Behind the proud mask of heroism
War is only the rotten maw of death
Brooking no question or criticism
From the lungs of the skeptic, it gulps breath
The moldy silence of the tomb, it craves
Extinguished minds muster no resistance;
About victory and conquest, it raves
Ravenously eating all existence
War vomits propaganda on the truth:
The eye of the enemy is your eye
The tooth of the enemy is your tooth
The cry of the enemy is your cry
War depends on an ancient, stinking lie:
The false distinction between you and I
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Public Announcement Challenge Winners
For the Public Announcement Challenge, writers were asked to work inside voices built for control. These were notices, warnings, and updates meant to inform rather than confess. The strongest entries committed to that form and didn't break from it. Corporate memos, formal government alerts, and internal policy language were held consistently, allowing emotion, fear, grief, or humor to surface indirectly through pressure rather than declaration. The following poems recognize the voice of authority, and let human feeling slip through despite all its rules and restraint.
By Vocal Curation Team3 days ago in Resources
Comments (7)
Such a strong piece! Really captured the devouring nature of war
Wow this one is really Good D.J.! I especially loved the last lines. It’s never felt more true than today
A lot of great lines! Raves and ravenous felt very lyrical
War vomits propaganda on the truth: - what a line! D.J., this is timely as I wrote a microfiction yesterday which echoes this sentiment. One of my favourite war poets, Siegfried Sassoon, took pains to point out that it's just man killing man. I wish more could see it and its pointlessness.
Very powerful and timely. War is indeed the rotten maw of death!
This was so devastating and had so much truth to it!
This is a powerful critique of war as a destructive force that manipulates truth and perpetuates divisions among people!