10/14/08For 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.
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.