Armageddon anyone?
 

Is anyone penning a few lines on far away places of which Donald knows damn all? - and whether Bolton will make a difference? - and whether we will ever get to know?
May appears to be wrapping herself in Blair's self-righteous shroud, from which he has just escaped to counsel the need for more deaths - and the witless 'Opposition' appear not a whit brighter.
Any thoughts on the verse form for the final days? - or has poetry nothing to say?
Here, daily struggling with translating 13th century warfare, my contemporary Muse has fallen chokingly silent. How are yours?

Nigel,

I've moved this from GT, as our own poems aren't allowed on that board, but anyone can freely post here.

The title will certainly draw attention, ...and some poems, I hope!

Jayne

Equip elderly
professor for last battle.
Ten letters, across.

War

Why jot a verse about this word
on a blank page as pale as death
and hope it ceases to be heard?
Why jot a verse about this word,
recall a dove’s song, now unheard,
by a bird bereft of breath?
Why jot a verse about this word
on a blank page as pale as death?

Thanks for the elderly, Nicholas😉 Perhaps age is part of the problem. What recollection, if any, does Trump have of the Cuban Missile Crisis?
I'm rather sorry Jayne moved this thread. I was actually looking more for discussion rather than just (?) a black/gallows humour fest..... But I suppose either might be interesting - at least, for a while.
Perhaps the topic might be allowed to run on both boards? - not least as they have significantly different 'audiences' who might participate.

I'm trying to find the GT thread where we discussed the possible spin-offs from the election of the implausible POTUS. I remember doing a Cassandra on it and being "there, there, dear"ed.

I recall refraining from Sybilline visions of blood-foaming, but now I call upon the goddess Itys to witness that I did try.

I remember, Ann.

Apart from any new poems wrung from the scary present, I'm also finding 'other men's flowers' running through my head.

Seriously, Larkin's Next Please and comically Lister's The Owlet and the Gamekeeper. Less jovially his New Worlds for Old or, rather obviously, The Field of Dynamite.

What are you recalling?

Nigel,
I can move this thread back to General Talk if you wish, but Nico's haiku and Ralph's triolet would have to be deleted, which would be a shame... and no other poems could be posted there.

There's no reason why poems and a discussion can't appear here, but I don't think that the same subject on two boards will work very well.

I moved the thread here because I thought you were inviting people to post their verses on the topic, and I apologise if I misread your intent. Let me know if you'd like me to move it back to GT, and I'll be more than happy to oblige.

Jayne

No - Jayne, thank you for the thought. I understood your intention which was an entirely reasonable reading of my post - so don't move it back.

My point about the title - or something near it - being on GT as well/in addition is that it has a rather different and wider audience, but I'm happy it can rest as is.

I appreciate Nicholas and Ralph contributions very much, a nice mix of humour and despair, and will be interested to see more reflections - poetic and otherwsie - as well as hearing what poetry these dark-shadowed days turn people's minds to. You'd kind of expect poets to have lines/verses that would haunt them.

Just to be alarming, my newsfeed this morning had a headline about Russia preparing for nuclear war.

Cheers,
John

Damn, you mean that fool Trump gave away his intentions?

The Eagle, Bear & Fox

Hannity insanity
and Fox News’s community
are teaching Trump profanity
and hawking his rabidity
which risks Putin’s proclivity
to trigger instability
and provoke calamity.

Well..... I find it interesting, disturbing and/or revealing (?), that this thread has been available on the site for over 50 hours in the midst of a world crisis in which our fates might be measured in as little as minutes, and yet almost nobody (pace Ralph, and twice!) - especially from the States, whose manifestly unstable and incompetent President has not only the power but also the bombastic proclivities that could immolate the world - has had anything to say. No treasured poems haunting their uneasy souls and none hammering at the doors of frantic or reflective utterance.

So does poetry matter/mean so little to our little Sphere's inhabitants? I confess that I find the prospects so appalling that I cannot find the words - at least not ones infused with any concentration of meaning or expression which can attempt a worthy engagement with the circumstances. But other words do haunt me. Am I alone in this?

Perhaps I should admire the sang froid of others - but, in truth, I find it slightly chilling.

P.S. I first penned this before seeing your second contributuion, Ralph - and my sincere respect for making the attmept, and doing so thoughtfully twice! I keep finding myself tempted to recycle things I wrote around the times of Iraq 2003 and in its various hideous aftermaths and during the peddling of its almost equally disturbing 'aftermyths'.
The great difference then was that I was reasonably sure that they would be read by some sort of audience somewhere, however paltry. Now..... ??

Hey, I posted in this thread as well. Not a poem, true, but I am not without opinions on this president and the world he is dragging us into.

