A War of Words
A collection of my poems in which I try to get at
the human emotions behind the ugly face of war, conflict and prejudice.
A word of caution - I have found this subject a very powerful one
to write about, and grown relatives of mine have cried at some
of the following poems!
Beginning with one which reduced my own mother to tears...
When's Daddy Coming Home?
Daddy's been gone for a long long time
Mummy says everything will be just fine.
But of that fact, I'm not too sure
'Cause Mummy says he's at a place called 'war'.
"Mummy, when's Daddy coming home?"
"Soon."
I always see that Mummy is crying
Says she's not - I know she's lying.
They said 'war' on the telly, it gave me a fright,
The mister said it's when people fight.
"Mummy, when's Daddy coming home?"
"Soon."
I miss my Daddy, some nights I cry
Because Mummy would not tell me why
Daddy still has not come back here.
All she said was "Don't worry dear."
"Mummy, when's Daddy coming home?"
"Soon."
Today Mummy saw I was getting upset
Sat and told me why Daddy wasn't back yet.
Tried to say he was at a place in the sky.
Why didn't she just tell me my Daddy had to die?
"Mummy, when's Daddy coming home?"
"Soon."
PUBLISHED: December 1995.
PUBLISHERS: Anchor Books.
PUBLICATION: 'The Anchor Book of Family Favourites.'
In memory of the many lives lost following the attack on America, Tuesday September 11th 2001, when 3 hijacked planes hit the World Trade Towers and Pentagon, devastating the nation and world.
Words of the World
No words can do justice,
No words can fully heal.
But all our words can help
Give others strength of steel.
There’s no poetic justice,
No words can ever mend.
But all our words of support
Lend an invaluable friend.
No words can justify,
No words can undo.
But speeches can be made
Of words good and true.
Nothing spells justification,
No words the damage lessen.
But now’s the time for all
To use the power of expression.
To be a rock to those in need,
To be a shoulder which lean on.
To write or say to speak your heart
For those in need to feed on.
To comfort and express,
To understand, get off the chest.
Use words – man’s MOST powerful weapon
So that others may be blessed.
In memory of the lives lost at Dunblane Primary School on Wednesday March 13th 1996 when a suicide gunman entered to kill teachers and young children.
The following is a poem I'd rather not have been incensed to write.
In Tribute To Dunblane.
Death came
To Dunblane,
So inane but,
He didn't want to be.
For Death is dying,
Killed by those he takes.
Losing natural control
Over who should die,
It's Man who now dictates.
17 smiles, 17 lives
Stolen by Death possessed,
By one evil race,
One part of Mankind
Against the lessening rest.
A five-year-old child, his final sight
Is to look Man right in the eye.
A look of horror
In to Murder's face
Yet too young to comprehend why.
Who does understand why we are this way?
There's a lesson to be learnt from the school.
Dunblane - you blame
The society of Man
For not even Fate is this cruel.
14/3/96
The following poem was written after reading
"To Kill a Mocking-bird" by Harper Lee, a novel
about racial prejudice. My lecturer at the time gave the poem an A+, the first she had ever given in 20 years of teaching, so I guess the power and sentiment must have got to her!...It probably remains my own favourite of my poems today.
The Metamorphosis Girl.
Contrast.
In a sadistic, bigoted world
I am the girl on the wind of change.
Feeling overcast, dark and empty
I am the bed of a barren chasm
I am the disused cauldron
Of a forgotten witch.
Feeling cold, dull and silenced,
I am the hidden depths of the dusky night sky
I am the vision of a sightless child.
Feeling outrun, overshadowed and underrated
I am the blackboard at the end of the day
I am the funeral and not the wedding.
But feeling anger, animosity, rage
I am the old lady,ploughing on tenaciously through cold-hearted white snow.
I am the blackfly, winging home determindley through icy white fog.
I am the resilient, resistant, resolute girl,
On the relentless wind of change.
PUBLISHED: November 1995
PUBLISHERS: POETRY NOW
PUBLICATION: Poetry Now Yorkshire 1996 Anthology
Colourful Language
Mean words mean
Nothing,
no thing sticks in my mind.
I can take your stick,
I can take your sticks
and stones
and tones of voice
and sniggers and sneers.
This nigger doesn’t fear when you’re near.
I don’t mind,
You lack a mind,
I’m black, you’re blind.
You riddle
to rid
this little black kid.
Take my race for a ride
But you cannot
take my pride.
Mock my kin,
Mock my skin,
But your words,
Mean words,
Mean absolutely nothing.
The Real Bully
It’s not like you ever imagined it would be.
It’s worse.
To simply be called a name can’t be bad.
But it hurts.
And the punches aren’t like they seem in films.
They’re real.
No-one can ever imagine how bad
It makes you feel.
You feel like you’re worthless and pointless
And small.
And you feel like telling no-one
At all.
You hear the bell and enter the playground
With dread.
You feel unsafe and scared and wish
You were dead.
And the Bully seems so very big
And Great.
You almost wish his power you could
Imitate.
But you don’t, you remember that you
Are Good.
As you grow, you treat others
As you should.
So now you’re older, you’ve many friends
Abound.
And you sometimes see the bully
Still around.
You’re getting love and happiness
Like you’d shown.
But the bully always seems
To be alone.
Everyone has tired of those
Thuggish ways
And respect you all the more –
Happy Days!
