Anti-War Poetry Thread

[mopaul]

I'll start it off with Carl Sandburg.

READY TO KILL
TEN minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to kill anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.

[mopaul]

1. e. e. cummings.........thanks bryant69

next to of course god america i

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

e. e. cummings

[mopaul]

2. ....for a crippled soldier...........another by sandburg

ONCE when I saw a cripple
Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague,
Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air,
Desperately gesturing with wasted hands
In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum,
I said to myself
I would rather have been a tall sunflower
Living in a country garden
Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer,
Rain-washed and dew-misted,
Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks,
And wonderingly watching night after night
The clear silent processionals of stars.

[Journeyman]

14. another e.e. cummings' poem. . .

why must itself up every of a park

anus stick some quote statue unquote to
prove that a hero equals any jerk
who was afraid to dare to answer "no"?
quote citizens unquote might otherwise
forget(to err is human;to forgive
divine)that if the quote state unquote says
"kill" killing is an act of christian love.
"Nothing" in 1944 AD
"can stand against the argument of mil
itary necessity"(generalissimo e)
and echo answers "there is no appeal
from reason"(freud)--you pays your money and
you doesn't take your choice.Ain't freedom grand

e.e. cummings

[nostamj]

3. two originals from earlier this year

600 | Fallujah

calloused to horror?
‘charred and dismembered bodies’
see: atrocities.

hate will not abate
and new deaths deepen the lie:
we did not choose war

an occupation
is not a liberation
this must end: Stop Bush


a cruelty of April

Iraq escalates.
A consequence intended–
April is cruel.

Deaths won’t slow the smirk,
His Candyland panderings–
No blood red backdrops.

Teenagers fall
To the liberated who
So hate their freedom.

Iraq escalates.
Unintended consequence?
April is cruel.

[mopaul]

4. dulce et decorum

Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est

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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.

[jdsmith]

5. Hugh Macdiarmid's "Another Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries"

requires this setup (it's an answer poem)

A.E. Housman, "Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries"

These, in the day when heaven was falling
The hour when earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling,
And took their wages, and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.


And here's Macdiarmid

It is a God-damned lie to say that these
Saved, or knew, anything worth any man's pride.
They were professional murderers and they took
Their blood money and their impious risks and died.
In spite of all their kind some elements of worth
With difficulty persist here and there on earth.

[seemslikeadream]

6. mopaul you know this is my choice today Ballad of Penny Evans

Ballad of Penny Evans

My name is Penny Evans and my age is twenty-one
I'm a widow of the war that was fought in Vietnam
I have two baby daughters and I do the best I can
They say the war is over but I think it's just begun

I remember I was seventeen when first I met my Bill
At his father's grand piano we played old 'Heart and Soul'
I only knew the left hand part, he knew the right so well
He's the only boy I slept with, and the only one I will

First we had a baby girl, we had two good years
And next the warning notice came, we parted without tears
Then it's nine months from our last goodbye our second child appears
And it's ten months and a telegram confirming all our fears

So once a month I get a check from some army bureaucrat
And once a month I tear it up and mail the damn thing back
Do they think that makes it all right? Do they think I'll fall for that?
They can keep their bloody money, it won't bring my Billy back

I never cared for politics, speeches I don't understand
Likewise I'll take no charity from any living man
But tonight there's fifty thousand gone in that unhappy land
And fifty thousand 'Heart and Souls' being played with just one hand

My name is Penny Evans and my age is twenty-one
I'm a widow of the war that was fought in Vietnam
I have two baby daughters - thank God I have no son
They say the war is over but I think it's just begun


Steve Goodman

[Wickerman]

7. Brautigan

I use it as my sigline.

[Gildor Inglorion]

8. La Colombe

La Colombe

Why all these bugles crying for squads of young men drilled
To kill and to be killed and waiting by this train
Why the orders loud and hoarse, why the engine's groaning cough
As it strains to drag us off into the holocaust
Why crowds who sing and cry and shout and fling us flowers
And trade their right for ours to murder and to die

The dove has torn her wings so no more songs of love
We are not here to sing, we're here to kill the dove

Why has this moment come when childhood has to die
When hope shrinks to a sigh and speech into a drum
Why are they pale and still, young boys trained overnight
Conscripts forced to fight and dressed in grey to kill
These rain clouds massing tight, this trainload battle bound
This moving burial ground sent thundering toward the night

