The Unfound Generation

poppybig-780x437

Words strung across pages of No Mans Land
like spilt intestines dragged through bloody time,
 
obscenely lit by flares of remembrance,
strobe like nightmares illuminating faces never seen.
 
Those wretches, unconcerned with poetry and prose
spat out their hauntings not caring they ever be read.
 
Such horror was their reality, now our fiction,
so full of hell they detached from it, regressing in utero.
 
How many last words “Mother” how many last skies black?
how thick with mud the bloodied track, how void then of scarlet petals?
 
From misery came misery, from the art of war came art,
from roaring cannon came silent peace, and from hate came love.
 
But still from war comes war, as always will.
 
The Greatest Generation of Men remains Unfound.

© Wolfgar 2018

Timber Sycamore

spores

Oh tree Oh tree
how can you be where water doesn’t flow?

how spread the spores of conflict
from seed not nature sown?

Yet here you stand so wieldy
rootless in the sand

a pollinated theory
blown far across the land

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timber_Sycamore
(Initially I wasn’t going to add the link, but often subtlety will get you nowhere)

© Wolfgar 2018

Last light

fog-dawn-landscape-morgenstimmung-163323

Along the hedge row Surrey lane
a last light shimmers by moonlights wane,
as bar staff stack the chairs again
he walks the road by which he came.

Can’t hear the sea this far inland
or recall the feel of hand in hand,
though in his ears still sounds the band 
his mouth turned dry with blackened sand.

He shuns the lies of suited men
hunched by stones in London rain, 
who meekly say with fingers crossed
We really do regret your loss.

The lonely house stands guard alone
for this old soul returning Home,
to sit it out just one more night
and pray for dawns relieving light.

© Wolfgar 2018

Child of no Hope

Iran - Iraq War

At nine fifteen on the twenty first
all lessons ended for the One hundred and forty four
the toil of a nation slipped
and never again was it like before
 
Never the laughter
never the joy
never the going home bell
only the prospect of childless future
and drinking oneself into hell
 
Out of the window see the infant ghosts walk
little satchels and skipping ropes
innocent childlike talk
ascending through thickened colliery dust
please?
if there be god to him we entrust
 
Yet still the monument stands unheeded
we still pull the life from the ground
and for the loss of One hundred and forty four
it seems not much has been found
 
Whilst Children of Eden whether Sunni or Shia
cower in stair wells and die from their fear
whilst our empire of greed reigns down on their land
we bury their dreams under overturned sand
 
Whilst the oil we pull fuels our progress 
in concert with their demise
our toil is slipping upon them

and blackening out their skies
and blackening out their skies

© Wolfgar 2018

Too late the truth

paul-nash-the-muke-track-1918

With gargoyled faces they stare dead eyed
into the past of their happy lives.
Not yet removed from the field
their souls still warm as breath.

These stupefied few ripped and flung like dolls,
look at their carcasses, what do you see?
lies and hope and pride, innocence?
regret or loss, no there is nothing.

And over there the same,
staring back visionless masks of puppets.
Above acres of mudded blood angels weep,
while demons give thanks to eternal men.

These ragged children, bastard sons fathers,
with never the chance to nurture or love.
Now they know the truth,
their voices disembodied for evermore.

© Wolfgar 2018

Mentioned in dispatches

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Do you think they felt the weight of history
pissing down in the drizzling sea spray
or when pulling on their mudded boots
that trod and fought through blood and clay

The fingers that caressed old photographs
were the same that clawed and scraped the skies
their last wept tears streaked ashen cheeks
as they left their deadened eyes

Were their grotesque withered bodies treated
solemnly and kind
or tossed as cannon fodder
in the trenches dug behind

Do you think their brothers cried for them
or resigned themselves to meet
and secretly reached out to them
to embrace their own defeat

And how can we in all truth now
profess to know their pain
and promise we’ll remember them
when the drums beat hasn’t changed

© Wolfgar 2018

Take these eyes

Pablo
Take these eyes that I may not see
the harm that went before,

and take this tongue which silently
withholds the words of war,

yet screams within a fractured mind
where only I can hear,

the terrors that were left behind
so far away but ever near.

Take my hands and wash them clean
of flesh tainted by blood,

that in the night they might un-claw
and grip some peace instead of war,

and please take my heart and fill it full
with all the things I lost,

that somehow might replace in me
all I spent to pay this cost.

© Wolfgar 2018 

Drummer Lee-Rigby

Mountain Gorillas of Agashya Group

An updated interpretation of Drummer Hodge by Thomas Hardy

They throw in Drummer Lee-Rigby,
to bleed.
un-defended, just as culled.

His landmark a rain washed gutter,
which flushes the detritus of human life into a divisive Thames.
The cities true testament to multiculturalism.

Young Lee-Rigby never knew fresh from his red rose home,
that the pride of his life would out live that day, and be left to his boyhood alone.

And why up-rose to nightly unrest,
white boys with hate unleashed in their breast.

Yet portion of that well-trod street
will Lee-Rigby forever be,
from blooded tarmac to fiery melee.
From hate filled night,
to grief filled day.

The death of a forgotten land,
and a scarlet line drawn in their sand.

© Wolfgar 2018

Brisance

kabul 6

From brisance condensed in hatred
ignition came,
like the dormant dust of ages,
from careless words and truth-less history,
it came.
 
Some unknown, immolated, evaporated, disappeared.
Others reconstituted, pulling limbs and minds together.
Whilst the lost fragmented to darker corners,
into the splintered flash of a moment, screaming for eternity.
Thunder roars silent in their dead ears. 

The grey carpet laid randomly where it fell,
its fabric now woven into mine.
I wait for the second wave
to wash me clear,
away from the expanding storm,
to an untouched atoll.

© Wolfgar 2018

On the Beach

boy on beach

A disused children’s playground
the Carousel and Ferris Wheel,
where the seesaw’ed
when the peace thawed

Over there a shell hole
fifty meters from the breakfast buffet
The Al Deira Hotel fly’s freedom flags
but no castles in this sand today

The crippled body bent and cast
like a post-card from the edge
the broken promise clear at last
just another worthless pledge

© Wolfgar 2/2018

Fences

Ramallah fences

He found a stone in-between the fences
matted with blood and hair,
across the wire blackened canisters and rubber
which came from here but landed there.

There’s a fat old sloth slumped by the checkpoint
his weapon slung like a child’s toy,
he drags laboriously on filterless tips
and has no concern for a wounded boy.

From the tower, cameras scan the terrain
everything on CCTV,
while the man with the stone in no-mans land
ponders, which side of the fence should he be?

Ramallah 4 Feb 18

© Wolfgar 2/2018

What beauty comes of war

desolate

What beauty comes of war
from all that’s black as blood
from damaged mind and broken bone

What beauty comes of war

What beauty comes of ugliness
from torment trapped in blinding light
from silver landscapes blasted white

What beauty comes of war

Yet how remembrance uses it
the flags and slow lament
with dignity and gratitude and scarlet sentiment

Is beauty in the orphan child
a mind insane
a lonesome soul

Is beauty in a life bereft
to live without a love
to sleep alone and cold

If yes a terrible beauty comes of war

But grim remembrance bares the truth
of beauty never seen
whilst only those with scars are proof
to those who’ve never been