the jealous or wrathful God of scripture, he does not ask for anything, does not seek worship. He has “no path to discover,” meaning he does not move forward or backward. This contrasts with people, who are always searching. The central image is the “altar fire” that burns continuously—not a fire that consumes, but one that offers warmth. It is not kept alive by sacrifice; it simply burns. This fire represents constancy, a presence that does not demand attention but is always available. Yet a fire that never goes out must always be burning. Even in this stillness, there is a kind of sacrifice.

The second stanza shows the pattern of belief and doubt. People begin life knowing God, but as they grow, they turn to other things—new knowledge, new ideas. They leave, but they always come back, exhausted and disillusioned. “Foot-sore, humble, bent, a-burn”—they return not because they were forced to, but because they need to. The fire is still there, unchanged, waiting. There is no judgment in these lines, just an understanding of human nature.

The last stanza shifts perspective. People admit they have searched “many stars in many skies” but found only disappointment. What’s unexpected is how the poem ends—not with God accepting them, but with a flicker of doubt. “Ah me! / Then it is I who fain would wayward be.” Watching humans chase meaning, even God feels the pull to wander. For a moment, his constancy seems like a burden.

Sorley’s God does not force belief, does not punish doubt. He stays in place, like a soldier ordered to hold his position while others leave and return. The war had no clear purpose, no grand meaning, but soldiers endured it anyway. In the same way, God’s steadfastness feels like a choice—an act of quiet endurance. He does not leave in the end, but the fact that he wants to makes him feel less like an unreachable divine force and more like something that understands longing, even if he never gives into it.

Photo by Jyoti Singh on Unsplash

sickness lately – Reviewed

Musehick

in our tag team
of sickness lately
i skipped a week
while the wife and baby
sweat and sneezed
and wriggled in fever dreams
and i slipped clean through

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

sickness lately

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Analysis

This poem captures the experience of sickness as something that moves through a household, shifting roles between caretaker and patient. The speaker starts off lucky, avoiding illness while his wife and baby struggle through it. But just when he thinks he’s escaped, it hits him hard. The poem plays with that transition, moving from distance to full-body misery, exaggerating the shift in a way that feels both relatable and a little humorous.

At first, the speaker is just an observer. He describes his sick wife and baby “sweat and sneezed / and wriggled in fever dreams,” using “wriggled” in a way that makes their suffering seem almost over-the-top. It’s the kind of description that comes from someone who isn’t feeling it themselves—he sees what’s happening, but he’s not experiencing it firsthand. He even sounds a little smug when he says he “slipped clean through,” as if he dodged the sickness entirely, like he’s immune to it.

Then, suddenly, he’s not. The shift is abrupt: “But yesterday I hit wall.” There’s no buildup, no warning—just impact. The phrase “shattered into bricks” makes it feel like he didn’t just get sick, he completely collapsed. And then he’s just there, “laid in a line / under covers,” as if he’s been arranged by the sickness itself. He’s not moving, not fighting it—just stuck, unable to do anything but let it run its course.

This is where the humor creeps in. The poem leans into the stereotype of “man flu,” the idea that men act like they’re dying when they get sick while women push through it. The way he describes himself—sweating, twisting, completely undone—plays into that image. His wife was sick last week, probably still tired from it, and now he’s the one falling apart. He knows how it looks. But the joke works because it’s also true. When you’re in it, sickness really does feel like this.

Then comes the push to recover. The phrase “tried to wrestle back / the i” suggests that sickness has taken something away from him—not just his health, but his ability to function, to feel like himself. He has to fight to get it back. And even though he’s trying, the final line, “to move forward into the week,” feels exhausted. He has things to do, but getting up and back to normal isn’t easy.

The structure of the poem mirrors this experience. The first half moves quickly, skipping over time, because it’s not his sickness yet. The second half slows down, sinking into the fever, the exhaustion, the feeling of being trapped in it. Then the ending is a struggle, not a resolution—he’s not better, just trying to move forward.

The poem keeps things simple and direct, making it feel real rather than overly poetic. There’s no deep reflection on sickness or recovery—just the reality of how it happens. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re a wreck, and all you can do is wait it out while everyone else shakes their head at you.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

The Dragon And The Undying – Reviewed

Siegfried Sassoon

All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings
And beats upon the dark with furious wings;
And, stung to rage by his own darting fires,
Reaches with grappling coils from town to town;
He lusts to break the loveliness of spires,
And hurls their martyred music toppling down.
Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze,

Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder’d seas.
Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night,
And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams.
Tenderly stooping earthward from their height,
They wander in the dusk with chanting streams,
And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung,
To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.

