Notes From the War-Torn
by Joel L Young
Thursday, April 03, 2003
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A poem about a dream I had of soldiers outside my screen door. The soldier was not American.
Sepia, colors my nightmare
invading forces frighten
my poetic muse
in a recruitment depot
I'm watching the scene
dressed in military fatigues
while the world dives into chaos.
Chaotic people run around in circles,
from behind venetian blinds
of the center; all looks peaceful
outside the backdoor.
Where are the soldiers?
Perhaps it's loneliness and fear
that makes me dream in riddles
staring at a gunman outside
my window pointing an M16
directly at me - then standing at attention.
I hear the hallucination it's an invasion
perhaps it's just radio
outside my head on my stereo
replaying the events of the day.
I'm merely a poet what do I know of war?
I've researched my ancestors' notebooks
looking for notes to what their quills
wrote of their times, Service, Tennyson
Sassoon, Melville, Kipling, not even counting
the host of thousands who wrote of
WWII, to Vietnam and to this day's war.
I know there are no easy answers
to the specter that haunts this dream
Perhaps it's just the pain I carry.
my empathic sensibilities longing for peace
cuddling with an Iraqi mother and daughter
from a refugee camp in a Basra Playground
or sitting there at an coalition HQ like a coffee cup
listening to some General's empty commands
those men and women know what to do
some will whisper their mother's prayers
as parents whisper to their children
from their solitude chairs into the universe's air
to be safe and hurry home.
It still doesn't answer my question
nor the strange dread I feel.
The prophets have come
perhaps it's time I took their call
the recruitment center
was my destiny, and the gun
became a pen to join the fight.
A poet warrior must always battle
he fights not for blood
but for ideals of right
My fight is for peace
justice and mercy
for this I know is right.
.. 2004 Joel L. Young
author American Lyricon: A Poet Sings of America
Joel L. Young's Book Page
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|Reviewed by Richard Bowers
|Unpardon me but I relent it boldly;
For it is far ahead, if I can be sure of it,
And far it is, that my hallucination be valid,
And hallucination it is, as it should be,
And however, unlike itself, mysterious, unknown, and untested,
So it be foreseen in my tireless search.
|Reviewed by Kate Clifford
|Remarkable write that touches the fibre of the insanity of war.|
|Reviewed by Dens Dreamweaver (Reader)
|An excellent write. Brings home the stark reality of war - and what all must be feeling..
|Reviewed by Linda Hill
You have amazing talent..
Thank you for the kind
review on my poem:)
|Reviewed by Lady Peg (Reader)
|Excellent and powerful