CHeers,
John

Nigel,
I do understand how important the current political issues are, but the plain and simple truth is that we all have our own private lives as well. For my part, I'm currently trying to deal with a deluge of emails and phone calls I've received from people up and down the country, in response to an article I wrote in a national magazine.

In addition, I've been spending some time with my grandchildren while they're off school for the Easter holidays. World events are IMMENSELY important - yet, d'ya know what? - family matters still come first!

This site is wonderful, and no one could dispute that I'm passionate about my involvement with it, ...yet I haven't written a poem about ''Armageddon'' that I could post here, because I haven't had the time!

As John said, Hey, I posted in this thread as well. Not a poem, true, but I am not without opinions on this president and the world he is dragging us into, ...but to ask "So does poetry matter/mean so little to our little Sphere's inhabitants?" is an unfair question.

Poetry matters a great deal to us all. We don't necessarily get around to writing a poem about Trump or current affairs, but it's enjoyable to read others' views and poems on such topics, which help to compensate for our own lack of inspiration and/or time. Please don't feel disturbed/disappointed by this.

Jayn

Dearest Nigel, don't despair.
It isn't that we do not care.
Jayne's tending to posterity
so much, she has no time for "e."*
And some of us are occupied
preparing for Electiontide.
I'm in the trenches, so to speak.
I've barely raised my head all week.
My song's a work song, not a dirge.
A new world needs a demiurge,
and I have volunteered to try.
And now I'm back to work, friend. Bye!

*

Removed. I spoke too loudly and too soon.
.

I had started a long reply to John, Jayne and Julie when I switched on news... and poetry now seems to be, inadequately, about all we have left.
The Russian statement which mentions the insult to the Russian President is, psychologically, particularly disturbing. Are we really back to a world of competing mega egos? - and I include the puny petulance of May in this. How one's nostalgia for 1962 grows.
I thought your deleted post, Ann, in no way premature. But maybe I've missed a development while typing!
Ironically, the Tweed Valley which has been hunkered under a roof of cloud and mist for days is, this morning, basking beneath clear sunny skies. The No Bombing demo I was headed for in Edinburgh now looks forlorn and Border folk will be heading for the mundane - and international - excitements of the Melrose Sevens.
But Trump and his poodles remain real - and Putin remains potent and offended.

Tweet

We are such fragile creatures. But we can
still tell the truth, and vote. And that's a plan.


Cheers,
John

Juli,
You'r hilarious :D:D:D

I shouldn't work through half the night,
...too tired to spell my own name right!

(Sorry for the distraction, Nigel.)

Jayne

The head of the "Christian" Broadcasting Network just brought out a book called The Faith of Donald Trump. And a reminder: on the day, 80% of Alabama white evangelicals voted for Roy Moore.

Cheers,
John

Cheap Grace

Cheap grace visits Herod in his glory,
and he remembers Salome. He does
not feel too bad about things, and he sleeps
the sleep of babes. For thus theology
explains forgiveness. When Nebuchadnezzar
is eating grass, his throne seems far away
and unapproachable. Why did he quit
that elevation? Was there no cheap grace
to be had from the faithful? Could he not,
like any man, enjoy himself? The mighty
are not like you and me. I wrote a book
about their faith, so go ahead and buy it.
In it, I speak of grace. I speak of how
their spirit is uncompromised by sin
we might feel bad about. How as a Christian,
I preach forgiveness for the folks who vote
as I do, not for those who don’t. So please
distinguish faith from doubt. And if you see
me on TV amid the sinners, well,
such is our struggle, when we speak of grace.

28.iii.2018
 

"The Faith of Donald Trump ..." Wasn't that the working name of one of his Russian hookers?

The title is pretty funny. The guy's interviewer had trouble keeping a straight face during the interview. And the CBN guy also explained how Donald Trump and Roy Moore - literally - are totally different from Bill Clinton, who was a tremendous sinner. I hope to have captured some of that.

Cheers,
John

The ways of the Muses are strange indeed. Impressed by John's scary evocation of messianic partiality, mine remained mum... until May's ghastly televised 'statement' luxuriated in her experience of it being her "first time" that she had committed others to military action, from which she and her kind remain so comfortably remote cosseted in the folds of the southern English countryside. Something snapped and I remembered the latest Spectator comp. .... and I remembered Adlestrop.

(Note to Jayne. I intend no breach of the rules but, having started this thread, it seems only fair to post the result here as well as in the Speccie comp thread.)

THE SECOND TIME

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire
The little traces that remain
Recall that superheated day
The Cotswolds flowed down to the plain.

That hour the Churn was vaporised,
When Ampney’s Crucis came to pass
And Aston Magna seemed misspelt,
There stayed no splendour on the grass;
But cornfields, now with May aflame,
Swept from Slaughter on to Slaughter
And toadstool vapours borne on winds
Sucked up sweet Avon’s bardic water.

