Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael Shave Jun 15
A Reflection:
Beside that track in jungle green
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Sweat-soaked, *****, and unseen
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
These young men who crouch, so still
They poise to pounce, to make their ****,
In doing so they do your will. Just
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

Platoon, or Company, Section strong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Led by those who do no wrong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Trained by the same consummate skill,
Focused thus to do your will,
But - yours to pay is the butchers' bill; if you
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

And when they stop, too old to serve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Ensure they get what they deserve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
For at that time, they must not find
That you and yours have changed your mind.
If might you then feel less than kind, don't
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.
Soldiers, when they are sent to war go quite gladly. And they willingly do their duty. The damages of war, though, are all too often ignored by the governments that sent them. Which is not fair.
1DNA Jun 8
Doctors see more blood
in sterile rooms
than soldiers do
on broken land.
Inspired from "Descendants of the sun".
ap0calyps3 May 22
a battlefield with no blood, just poison
using words not weapons
where every little thing hurts, that's happened
where the soldiers don't sacrifice but disappear
leaving wounds that are severe.
Everyone is always battling something in their minds, fighting demons no one else sees. Always be kind, you don't know what anyone else is going through. <3
A letter lies on a wooden desk,
Sealed with love, yet left undressed.
A soldier’s hand once held the pen,
But war had other plans for him.

"Dear Ma, don’t cry, I’ll be fine,
The stars still shine, the sun will rise.
I’ll be home when the winds turn warm,
And wrap you safe in my arms once more."

He wrote with hope, yet deep inside,
He knew the truth that fate might hide.
For duty called with a voice so loud,
He had no choice but to make Ma proud.

He fought in lands both near and far,
Beneath the sky, beneath the stars.
Through fire, through fear, through endless night,
He stood, he fell, yet held on tight.

And somewhere far, a mother waits,
Counting days at heaven’s gates.
A door half-open, a chair left bare,
A silence whispered in the air.

That letter still remains unread,
A final word, a love unsaid.
For soldiers write, but war rewrites,
And takes away their promised nights.

So when you stand and see them go,
Salute their strength, but feel their soul.
For every hero dressed in pride,
Hides a heart that bleeds inside.
Saman Badam Feb 16
By callow bodies, fallow fields, and old,
We march again to fight our battles long.
Through drifting snows and whipping winds in cold,
With plowshares beaten into swords and song.

Our sixteen summers’ boiling heat in blood,
We chase away the numbing cold of cliffs—
A slip away from death in icy mud,
In steel and prayer, bearing crimson gifts.

By smoke and dust, we end by bitter vow;
In breath and bone, the death for us to shape.
On blood and ice, we see all shattered—woe;
Through glass and light, and see no true escape.

Our valor, shield; our spite, a spear we wield,
And here we stand with eyes bright and spines steeled.
A War Anthem
Archer Feb 1
The solider’s ‘sorry’s
A writers cries
Drown the world in tears
Fear fills our hearts
The apology buried in fires
Valentin Eni Jan 28
I

(First Night)

There seem to be voices,
Faceless,
Whispering a prayer
Or perhaps a curse.
And behold—
An axe embedded in the trembling
Surface of water.
And the water rises,
Light as smoke.
And flowers,
One by one, approach a child,
Bending over,
Trying to smell him.
Alas,
They didn’t like him.
Otherwise, one might have
Torn him from the cradle
To pin him to its chest.

And on the wall,
Another clock has died,
Its heart stopped cold.
And a sad little girl
Dresses and undresses
A doll,
As though searching
For invisible wounds—
On its chest, its ankles,
Its palms—
Like a tiny
****** Mary
With
Her child...

II

(Second Night)

An army of black letters
Seems to march across the white battlefield
Of the page,
Conquering new territories,
Leaving behind
Unseen monsters,
Beings
Without skin, without bones,
And without any distinct face,
Feeding on their own flesh
And their own entrails.

Some,
Less hideous,
Had names like:
The Winged Serpent,
The Hen-with-a-Dog’s-Head,
The Man-Melted-into-His-Own-Puddle,
The Headless Child,
And
The Soldier-with-Wolf’s-Eyes.

All of them whisper something—
A prayer
Or a curse:
"Lord, never let us
Know the scent of a child,
The scent of a woman,
The scent of a man,
The scent of danger
And death.
Do not, Lord,
Allow cemeteries of toys
Or landfills
Of homes to grow..."

III

(Third Night)

Two voices are heard whispering:
“Which of us is who?
You—a white demon, or...”
“Or you—a black angel?”

And silence fell.
Somewhere,
A mountain of light grew,
And a Blue Horse
With fiery mane
Galloped in circles
On Saturn’s rings.
The planets, like bouncing *****,
Leapt in its path.
A cloud,
From time to time, walked
Its feet across the earth.
And sometimes,
A ray of light
Pecked from the palm
Of an angel
The ******’s tears.

