since it is that time of year again here is
my 1994 first world war poem Absent
Drums
written for the 80th anniversary this is old lesser stuff for me and as
usual at the time failed to gain
acceptance from the poetry review
editorial board as it was
too mocking of the soldier war poets
I stumbled across a war
Poet, in place in cold November
finding blank
pictures brief notices.
I saw falling soldiers,
attention to line
I wanted to meet the author of those days
know I didn't have to speak to him,
all dead and awaking from unusual dreams.
Heavy with burst balloon face,
eyes like a day in
childhood ,blurred and pastel.
Alive and hopeless,
St George and the Dragon- monster still breathing.
He had time to shit
himself, this shows a lack of imagination.
He tells me nothing !,
has empty pockets.
a girl shares his
photograph,
holding her so close you
could smell the paper she was made of.
a lover was here, the lips
don't move, kiss dried worms in fresh roses.
Face down in grey waters,
a rising and dying god, empty of soul.
war poet apart shows a
lack of simile,
he simply stinks and rots , glimmering.
I envy his insight, to
find death before sleep, death in forgotten places,
know the experience continue to write.
I read the War Verses:
dead boys alive,
buried flag and still wind
in voices.
I read the war verses:
casting of absent drums,
echo of nameless trumpets
This warrior of Empire
farewell , recited soldier out of place with his poems of Christian failure and
dying no death.
bitter clichés of pale
angels and Englishmen,
brambles in Khaki
mouldering.
We shall only forget them
make better slaughter of
the years, remain all visual.
compose new words for
hymnal apocalypse.
MARK LITTLER "absent drums 1994