Best Guerre Poems
France, fascinating place of beauty and grace overwhelmed by a master and fascist race
with a dagger in one hand and the other, a mace
all who do not succumb to the iron fist
by life’s hand they shall be missed.
France, now a place of shock and fate
twas this mean to be the countries state?
The allies come in green marching band
ready to strike at the fascist hand
to make with us a noble and honoured stand
La guerre folingue a largué des bombes sur un cimetière
Les morts,trop absorbés à savonner leurs péchés d'hier,
Ont d'abord pris le bruit pour un tonitruant tonnerre
Nonchalants,ils ont campé dans leurs tanières
Ont eu une pensée pour ceux la haut sur terre
Qui jouillissant de tous arrivent à se taire
Ankylosés devant la machine meurtrière
Désorientés,fourbus et optimistes naguère
Ignares de pioncer que sous somnifère
Une torpeur dècousue aux episodes amères
Humant la phobie,l'aria et la galère
Jalousant les morts,réprouvant leurs misères
Abdelwaheb Dhaou.
Hard as granite and cold as
stone, loves so far been barred.
Her loveliness came in spring
time and a rose became my
heart.
Swept across the ocean came,
sickness atop the tide.
A plague that anguish falls
beneath, and causing rage to
die.
I so young did fall for, a
promised spring for ever more.
Alias the rose that was my
heart, died in winters war.
It wilted in the snow and cold,
and time it could not bare.
It's bravery and in the face of
disdain, could win the croix de
guerre.
(French version)
La guerre interminable.
Dechirée par la souffrance,
la terre buve mon sang.
(English version)
WAR
Never to end war.
Torn from pain of sufferings,
the earth swallows my blood.
Translated from the Slovakian
I enlisted with the god of second chances
Knowing my chances were second to none.
I surrendered my soul and my passport
When I entered my new life’s routine
In service to the colors of France.
I’d pledged my honor and fidelity,
Or whatever romantic sh*te was required,
When I’d earned my coveted ticket
For the train ride from Marseilles to Toulouse.
A sheep that's learned to fill itself on meat.
The training was tough, but the treatment humane.
Not like the nonsense portrayed in the movies.
But I was prepared to march or die
On the day I was given my name,
Vojak Bojovnik, Légion étrangère.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
DIEN BIEN PHU
carry me home boys
for the war is over and
I can't feel my legs
the mothers of war
gave their golden wedding band
and sometimes a son
on a war-torn field
stands a shrine for the children
where one shoe was found
he flew with eagles
on silver wings that he earned
in a place called 'nam
the heart of david
will defeat the goliath
that stands in our way
date:6/25/22
Who waits on tomorrow when today is barely tolerable?
greet the sun
and the light
Green leaves,
Warm brown bark.
How many dawns will see them still,
as they have always been?
It happened a century past.
See the Black Hand. See Ferdinand.
See war born of nothing.
The young men crawl hopeless toward the trenches.
Suffocation. Putrification.
This generation sacrificed and abandoned,
lost,
came creeping home broken. The false embrace
of nations (named hero, enslaved by honor)
pestilence brought horror,
gave mercy.
You never really leave the trenches.
one hundred years passed.
Nothing lasts,
less changes.
See the Black Hand. See his glove over rot.
See war born of nothing.
The young crawl hopeless through the trenches
suffering; they open
the same sore
again and again and again.
The gangrenous wound and the wasted bodies,
bits of cotton, syringes, half smoked cigarettes,
corpses and half grown desperate children-
none are named hero,
all are slaves to the horror.
This generation came creeping home, broken.
Embraced by no one,
ever-
sacrificed and abandoned and lost.
Pestilence, again
there is no mercy.
You never really leave the trenches.
How can these kids fail so miserably at life?
They live as if the future doesn't exist.
You work and work and work.
Your entire adult life you never had anything.
Nothing lasts,
less changes.
You lose it all,
you lose it all.
You already knew
the particular, singular agony of the Hand.
Fingers dig in straight through your gut
and take hold of your spine- the grip,
The intense rip and wrench,
and wrench
and wrench.
You look at your poor sweet dog
(soft ears, heavy sleepy paws)-
why is innocence so agonizing?
Transcendence is just hopelessness.
Who waits on years?
Days are the home of the barely not
starving; the future is for the wandering
passed. We know
the present-this supposed gift.
The world,
the world will burn so beautifully.
We never even made it out of the trenches.