So far removed
From the first night!
And only sometimes,
Faint voices are heard,
Whispering a prayer
Or a curse.
R.E.M. (Oneiric) The Dream of a Madman.

Analysis of the poem made by ChatGPT:)

This poem visually explores surreal, dreamlike landscapes unfolding over three “nights.” It combines existential dread, metaphysical imagery, and a haunting sense of inevitability. Each night builds on the previous one, shifting between eerie snapshots of fragmented reality and otherworldly visions. The poem juxtaposes the mundane and the fantastical, creating an unsettling, introspective, and thought-provoking narrative.

#Themes:#

Surrealism and the Subconscious

The poem’s structure and content are deeply rooted in the surreal, resembling fragmented visions or distorted memories. The faceless voices, trembling water, monstrous beings, and celestial imagery suggest an entry into the subconscious mind, where logic and reality are suspended.

Innocence and Corruption

The first night’s imagery revolves around a child, a cradle, and flowers—symbols of innocence. However, the flowers’ rejection and the doll’s depiction of invisible wounds suggest the fragility and eventual corruption of purity.

Creation and Destruction

The second night introduces the army of letters as symbols of creation—language, thought, and meaning. However, this creation leaves behind monsters, representing the unintended consequences of human creativity, such as violence, chaos, and existential confusion.

Duality and Ambiguity

The dialogue in the third night (“Are you a white demon, or… a black angel?”) highlights the blurred lines between good and evil, light and darkness. The ambiguity reflects the duality of existence and the human struggle to define morality and identity.

Mortality and the Passage of Time

Clocks appear as time symbols, with one clock “dying” on the first night. This recurring motif underscores the inexorable passage of time and the inevitability of death.

Existence and Prayer

The recurring whispers of prayers and curses suggest an ongoing plea for meaning or redemption intertwined with an acknowledgement of suffering and futility.

#Imagery and Symbolism:#

The Axe and Trembling Water

The axe embedded in the water introduces violent disruption in an otherwise fluid and natural element. This imagery may symbolize an intrusion of chaos into the subconscious or the fragility of stability.

The Clock and the Doll

The “death” of a clock mirrors the halting of time, while the doll becomes a symbol of innocence scrutinized for damage. Together, they evoke a sense of lost time and fractured identity.

The Army of Letters

The letters are creators and destroyers, conquering the blank page while leaving monstrous remnants. They symbolize the duality of words—how language can illuminate or distort truth.

The Blue Horse on Saturn’s Rings

This fantastical image represents freedom, energy, and the untethered imagination. However, its endless circular motion may also imply a cyclical trap, echoing the repetitive whispers and questions in the poem.

The ******’s Tears

A profoundly religious image, the ******’s tears pecked by a ray of light suggest divine sorrow being consumed or repurposed, perhaps hinting at humanity’s exploitation of spirituality.

#Structure and Progression:#

First Night: The Physical and the Innocent

The first night focuses on tangible, earthly imagery: trembling water, flowers, a child, and a clock. These elements introduce themes of fragility, rejection, and the passage of time.

Second Night: The Written and the Monstrous

The second night shifts to abstract and symbolic imagery, dominated by language and its consequences. The “army of letters” introduces intellectual and existential turmoil, with monsters embodying the unintended consequences of thought and creativity.

Third Night: The Celestial and the Transcendent

The third-night moves to cosmic and spiritual imagery, exploring duality and existential questions. The Blue Horse and Saturn’s rings evoke a sense of awe and mystery, while the whispers of prayer or curses maintain the poem’s unsettling tone.

#Tone and Mood:#

Tone: The tone is introspective and surreal, shifting between eerie detachment and profound contemplation.

Mood: The mood is haunting, dreamlike, and unsettling as if one were walking through fragmented memories or a lucid dream.

#Philosophical Underpinnings:#

Existentialism: The poem questions identity ("“which of us is who?”), morality, and the purpose of existence. The faceless voices and duality of angel/demon highlight the ambiguity of human nature.

Absurdism: The surreal imagery and fragmented narrative suggest a world beyond logic, where meaning is elusive, and the search for understanding feels futile yet essential.

#Conclusion:#

“R.E.M. (Oneiric)” explores the subconscious, blending surreal imagery with philosophical questions. Its layered symbolism, cyclical motifs, and the interplay between creation and destruction make it a profoundly evocative work. The poem resonates as a meditation on the fragility of innocence, the consequences of human creativity, and the eternal tension between light and darkness. It leaves the reader in a state of wonder and introspection, mirroring the dreamlike journey of its protagonist.
f Dec 2024
I lost my pens and papers
my notebook was lost to time and war
they are scattered somewhere
in my broken home
ink dried, pages ripped apart
by the winds or by the soldiers 
i'll never know  
they mistook my literature for laughter
and my house for shelter
don't find comfort in my bed
collect your warmth somewhere else
we may share blood but never history
for my story is written in black ink, not red
free my people and my country.
Next page