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You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

The Dragon and the Undying is a poem about war as a living force, something that moves from place to place, feeding on its own destruction. The dragon is not just a metaphor—it is war itself, relentless and consuming. The poem does not focus on soldiers or victories. It is not about sides or causes. It shows war as something that exists only to destroy. But the poem does not end in despair. The war takes everything, but it does not erase the people. They remain, transformed into the night, the stars, the trees. The poem begins with fire and ruin, but it ends with endurance.

The first half of the poem focuses on destruction. The dragon is fire and fury, lighting up the night sky with artillery and burning through towns. All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings makes war sound almost joyful in its violence. The dragon beats upon the dark with furious wings, making it feel restless, driven by its own destruction. Stung to rage by his own darting fires suggests that war is not just violent—it is self-perpetuating, unable to stop itself.

The destruction is not random. The dragon does not just kill—it targets beauty. He lusts to break the loveliness of spires suggests that war does not just take lives but erases history, culture, and meaning. The word lusts gives destruction a kind of hunger, as if war itself craves the loss of what people have built. And hurls their martyred music toppling down reinforces the sense of something sacred being lost. The things that fall are not just structures but symbols of something greater. War does not just kill; it silences.

Then the poem shifts. The focus moves from destruction to those who have died. Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, suggests that they have lost everything—no home, no body, no place in the world. But they are not gone. Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder’d seas. The dead still have a voice. The sea is restless, powerful, never truly silent. The dragon takes their lives, but it does not erase them.

The transformation continues. Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night, / And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams. The dead do not fade away. They become something endless, something untouchable. Their dreams do not die with them. They rise into the night sky, beyond war, beyond destruction. The dragon can burn towns to the ground, but it cannot touch the stars.

The final lines reinforce this endurance. Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, / They wander in the dusk with chanting streams. The dead are not lost or forgotten. They move through the world in a different way, not as mourned names but as something lasting. The final image is one of resilience. And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, / To hail the burning heavens they left unsung. The trees, reaching toward the sky, suggest strength and growth. The heavens are still burning—the war has not ended—but the dead are no longer trapped in that destruction. They have become something beyond it.

The poem moves from fire to light, from destruction to endurance. The dragon destroys, but it does not win. The dead do not vanish. They become the sky, the stars, the trees. They are undying.

Photo by Patrick Perkins on Unsplash

Smoke and Fire – Reviewed

Project 54

He drifted
wafted in and out
choking the air from a room
bringing tears to innocent eyes
leaving a taint on everything
a sting, a stink, a stain,
no substance,
only smoke.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Smoke and Fire

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Analysis

Smoke and Fire is a poem about a toxic relationship where one person gives everything, and the other takes until there’s nothing left. The poem uses smoke and fire as metaphors for these two people. Smoke drifts, stains, and suffocates but has no real substance. Fire is full of energy, bringing warmth and light, but it also consumes what fuels it. Together, they create an unbalanced cycle where one person feeds the other, but instead of growing, they both burn out.

The structure of the poem is split between the two people. The first stanza describes the man as smoke, and the second focuses on the woman as fire. The way the lines rise and fall mirrors their nature. The smoke stanza feels light at first, almost harmless. He drifted / wafted in and out makes him seem passive, like he’s just moving through life without direction. But the harm he causes builds as the stanza goes on—choking the air from a room, bringing tears to innocent eyes, leaving a taint on everything. Smoke doesn’t just disappear when it leaves; it lingers. It soaks into walls, clothes, the air itself. It stains everything it touches. The three sharp words—a sting, a stink, a stain—land like final blows, summing up the damage he leaves behind. Then, the poem takes all of that away. No substance, / only smoke. He isn’t solid. He doesn’t create anything or leave anything meaningful behind. His entire presence depends on something else.

The second stanza shifts to She was fire. The first sentence is firm, definite. Unlike smoke, fire is active, full of energy. She doesn’t just exist—she was. The lines that follow make her role clear. She made him / burned to sustain him. He only existed the way he did because of her. Smoke comes from fire, and in the same way, the man in this relationship was only able to take because she was giving. Fueled all they ever were / and all they ever could be. She wasn’t just part of the relationship—she was the relationship. Without her effort, there would have been nothing. The lines move with a sense of momentum, like fire growing, spreading, consuming everything in its path.

