Monday, September 02, 2013

The Poetry of War […Syria]


If I could catch up
with the rhythm of things
I'd stop talking

and sink into a deep
historical silence—
poetry of the dead.

Ghosts and gyres,
sages and tyrants,
expressions of longing

for a lost world.
The misplaced shoes
of a gassed girl.  

Silence studies
the unregarded floor,
the effect of Sarin

on our lungs,
the involuntary
twitching of the legs.

Yet we must dig
deeper into earth
to find the epiphany

of these actions.
Perhaps the temple
was a defective construction.

Or “Nothing” is more
than an absence
whose advent is to be welcomed.

“Nothing,” a furiously
crossed-out “Something,”
 Absence, whiteness, silence.

The Poetry of War, Part Two […USA]

This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another,
the fog thickening the high branches
of the sycamores.

This is about combat, the last one I'll see
if I walk barefooted on a wooden floor
with a month's supply of pain killers
in my pockets

lying to myself about
the secret of life being
the resurrection of a worm.

This is about the writing in the air
of swallowtails and the armed forces
of destruction waiting underground
from Syria to Mexico.

—A moment is a warehouse
where armies are stacked
to the ceiling—and there’s no other way to say “No.”

This is about soft porn, masturbation, invasions, and nerve gas,
and children, and food shortages, and coffins,
and the right to pick plums from the Emperor’s courtyard.

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