BellaOnline Forums Books and Music Poetry Critique and Editing forum

Here is a suggestion. I made a few changes respecfully. How does this sound to you? children who skip through the wilderness like your father's home, Enclosed by loyal dogs that guard the gates of chrome, built by slaves without claim who still remain unknown, be creative in you course and do not stop to roam, for there are beasts that wait along the traveler's trail, Hungry for the stubby legs of the children that run to peril, a creature most infamous lives past the flicker of light, a devil lives in the darkness may find you in his sight,

The last world war one soldier Harry Patch just died aged 111. The poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy wrote this poem for the occasion.

LAST POST
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud�
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.
listen to Carol Ann Duffy reading the poem

I think your poem is fantastic and i think it is wonderful you came out and wrote it in the forum for all to see. Dark poetry I find means something very deep to the writer alone and not everyone is tuned into what you are trying to say. I too write alot of dark poetry, I have gotten good reviews on my poetry site that I write on but even if I didn't the people are not inside my head and were not there at the moment the poem was written. I suppose the one line could have gone a little smoother but other than that keep up the great work and share more. :tut:

Morning Song

A sort of dedication to Sylvia Plath

Love drew you in like a freight train.
A furnished field brimming with
the sun that reflected your eye.
Baby blue wings of a bird,
They speak of the morning song

He carries a steady pace,
Still as a statue when he listens with ears
He takes you slowly like he does with the world
And finds desire in your objections.

Oh love took you in with softened hands,
It caressed you with airy motions,
When the evening comes
you'll hold onto the morning song.

The sky signals the end of love
As it touched you with arms wide open,
The lyrics they left a scar
Soon you�ll be singing the morning song.