But then, fire can only burn for so long. Until she burned out. It’s inevitable. Fire needs fuel, and if she is the fuel, she can only last so long before she has nothing left to give. The rhythm slows down. And they were / nothing. It’s the same emptiness as the first stanza’s ending. Smoke fades, fire dies, and in the end, there is nothing left of either of them. The relationship was completely dependent on her. When she was gone, so was he.

The poem’s structure mirrors their dynamic. The first stanza drifts in like smoke, growing heavier as it lingers. The second builds like fire, growing stronger before it collapses. Together, they show the full cycle of a relationship that could never last. One person takes too much, the other gives too much, and in the end, both are destroyed.

There’s no anger in the poem, just a quiet inevitability. Smoke can’t turn into fire. Fire can’t burn forever without something to keep it going. The relationship was doomed from the start because one person was always consuming while the other was always being consumed. The poem doesn’t offer a lesson or a resolution—just the truth of what happens when someone gives everything to someone who only knows how to take.

Photo by Lucas K on Unsplash

Moonmind – Reviewed

Björn Rudberg

Moving myself
waltzing to melodies
moonminded
mindlessly mesmerised
lunaticked wolflike

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Moonmind

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Analysis

Moonmind is a poem about deep fascination, almost an obsession, with the moon. The speaker seems hypnotized by it, caught in its pull like the tides. The poem doesn’t just describe admiration—it feels like a surrender, as if the speaker has given themselves over completely to the moon’s presence. It’s dreamy and restless at the same time, filled with movement and trance-like devotion. The way the speaker describes the moon makes it feel like something more intimate, almost as if they are speaking about a lover instead of a celestial body. The poem plays with that idea, blending the moon and a person together, making it unclear where one ends and the other begins.

It starts with movement—Moving myself / waltzing to melodies. A waltz is a dance usually done with a partner, and though the poem never names another person, it feels like the speaker is dancing with something—or someone. Moonminded / mindlessly mesmerized adds to that feeling of being lost in the moment, caught up in something bigger than them. It sounds like love, or at least deep fascination, where a person can’t think clearly because they are so drawn to something.

The tone shifts. Lunaticked wolflike / howling the hues / of silver on cobalt. The word lunaticked twists lunatic, tying madness to the moon but also suggesting obsession, someone acting outside of reason. Wolflike and howling bring in another layer. Wolves howl at the moon, but in the context of romance, this could mean longing. The speaker could be calling out to someone they love, expressing emotion that can’t be contained. Silver on cobalt describes the moon against the dark sky, but it could also be about someone’s features—the way their skin or hair shines in dim light.

Transfixed / in her gaze makes the connection to a person even stronger. The speaker is not just looking at the moon; they are locked into its gaze, like they are staring into someone’s eyes. The moon isn’t usually described as “gazing” back, but a person would be. This is where it starts to feel less like a poem about the night sky and more like one about someone the speaker loves. I am tethered to sequins adds to that idea. The moon’s surface could look like sequins, but it could also be describing something else—maybe the shimmer of a dress, the sparkle of someone’s jewelry, or even just the way light reflects off their skin.

The last lines are the most personal: my madam forever / my midnight, my moon. My madam sounds like a title of respect, even devotion, making it feel more like the speaker is addressing a person. Forever adds a sense of commitment, like this love isn’t temporary. My midnight, my moon ties it all back together, blending night and romance into one. Midnight could represent mystery, intimacy, or even a private moment shared between two people. The moon is both a distant thing and something deeply personal to the speaker, the way love can feel both overwhelming and comforting at the same time.

The structure is loose and flowing, without punctuation to stop the momentum. This makes it feel like a continuous thought, like the speaker is carried along by their own obsession. The lines are short, which adds to the feeling of being caught up in a rhythm, almost like a dance. There’s repetition in the ideas—moonminded, mindlessly mesmerized, transfixed—all circling around the same theme of being spellbound. The tone of the poem is both romantic and wild. The speaker calls the moon my madam forever, making it sound like a lifelong devotion. But there’s also a restless energy in the way they move—waltzing, howling, mesmerized. It’s not just still admiration; it’s full of motion and intensity.

