Will I believe?
god, goddess, or Man alive
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There was an end.
An end not unlike those that occur every day, in places just like this one.
Someone living, becomes not-living at the hand of another. Or maybe that someone is just unlucky.
They weren't unlucky though. They were living, and they died at the hand of someone who stopped living long before them.
They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or the right place at the wrong time.
Some combination of the above mentioned.
Women and children first. That's what he said. "Get out". Is there a place for chivalry in murder?
Quiet God fearing people struck down by one of Gods' children. The irony is thick and we're drowning alive.
My Grandmother tells me that we all have a place. She tells me with such assurance.
Their place was a barickaded school house, at the hand of Gods' child.
Do bullets have a place too? Do they belong in the heads of children, where there were dreams once?
There was an end, and some will never forget it.
The rest? Well, we have our own dreams; we have our own ends.
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4 comments:
I wonder
how many
of these killers -
that open fire on our innocents
on our innocence
are war vets
Viet Nam
Afghanistan
Iraq
trained to hate without thought
trained in weaponry to kill without thought
trained to see us all
without thought
as paper cutouts, targets, bodies with blood to spill
I wonder how many
and if we trained them...
who pulled that trigger
who spilled the blood
of our innocents
our innocence
Having read a previous comment, and quote, on another posting - I am not sure what the hell Sir Phillip Sidney has to do with Andy and his writings, or anything relevant for that matter - but I do think Dylan Thomas speaks to writers - to Andy in particular. It is surely the most utterly perfect piece of poetry written - this MUST be read aloud in a ringing Welsh baritone:
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all thier griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With all their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
this is my new favourite poem. thank you.
As to Sir Phillip Sidney and "what the hell" he has to do with anything all...
I am sure that you know Andy's favourite poets better than me; however, I only posted it because I thought he might like it.
Poetry has many different forms, and I don't think preference for one or the other discounts the rest. That's not to say that Sidney's my favourite either or that I understand him that well, but he does interesting things with words - as does Andy - and so I thought Sidney might be of some interest. Also, as he is one of the first sonnet writers - the sonnet being the typical poem of love, a subject that Andy writes of as well - I didn't think it would cause offence to anyone, or be seen as irrelevant in general or in the specific case.
I liked the Dylan Thomas poem very much. Thank you for posting it.
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