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Fallen Dreams
http://www.virtualgalleries.com/Russian45BWCrpd80XX.jpg
28 December 1944
Forzee-Mont Gauthier, Belgium
We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living
Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world,
And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds
That knive us thin like an acerbic safety pin
Worried we keep awake because the night is silent...
Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient...
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.
Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow...
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
But nothing happens.
Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
Less deathly than the air that shudders black with snow,
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew;
We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,
But nothing happens.
Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces-
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses,
-Is it that we are dying?
Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,-
We turn back to our dying.
Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.
Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,
Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp.
The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
But nothing happens.
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i liked it man, for the meaning and
message i got in this, i ent really a
poetry dude but i enjoyed the read
the stanzas were nicely formed and
i enjoyed the last one the most the
imagenary in that stanza was nice
the shaking shit n stuff real nice man.
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Really liked this piece man. You've elevated so much since the first time I checked your work back before Po and everything like that. Before you wrote with kind of spent metaphores and basic description but now you've really found yourself in your writing and the emotion and imagery that comes through is amasing... Lines like:
"Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses,"
"Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world,
And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh"
Those lines really left an impact on me. Lol its funny to me, cuz for some reason recently I've been incorperating "ivory" into my poems alot recently. Because when I write I typically go through phases and select some kind of reacurring theme that shows up in all my work. You're really the only person I've seen use Ivory aswell. Just kind of found that interesting. But ya great piece overall man, you're on a steady rise within the ranks of poetry.
Only suggestion is to write in shorter lines if you plan on have your piece be so long. Because I'm possitive the reason this is short on feed is because at first glance this is a pretty daunting poem. So ya, great job... Keep writing fam.
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Whoa, thanks man. Appreciated.
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