The poem never directly states that it’s about a lover, but the language makes it easy to read that way. The movement, the fixation, the admiration—it all feels more like someone in love than just someone looking at the night sky. The way the speaker describes the moon is the way people describe someone they can’t stop thinking about. The poem leaves space for both ideas, making it work as a description of the moon, of love, or even both at once. It captures the way the moon has fascinated people for centuries—not just as something beautiful in the sky but as something that stirs something deeper. It blends the romantic with the untamed, the quiet glow with the wild pull. The structure keeps it fluid and entrancing, and the language makes it feel personal and strange at the same time. It’s not just a poem about looking at the moon; it’s about being caught in its gravity.

Photo by malith d karunarathne on Unsplash

We Are One – Really? – Reviewed

Christine Bolton

Are we truly missing a piece
that only a lover can bring
to make us whole?
Who is to say?
Do we not function properly on our own?
We still love, still give, and still grieve
As individuals

Colors become mixed
Creating a new color of compromise
Sharing lives is hypnotic

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

We Are One – Really?

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Analysis

We Are One – Really? challenges the conventional notion that love is essential for completeness. Rather than outright rejecting love, the poem questions its common portrayal—as something that fills a void, requires compromise, or blurs personal identity. The speaker doesn’t argue against relationships but instead asks whether they always improve life. If love demands change, sacrifice, or the loss of one’s individuality, is it truly enriching, or does it take something away? Through a tone that is thoughtful, skeptical, and at times frustrated with love’s idealization, the poem explores these concerns in depth.

It begins with a probing question: Are we truly missing a piece / that only a lover can bring / to make us whole? This idea is deeply ingrained in society, from fairy tales to films to everyday conversations. People are told that love completes them, that a romantic partner is the key to fulfillment. However, the speaker interrupts this assumption with Who is to say?—a challenge that forces the reader to reconsider the idea. The next lines push further: Do we not function properly on our own? This question highlights an alternative perspective: even without romantic love, individuals experience deep emotions. We still love, still give, and still grieve / As individuals. The poem reminds the reader that love exists in many forms—friendship, passion, family connections—none of which depend on romance. The speaker argues that solitude does not equate to lacking.

As the poem progresses, it explores what happens when two individuals come together. Colors become mixed / Creating a new color of compromise. This metaphor captures both the beauty and the risk of relationships. Blending colors results in something new, but in doing so, the original hues are lost. Sharing lives is hypnotic / but can change who we are. The word hypnotic implies an almost unconscious transformation, suggesting that love can be so consuming that people may not even realize how much they are altering themselves. The next lines drive the point home: Negotiation and forfeiture come into play / Your life could become their life to direct. Love involves compromise, but at what cost? The poem warns against relationships where compromise turns into loss—where one person’s identity is overshadowed by the other. The speaker challenges the reader to consider whether love, in some cases, becomes more about control than connection.

The poem strongly opposes love that demands ownership. Free spirits live without permission / Alone or together. The phrase without permission stands out, suggesting that true love does not require one person to seek approval for their independence. The next lines reinforce this theme: One does not become the master of the other / The more superior of the two / Or the lesser of the two. Love should be a partnership of equals, not a hierarchy. The repetition of master, superior, lesser emphasizes how often relationships fall into imbalances of power. The poem rejects relationships where one partner dominates the other and instead promotes love built on mutual respect and autonomy.

A striking question follows: Is togetherness double the pleasure / Or half the joy? This flips the typical belief that love amplifies happiness. Instead, the speaker suggests that relationships may sometimes diminish it. The poem elaborates: Singly we are unshackled to revel in what we love / Freely and without constraint or concession. The words unshackled and constraint imply that relationships, even when well-intended, often come with restrictions. Being alone means having the freedom to pursue joy without adjusting to another’s expectations. The speaker does not dismiss relationships entirely but insists that their benefits should not be assumed.

The poem’s conclusion ties everything together. Can we not be happy by ourselves without the other being upset? There is an undertone of frustration here, as if the speaker has experienced the expectation that happiness should come exclusively from a partner. If one person finds joy outside the relationship, why should it be seen as neglect? The final question—Who wants selfish love?—is left open-ended but carries a clear implication: love should allow individuality, not demand conformity. If love means losing freedom, feeling guilty for independence, or shrinking to fit another’s expectations, then perhaps it is not love at all.