Why statues towering brave above the last defeat
Old word and lies repeat across the new made grave
Why the same still birth that victory always brought
These hoards of glory bought by men with mouths of earth
Dead ash without a spark where cities glittered bright
For guns probe every light and crush it in the dark

And why your face undone with jagged lines of tears
That gave in those first years all peace I ever won
Your body in the gloom, the platform fading back
Your shadow on the track, a flower on a tomb
And why these days ahead when I must let you cry
And live prepared to die as if our love were dead

by Alasdair Clayre
recorded by Judy Collins

[mopaul]

9. the ClusterFuck Express..........by mo paul

Yessir, she's right on time too, just like clockwork by God. Here she comes, the Clusterfuck Express, barrelin' down the track on a one way trip straight to hell with all passengers aboard.

Your engineer is George 'Casey Jones' Bush, and he's firin' up them boilers with real people, not coal. Shovelin' em' into the furnace and openin' up the throttle all the way. Can't you hear the whistle blowin' mournfully in the distance? She's a comin' alrighty, to meet her appointed rounds.

The rackety ol' number 43, the ClusterFuck Express, the fireman is dead, the conductor bailed out, the brakes are gone, and the bridge is out up ahead at Iraqi pass. But the engineer is stayin' the course, hellbound for glory, passengers be damned. He's got a train to deliver, and nobody is gonna slow him down.

When he blows the whistle of the ClusterFuck Express, it almost sounds like people wailing, like a thousand mothers and babies screamin their last breaths. The rumble and the roar as the track itself comes apart and splinters under the black wheels, throwin' sparks into the night, and the smokestack spittin' the rocket's red glare.

Here she comes boys, the ClusterFuck Express with hundreds of red white and blue flags all wavin' and flappin' in the smoke and fire!
The rails ache and bend under the weight of the great black snake as it screams through the valley. The railroad ties are people, groaning and crying out, as they feel the heat of the ClusterFuck Express.

And where's she bound boys? Where could ol' number 43 be goin' in such a God awful hurry? There's nothin' up ahead but a mountainside, the rails stop at it's base, no tunnel, no turnstile, no sidetrack. Just a flat, granite wall, beyond which is hell itself.
The engineer, smiling and grimly determined to deliver his load to it's appointed destination.

This train don't take no liberals, this train. This train don't take no Arabs this train. This train's not bound for glory, the engineer has no desire for legacy, the throttle is wrenched in full open position, the dead man's switch has a brick on it. This train runs on blood and misery and greed, the finest burning fuel.

ALL ABOARD! Last chance to catch a ride, git yer ticket, take yer seat, and hang on people! The ClusterFuck Express is a runaway, and she's buildin' up a hell of a head of steam, and when she pulls in to that mountain straight ahead it'll be one glorious monstrous crash! How they'll talk about that awful day, for years to come, around quiet campfires and sad faces. They'll talk about the train, and it's engineer who went mad, and took all those people straight to hell with him.

[mopaul]

10. to whom it may concern

To Whom It May Concern

I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.
Made a marble phone book and I carved out all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

-- Adrian Mitchell

[nostamj]

11. On the death of the Enola Gay’s radioman

On the death of the Enola Gay’s radioman (2/6/03)

Did he ever know?
The annihilation was
Unnecessary.

The war was over.
Incinerate innocents?
Message, not tactic.

There were cries for peace
Preceding the howl of pain.
He did not hear them.

He did not see it.
Transmit: Mission Accomplished.
Bring the world raw fear.

[mopaul]

12. Estonia

Kaarel Kressa
Estonia



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


GOD BLESS AMERICA

seven women\'n\'children were shot at a military checkpoint
the boys were defending themselves, the vehicle didn\'t heed their warnings
this ain\'t no dying regime, you know, where anyone could freewheel
with their out of date boneshakers and cheap oil

the president said: we will throw you lots of bombs
we will throw you medications
we will throw you food
we will bring you a better life

the TV showed those who had survived at the check point
my god, they ALL looked like terrorists
anyway, it seemed that they didn\'t appreciate their freedom enough
what a foolish people. why don\'t americans come in here?

and it came to pass in those days, that a car of the U.S. embassy in Estonia was broken
and 83 russians were arrested
can you believe it - a brand new jeep! bastards
I hope they will rot in jail for this

[kentuck]

13. Here's one by kentuck

:)
WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THE SHIPS CAME IN

Just nineteen years old -
Not old enough to know -
They called us to fight for this land.

That politician's war-
What were we fighting for -
Away over there in Viet Nam.

