Tag Archives: poem

Thoughts On A Winter’s Evening

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Winter. Not long gone 4 pm yet, all is dark. Wind cuts like a knife. People hurry, collars turned up against the icey blast.

Home beccons. Central heating warms, hot drinks revive, but what can unfreeze the shrivelled soul inside?

Death March – A Guest Post By Jane Of Fluency

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Many thanks to Jane, of Fluency for the below guest post, which first appeared on her blog and can be found by following the below link, (https://fluencyofwords.wordpress.com/2014/11/18/death-march/). The below poem is reproduced by kind permission of Jane and remains her property.

 

—

 

Onward, men, don’t linger for longer,

feel that pride rushing through you,

the unworn wind filling your lungs.

Don’t look over your shoulder no more,

I vouch no guns pointed at your head.

 

Don’t worry about the world,

about your dead friends and lives,

of your soul in the barracks.

Ain’t nothing you can do,

if you wake up in a nightmare.

 

Lads, don’t make trouble,

to hear a bomb explode is mad,

you hear?

Don’t go telling others what’s not,

or you’ll live in a damn facility.

 

Go on, soldier,

live the rest of your life

with family,

in peace.

 

The Second Coming By W B Yeats

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Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?