Can you hear the wind blow
over the sirens wailing?
As the paintballs plunge to the ground
and tear away the railing.
Why are bombshells so pretty?
It's an irony all on its own.
And all the glass faces around me
are porcelain tears that turned to stone.
There's such a stark silence that erupts
after the monstrosity of a blitz,
in our flour-sack cages where we're huddled up,
and we scream when the next bomb hits.
Watch it cascade through the ceiling
and rip through it like tattered silk.
The impact leaves us reeling;
we're parchment people on opaque stilts.
We breathe in, we shudder,
but we're surprised to find
that we can't really breathe anymore,
crushed beneath war's meshed-up grind.
Is this really the finest way
for a common man to die?
In our broken tombs of canvassed hopes
amid a stretch of crimson dye.
The bombs are still whirring.
Who says the dead can't hear?
But clearer still through each disdainful blast
are the clairvoyant cries of despair.
Isn't there anyone to tell us
why we're dying to
heal the anger of a government
we never even knew?
Isn't there anyone to tell us
why we're paying for
the mistakes of a senile government
that sent unwilling hearts to war?
Oh, there's no-one here to tell us
that our rainbow-dreams lie strewn
along with the rubble and the moaning mass;
the misery these bombs have hewn!
Can you hear the wind blow?
The sirens haven't stopped wailing.
And over the lust, the soot and the dust,
a million sorry hearts go sailing.
The open sky calls with its crystal glance:
"O' people! Your country is dying!"
And if you strain your ears just a tad,
you might just hear the clouds crying.
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125,027 Literary Works • 672,774 Reviews
Rawr! *drops out of sky* It's ladcat here to review!
The word "Wow" is starting to lose its meaning so I'll find another word if you'll give me a second.... Umm... Oh? Naww.... Erm.... Yeah, no, I can't think of anything. "Wow" is what my brain said when I was done reading your poem. It was beautiful, it was touching, it was rhythmic, it was musical, it was oh-so-true AND it even rhymed! I have to say I was mightily impressed. I can't even find anything to... to... Woah. I can't even find anything to complain about. Wait. Did I just?... *goes back and reads own sentence*. Yup. I just said it.
This is kinda new for me... I'm feeling a little mind-blown right now... *does mind-blow thing from the AT&T commercial* That's my brain right now. I don't really like to write reviews that are all praise because those aren't constructive, but I can't find anything ELSE to write except praise so um... yeah. Oh wait! I do have something constructive to say! Three things, actually. 1) Whatever you did with this poem, keep doing it! 2) You oughta enter this into a poetry contest, you probably have a good shot at winning, and 3) As always, keep writing! I'm looking forward to the next Masterpiece by... *dramatic pause* Pompadour! *applause*
EDIT:
Sorry. For some reason, my review got posted twice. I wasn't trying to spam.
Hello, Pompadour!
RachelLeeAnn here to review!
I don't think AEChronicle said it quote enough, so I'll say it once more:
Wow.
This was a very touching piece.
The imagery you created is astonishing. I picture it like one of those war-movie scenes where everything is getting blown up, and there's chaos everywhere, but the only thing you hear is that high-pitch noise that accompanies the aftermath of bombs. You've created great emotion and feeling with this as well.
You're rhyming scheme is nice, as well as the rhythm. I didn't see any grammatical errors or the like. So, good job on that. The only nitpick I have is this minor one here:
The use of "paintballs" here confused me. I'm not sure about where you live, but in my area paintball is game. Little silicon balls with paint filled inside that you shoot at friends with CO2 guns... it's also used in police/military training. So, when you introduced this poem with paintballs, I naturally assumed that this was some sort of mock-game, or training session. After reading more I realized that I was wrong about that, however it did trip me up. What did you mean to imply with the use of paintballs? Perhaps maybe making that stanza a bit more clear?
Otherwise, phenomenal job on this, really! I loved it. As an Army-brat, military/war stories always strike a chord with me.
Keep writing, please!
-Rae ^^
Wow. Hold on, I have to say it again. Wow.
I was deeply moved and deeply impressed by this poem. Not only is the language and the rhythm wonderful, but the subject matter and how you portray it is beautiful in its own sad and depressing way.
"Why are bombshells so pretty?
It's an irony all on its own.
And all the glass faces around me
are porcelain tears that turned to stone."
I'm pretty sure that not a lot of other people have ever thought of bombing in this way, honestly. I know I hadn't until I read this. "It's an irony all on its own." Need I repeat it again? Right from the get go there is a sort of surreal aura about your poem, as if I was watching myself being bombed from the sidelines. So strange, yet intriguing. Your symbolism here of the "glass faces" and "porcelain tears" really adds to the idea that life itself is so very fragile, and these beautiful bombs are no respecter of persons.
"The impact leaves us reeling;
we're parchment people on opaque stilts.
We breathe in, we shudder,
but we're surprised to find
that we can't really breathe anymore
crushed beneath war's meshed-up grind."
Again, I've gotten that sense of an out of body experience. "...parchment people on opaque stilts." And again, life is so fragile. Your imagery really paints the picture of the burning buildings and torn lives as the raid continues. At this moment, I can't imagine what it would have been like to be one of those people on the edges of the raids, knowing that your time was coming, but all you could do was wait. I think that's where the last two lines of the above excerpt come in.
"And over the lust, the soot and the dust,
a million sorry hearts go sailing."
This is where the beauty of the poem, and the beauty of your portrayed deaths really come out. I'm amazed that you were able to make something so dark and morbid become as wonderful as your poem.
Thank you Pompadour!