Poetry and prose are the two great structural classes of human script-art. Prose is the standard, in our view, and poetry the exception. Historically, poetry has a much stronger presence in the world of art than prose, being much better
Poetry and prose and the two great structural classes of human script-art. Prose is the standard, in our view, and poetry the exception. Of course, historically poetry has a much stronger presence in the world of art than prose, being
In metal trust, you sons of men, In weapons trust, warriors of blood, For what else lives that men can love? I’ve seen men kill and die like sheep, I trust no man- I’ve tasted their love. Savages who gnaw
Title by translator C. Potter. Before this sword a thousand men have died; Before these eyes a thousand thousands have found their end. Yet here I stand, and You are too mighty for me; Here I kneel, and You overcome
Quiet! For the wind cries from the east; It speaks of suffering and of silencing shattering, It speaks of courts, in whose cants are death’s shade, It speaks of a gathering against His Anointed, That all like lambs may be
Note: This is a camp song (the sheet music for which is posted here) meant to be sung by soldiers, with each return of the refrain increasing in length. I’ve killed many men, sir, I’ve killed many men, I’ve thrown
Note: A poem about… see if you can figure it out. Women wail as warlords waste, Lusts of flesh with cold steel embraced, Stomachs torn for birthless babies, Blood for dead men who know life’s taste. Death we tasted, and
Kill them, O men brave and proud, it’s all we can do; They’re barbarians, wretches, inhuman blood-stew. You cannot dare spare them, the vile and the damned. Tear them and rip- not men, just beasts. Understand? That child, a murderer,
Note: An old poem of mine, a presaging of my poetry’s tendency towards grimness and written from the perspective of an unnamed narrator. I had been reading some World War One poetry. Men are beasts, no, not beasts but birds,