(chorus)
But how it might have been -
Where were you my friend -
Where were you when the ships came in?

Put our lives on the line -
Left our loved ones behind -
And went to fight in the war.

But when we returned -
It was then that we learned -
Just what we were fighting for.

(repeat chorus)

Through the mother's tears -
No flags and no cheers -
Nobody waited on the shore.

No crowds gathered round -
No parades thru the town -
It was just another little war.


(chorus)
But how it might have been -
Where were you my friend -
Where were you when the ships came in?

By kentuck

[cheezus]

15. High Coup

You can steal the vote
But you cannot steal our lives
We will resist you

[catmandu57]

16. In Flanders Fields

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 falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If you break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

[mopaul]

17. I have a rendezvous with death..........alan seeger

I Have a Rendezvous with Death . . .
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air --
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath --
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I've a renvezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

[mopaul]

18. hills of home

Hills of Home
Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold,
And the smoking mists of Autumn hanging faintly o'er the wold;
I dream of hills of other days whose sides I loved to roam
When Spring was dancing through the lanes of those distant hills of home.

The winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold as dew;
Wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows grew,
The blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes of foam
In the orchard 'neath the shadow of those distant hills of home.

The first white frost in the meadow will be shining there today
And the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the woodland way;
There, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting when I come,
And my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant hills of home.

Malcolm Hemphrey

[mopaul]

19. Abraham Lincoln walks at midnite.......vachel lindsey

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight (in Springfield, Illinios)
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town,
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play;
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous high top-hat and plain work shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us: -- as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly, and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come; -- the shining hope of Europe free:
The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp, and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again>?

[mopaul]

20. A Treasury of Anti-War Poetry

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Delphi/7086/toc_twp.htm

[nostamj]

21. i love sandburg...

I'm using an edited version of his TO A CONTEMPORARY BUNKSHOOTER in the revue...

[SoCalDem]

22. DU's own War Poetry Slam from Feb 03

http://www.democraticunderground.com/cgi-bin/duforum/duboard.cgi?az=show_thread&om=746&forum=DCForumID62

a few of my own:

Ain't war grand??


Planes flying
Bombs dropping
Children dying
Corks popping
Mothers crying
Zealots praying
Rumsfeld grinning
America's staying
Ari spinning
Oil gushing
Money flowing
Poverty crushing
Hatred growing
Flags flying
Bush smirking
Children dying
Democrats shirking
Mothers crying





A little bit of tape..


tear ducts overflowing...

illuminati eye averted..
corpse dust , in the wind blowing
screams with no sound....
decency and compassion denied,subverted...
horror,devastation and fear abound..
pillage, plunder and rape
only "victory", they'll be showing..

all that is needed is some tape...

duct tape for our eyes,so We need not see
duct tape for our ears, so we need not hear??...
duct tape for our mouths so we need not speak
duct tape for the ducts of their tears????...
videotape to chronicle successes...
surgical tape for Iraqi injured...
red tape to expose the excesses..


scotch tape to mend our constitution??

[Tyler Durden]

23. The Hollow Men

The Hollow Men



I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Thomas Stearns Eliot

[SOteric]

24. Terror

The devastation numb within us
trapped in the heart, tumbling
in the brain like pebbles. The feeling
resembles lumps of raw dough

weighing down a child's stomach on baking day.
Or Rilke said, "My heart...
Could I say of it, it overflows
with bitterness...but no, as though

its contents were simply balled into
formless lumps, thus
do I carry it about."

We have breathed the grit of it into our lives,
our lungs are pocked with it,
the mucous membrane of our dreams
coated with it, the imagination
filmed over with the gray filth of it:

the knowledge that human kind,

delicate Man, whose flesh
responds to a caress, whose eyes
are flowers that perceive the stars,

whose music excels the music of birds,
whose laughter matches the laughter of dogs,
whose understanding manifests designs
fairer than the spider's most intricate web,
turns without surprise to the scheduled breaking open
of the entrails of still-alive children
transforms witnessing eyes to pulp-fragments.

We are the humans whose language imagines mercy,
lovingkindness; we have believed one another
mirrored forms of a God we felt as good-

who do these acts, who convince ourselves
it is necessary; these acts are done
to our own flesh; burned human flesh.

Yes, this is the knowledge that jostles for space
in our bodies along with all we
go on knowing of joy, of love;

our nerve filaments twitch with its presence
day and night,
nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying,
nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness,
the deep intelligence living at peace would have.