A Baker's Dozen of Poems


For the past three weeks that I've resumed posting regularly, and reading (quite voraciously) poetry blogs, aside from the books I now have lying on my bed (which now looks somewhat of a nest of pillows and books), I have come across several that have kept me engrossed and, at times, engaged in a sort of astral projection (grin). Here I am eager to share a baker's dozen of them, with you.

Sit back. Relax. Click. Enjoy the read. Be part -- rather, acknowledge that you are a part -- of the microcosm that is the writing community in the blogosphere.

A Runner's Sonnet by Scott Ennis. link

Abram's Neighbor on the 10 O'clock News by Scott Ennis. link

Antique Horns by KGT. link

Flower Bead by Yuzublizzard. link

Impulse Purchase by Joaquin Carvel. link

In My Dreams by Kathleen Mortensen. link

October Apples by Dean J. Baker. link

Saturn Devours His Son by Jo Hemmant and Michelle McGrane. link

Shaken by Robert Cameron Hazelton. link

Tuesday Morning, Painting the Moon by Steven Schroeder. link

Umoja by Diane Ferri. link

We Leave The Beaches For Tourists by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder.

And, to complete the list, here is a classic piece entitled "The Sentry" by English poet Wilfred Owen (1893-1918). I've been rereading his book for the nth time; this particular war poem of his (one of his last pieces of writing before he died in battle) never gets old for me. Every time I read it, my hands tremble, and my mind is transported to several places at once: far south of where I am, in provinces in Mindanao where our own soldiers are engaged in decades' long conflict of blood and land, in the Middle East where my own mother has witnessed one of the many instances of bombings in key cities, and in other parts of the world where peace-keeping missions are on the verge of going awry.

Read the poem. Know that you are fortunate, to be able to read this poem at this very moment, because you are safe in your own patch of earth.

     The Sentry
      by Wilfred Owen

     We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
     And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
     Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
     Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime
     Kept slush waist high, that, rising hour by hour,
     Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb.
     What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
     With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
     Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
     If not their corpses . . .
                                      There we herded from the blast
     Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last --
     Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles.
     And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
     And splashing in the flood, deluging muck --
     The sentry's body; then, his rifle, handles
     Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
     We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
     'O sir! my eyes -- I'm blind -- I'm blind, I'm blind!'
     Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
     And said if he could see the least blurred light
     He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
     'I can't,' he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
     Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
     In posting next for duty, and sending a scout
     To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about
     To other posts under the shrieking air.

***          ***          ***

     Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
     And one who would have drowned himself for good --
     I try not to remember these things now.
     Let dread hark back for one word only: how
     Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
     And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
     Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
     Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath --
     Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
     'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.

NOTE: Here is the link to
the old Haloscan comments
regarding this entry.
For archive purposes only.

posted by S.L. Corsua