For once there was a time we
Could have turned it around,
Though we fell into a stupor
As a shock was sent through
Our system; and of what use
Are these diverging conflicts?
Shame? Ever be the poison
Of the selfless nation, her
Rising spirits in debt to
Her morals – for once there
Was a time when men felt
Shame, and they were falling,
Broken-hearted men.
Violence be that which
Never withering turns over often
And is born again, twisting its
Naked flesh all fresh and bright;
Another life to live that
Was once young and bold, its
Eyes have seen too many a setting sun.
And ‘fore desire we wept
To see our blood free.
The mountains and prairies
Were cleared in their time;
The rivers running red down onto
The beaches – the passing feelings
Losing all color with the years;
As leaves in the coming fall with
The winter a looming, snowing legend.
And people sometime lose sight
That bravery is a double-edged
Sword, as if a war-leader
May lead a tribe who has
No war to win – save
Those which have no contests.
But be that as it may, such
A war was long forgotten;
That which brought men to
Their destiny, if they were
Proud and brave enough to
Face it.
If in the meantime a leaden-heart
Could arise, to be a forestalled
General of these rusted wagons;
Traversed continents lag behind
Those whose thoughts bear no pity
For passed soft deaths, weeding
Endless paths through everything.
And on the future we rode too
Fast; the vanguard dumped its
Bloated sorrows on our backs.
Pickled corpses roasted and
Livers, bleeding pink stuff;
The meat is salted, the
Freezer empty – the ice
Has only a short while to
Freeze. We have no shame
Besides what we care to admit.
The feelings of an empty
Nation set fort; her enemies be
At every advantage – her desires
Are one with her downfalls. A
Nation grows large and still
Collapses? For such time may ever
Be vital, and the sun
May beckon what
It may. Rising is a bitter business,
Only when the bones are allowed to
Feel pain –
Denial is still a harsher one.
If in the meantime a
Soldier could shower her land
With the blood of its growing
Delusions. Perhaps in time the soil
May be strong and the seeds
May reap sowing stuff again. If not
We all starve with hearts and lungs
Like our stomachs; feet and hands black
And blistered – snow piling in on the
Thresholds – the fire is dying – the
Coals wither still in the vacant hearth.
.
Okay, interesting poem here!
It was well written, and had a lot of really good words, nice powerful words. Dying, vacant, blood, sorrows, pickled corpses . . . but it had a few weak ones. Like 'stuff'.
The whole meaning of the poem is rather hard to get, it's obscured in your word use. If I were to try to find out what you were trying to say here to me, I'd have to re-read this poem a few times to even start to get an inkling. A poem should give a general idea to the reader on what it's about on the first read.
Personally I'm not gonna be to nit-picky because I'm not good at it (especially with poems).
Overall it was good work, interesting, and enthralling. The word use was very nice.
Keep writing! (For sure)
~Black~
I couldn't make sense of this. It verges on unreadable in places, laden with misplaced prepositions, fractured sentences, and unintuitive line break placement. There might be something, buried underneath,
but in places like these, your ideas seem uncooked if not completely nonsensical. The placement of prepositions and of punctuation often seems purposeless. I want to think that you have your reasons for making this incredibly vague, but I couldn't think of any plausible ones.
So this was really long and didn't make a lot of sense and I ultimately gave up trying to understand it; it wanted to make sense, I think, but you stifled it with your diction. A good poet, an older ywser, once told me never to play with style to the detriment of content. That's some of the best advice I've ever received. Content, in the end, is what defines a poem. Always keep that in mind.
I hope this helped.
-Kafka