No village Churchill could withstand
That black, bird-stunning bitter crop;
Five miles north-west, war’s poet paused.
Yes. I remember Adelstrop.

The ways of the Muses are strange indeed. Impressed by John's scary evocation of messianic partiality, mine remained mum... until May's ghastly televised 'statement' luxuriated in her experience of it being her "first time" that she had committed others to military action, from which she and her kind remain so comfortably remote, cosseted in the folds of the southern English countryside. Something snapped and I remembered the latest Spectator comp. .... and I remembered Adelstrop.

(Note to Jayne. I intend no breach of the rules but, having started this thread, it seems only fair to post the result here as well as in the Speccie comp thread.)

THE SECOND TIME

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire
The little traces that remain
Recall that superheated day
The Cotswolds flowed down to the plain.

That hour the Churn was vaporised,
When Ampney’s Crucis came to pass
And Aston Magna seemed misspelt,
There stayed no splendour on the grass;
But cornfields, now with May aflame,
Swept from Slaughter on to Slaughter
And toadstool vapours borne on winds
Sucked up sweet Avon’s bardic water.

No village Churchill could withstand
That black, bird-stunning bitter crop;
Five miles north-west, war’s poet paused.
Yes. I remember Adelstrop.

AH - galactic malfunction, Jayne. I attempted to edit (minor spelling and in the usual way) and somehow it has reposted itself, corrected.

I've no idea how to undo this. Can you help and preserve the second posted version?

I'm just off to a meeting, Nigel, and in a big rush, but after a very hasty read I'm not quite sure which post(s) you want me to delete, sorry!

Unless you're really concerned about it, I wouldn't worry... we all make little slips... but if you still need me to remove anything, can you PM me again please, with clear instructions (...er, given my hair colour!! ;))

Jayne

Words to Die For

T and Armageddon

A for actions of this ass
R for reckless ways he rants
M for mismanagement of monies
A for asses he admires
G for allies’ gripes and groans
E for erotic ego-trips
D for dimwit ways he “deals”
D for damnation he deserves
O for obscene oligarchs
N for wanting to nuke some nations

T and Apocalypse

A for always an ass
P for pimping Putin
O for obscene orders
C for Jim Crow crap
A for accusing aliens
L for lying and looting
Y for yelling and yawping
P for pardoning pals
S for seeming so insane
E for his election envy

T and Abomination

A for abysmal
B for brutalist
O for offensive
M for mindless
I for idiotic
N for numbskull
A for (yes) asshole
T for troll
I for inane
O for obnoxious
N for nihilist

Brilliant!

[quote=Nigel Mace;415622]...

Wow.

When I read
Swept from Slaughter on to Slaughter

I felt sure that
something something vicar's daughter
would likely turn out to be behind it!
(So to speak..)

Adlestrop Revisited
 

Portslade's what we call it now -
A place partaken of at risk.
Memorial airship, passing; brisk
Our pilgrimage, fulfilling vow.
The fallen we will not forget,
Nor turn our eyes from that void place
Where nemeses sped down from space -
Its seared soil radioactive yet.
Each generation sloughs its due
Of mutant burden; some survive,
Though none can truly say we thrive -
We plucky band, we lucky few.
That etymology, laid bare?
It's 'port' and 'slaYed - [wh]Y?': portmanteau
In sound; in word-upheaval, woe.
We're left; they're dead. We weep, mid-air.

Doom-destined Dwindledom
 

Obliterated !!
Overthrown,
Oblivious -
Obtusely.
Obloquy!
Ousted,
Owing.
Obit..
Our.
Oh..
O!

Hi Graham,

"we lucky few" is acid. Good reworking of that line, which Stendhal also liked.

Cheers,
John

August, 1965

The smallest and youngest came first
We could hear them before we could see them
A kilometer down from the grandstand
Out of sight past a rise in the road

We could hear them before we could see them
A kingdom of crickets was chirping
Out of sight past a rise in the road
The children were marching and chanting

A kingdom of crickets was chirping
We still could not quite understand them
The children were marching and chanting
We waited, like crows on a fence

We still could not quite understand them
The twentieth year since the sun burst
We waited, like crows on a fence
The marchers now almost upon us

The twentieth year since the sun burst
They have emptied the country of children
The marchers now almost upon us
Holding pennants and banners and chanting

They have emptied the country of children
Fifty thousand here marching this morning
Holding pennants and banners and chanting
“No more Hiroshima, no more…”

Fifty thousand here marching this morning
Through twisted and savaged gray concrete
“No more Hiroshima, no more…”
“No more Nagasaki, no more…”

Through twisted and savaged gray concrete
A kilometer down from the grandstand
“No more Nagasaki, no more…”
The smallest and youngest came first.