Structurally, the poem is fluid and conversational. The absence of a rigid rhyme scheme or meter makes it feel like an internal dialogue, a speaker thinking aloud, questioning long-held beliefs. The tone remains consistent—curious, skeptical, sometimes frustrated but never dismissive. The poem does not declare love as bad; rather, it refuses to accept the universal belief that love is always good, always necessary, always an enhancement. The persistent questioning forces the reader to examine their own beliefs about love and fulfillment.

The poem makes one thing clear: people are whole on their own. Love, when healthy, should add to a person’s life, not diminish it. If love requires someone to give up their identity, it is not love—it is control, dependence, or expectation. We Are One – Really? does not provide definitive answers, but it accomplishes something more valuable: it compels the reader to pause and rethink everything they have been told about love, relationships, and what it truly means to be complete.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

‘Waking’ – Reviewed

Hana Rubinstejnova

liberated statue with
chain around the legs
share an act of kindness
give us free range eggs

who knows where it leads
when kids build rockets

…

You may find the rest of the poem here

MIDNIGHT POETRY – ‘Waking’

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

Waking is about seeing things for what they really are. It looks at freedom, power, kindness, and conflict, but strips away the illusions that usually surround them. It doesn’t make a speech or demand action. It just lays things out plainly, showing how people are used, how power serves itself, and how most of us are kept just comfortable enough to stay passive. The speaker isn’t trying to convince anyone. They’re just waking up to something that can’t be ignored anymore.

It starts with a contradiction. Liberated statue with / chain around the legs. A statue is meant to stand for something permanent, an ideal—justice, victory, freedom. But here, that symbol is broken. It claims to be free, but it’s still chained. That image alone sets the tone for the rest of the poem. If something built to represent liberation is still trapped, what does that say about the world around it? It suggests that what we call freedom might not be as real as we think.

Share an act of kindness / give us free range eggs. It moves from something grand—freedom, statues, chains—to something almost ridiculous. Free range eggs are supposed to be an ethical choice, a way to feel good about consumption. But the phrase in this context feels empty, like kindness has been reduced to something small and marketable. And then there’s the deeper point: free range chickens aren’t actually free. They have more space, better conditions, but they’re still part of a system that exists to use them. Just like the statue, it’s another illusion. The world offers just enough comfort, just enough choice, to keep people from questioning the system itself.

The second stanza moves from these symbols to a larger pattern. Who knows where it leads / when kids build rockets / role play Robin Hood then / line their own pockets. It starts with childhood dreams—kids imagining a future, playing the hero. But somewhere along the way, those dreams shift. The kids who played Robin Hood—the symbol of taking from the rich to give to the poor—grow up and take for themselves instead. It’s not an accusation, just an observation. Maybe it’s corruption, maybe it’s survival, maybe it’s just the way the system is built. The point is that even the ones who start with good intentions often end up reinforcing the same cycle they wanted to break.

Then the poem moves to the people in charge. Status wealth and power / display of egos round a table. There’s no need to explain who these people are—it’s clear. Leaders, politicians, corporate executives. The people who shape the world, but not for the benefit of most. The phrase display of egos makes it obvious that it’s not about making real decisions. It’s about power, about looking important. Come to senses if you dare / and are still somewhat able. There’s a challenge here, but it doesn’t feel hopeful. It suggests that even if they wanted to wake up, to see clearly, they might not be able to anymore. Power has a way of making people blind, of trapping them in their own self-importance.

The last stanza, ties everything together. The machinery of conflict / is greatest source of drama / to keep us on the edge of seats / and still wearing pajama. Conflict isn’t just about control—it’s about entertainment. War, political battles, crises—these things keep people engaged, keep them watching, keep them feeling like they’re involved. But that’s all they do. The last line is sharp in its simplicity. People sit at home, watching war, watching corruption, watching the world unravel, but they don’t move. They stay in their pajamas. Maybe they feel informed, maybe they feel outraged, but they don’t act. And that’s how the system keeps going.

The poem is short, but nothing is wasted. The structure is tight, with short lines that make each idea stand on its own. There’s no excess, no filler. The tone is quiet, controlled. No big emotional outbursts, no dramatic language—just a steady unfolding of how things work. The pauses between the lines leave space to think, to sit with each idea before moving on. And that’s what makes it unsettling. It doesn’t tell the reader what to do with this knowledge. It just puts it there. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

And in the end, the image that lingers is the free range chicken. A creature that is given just enough space to feel free but is still part of a system designed to use it. The world works the same way. The question the poem leaves behind is whether we’re the ones wearing the chains without realizing it.

Photo by kaluci on Unsplash