Now the bully seems so very sad
And small.
And though your memories may never
Go at all
You know who is in the
Better state.
Now the bully is tiny, and YOU are
Big and Great.
Cry For The War-Poppy.
In the field adjacent
An army of blood-red poppies
Stand tall in formation,
In mimicry of the next field...
A silence
As hundreds of robots
Are upright and ready
Armed, orders etched in their minds,
But emotions blur their sight.
A stillness
Yet every mind is racing
In each skittle aligned
On the vast open alley,
Surrounded by on-looking nature.
A suspense
As every soldier shuffles
In preperation for act of infamy.
A poppy bows its head,
As the animals lock horns.
An eruption
And the sky cries, whilst
Savage indecency tears at
The trembling Earth's flesh,
Vibrating, as skittles topple.
A turbulence.
Frozen grass drowns
In a fresh scarlet dye,
And the fire of injustice
Scorches its way across.
A trepidation
For scurrying, dumbfounded insects
Fleeing in disgust,
With the cattle and birds,
Whilst imprudent clamour persists.
An age
It seems, before the
Pallid moon is looking upon
A silent sight once more.
Yet a visual pain cries loud.
An adversity
As the field adjacent
Suffered torment too.
And there lay a sad, flawed figure unnoticed,
Hidden by the life slumped upon it.
A death
That will go unrecorded
Yet is more significant by far.
For sprawled there lay but a single poppy;
Tall, blood-red, head bowed.
A silence.
Letter: War-Zone Enc. Love
Dear Child,
You're probably wondering why
I have enclosed a gift.
It's Christmas time you see.
I hope it gives you a lift.
Oh!- perhaps in your war-torn place
With no food and no reason,
You've never heard of Christmas.
Do you rejoice the season?
I know you're feeling hungry
And the war gives you a scare,
But just remember this Christmas
That the world does have some care.
I'll keep sending out the money,
More, if push comes to shove.
But for this Christmas time, my child,
I`m sending all my love.
World In Faction.
A crippled child tries to walk.
And falls.
A woman walks the streets alone,
Afraid, eyes like pinballs, darting everywhere
At every presence; beauty is the beast.
A mother is killed in conflict and war:
An orphan's salty tear mixes with her blood.
A starving girl is grateful
As she sips a polluted liquid...
Sticks and stones break a black man's bones
And words do also hurt him.
Man destroys His planet in trying to better it,
Those in the Greenhouse are throwing stones.
Earth's natural skin is blemished
By His 'guardians' so careless.
Weapons, greed and money- there's plenty.
Time.
There is not.
Published: June 1996
Publishers: Triumph House
Publication: 'The 1996 Christian Poetry Companion'
Society's Sole Assylum.
There's a strange old lady who lives near to me,
She wears a green straw hat.
Sits writing at night in her garden
And keeps a huge pet bat.
She dances in her window,
Waves a mop above her head.
They say she sings to her flowers
And never goes to bed.
No-one ever goes to her house
And no-one's been out in a while,
But whenever you pass and glance in,
She'll give you a toothless smile.
Some say she's a witch or totally mad,
Eats her lunch in a purple mac.
Say they've seen her whisper to butterflies -
But few can help but smile back.
She's lived alone now for 45 years,
The street thinks she may be insane.
Nobody actually talks to her,
But she'll wave at you and wave again.
Small children throw stones at her window,
Pull faces and then run away.
She stands and cries at her curtain,
But never a cross word to say.
People gossip about her history,
Tell stories about her past.
They wonder what sort of person she's like,
But nobody thinks to ask.
Neighbours say they know things about her:
Lead an evil life, some claim.
Everyone tells their little tales
But no-one even knows her name.
Her house sits in a small corner
Where the sun shine cannot reach.
Though still I see her house glowing,
A beautiful faint soft peach.
As I walk past her house every day
I sometimes wonder if I should go
And knock on the door to see her,
Though I've never actually done so.
Her house always looks prim and proper,
Her garden so tidy and neat,
And I often get the feeling she'd be
The wisest old lady to meet.
She lived on this road before all of us,
It's rumoured she was born in there.
Yet no soul has ever heard her voice
Or seen her about elsewhere.
They just tell of her strange and weird ways,
Few dare go near her place.
But those who have should've noticed
A warm welcoming old face.
As I walked by one late winter's day
I turned and cried out loud,
For clustered around her marble gates
Bunched a bustling crowd.
I rushed to her garden which for the first time
I noticed was overgrown,
When to the stunned silence of all,
Two men emerged from her home.
They carried by slowly a box with no lid,
And my sore, teary eyes could see...
There lay a wonderful, strange old lady -
Who used to live near to me.
I Believe.
I believe in a future free of violence,
I believe in a world without war.
I believe in a planet of peace,
With countries conflicting no more.
I see a tomorrow minus hatred,
I see a tomorrow without greed.
I see a future for our children,
Children no longer in need.
I believe in my Utopia-
But only in my mind,
In contrast to the real fate
For the future of Mankind.
Fate is not future
Unless we want it to be.
There’s still time to save our Earth,
A resurection, surely...
Published: May 1996
Publishers: Triumph House
Publication: 'Lighten the Darkness'
Island
It was dying, dingy dusk,
And I shook the sails of their dust
And the must mingled with the mist.
So I must flee, far, into this
Fizzing black night; to be free is nigh,
The air is so tight
and taught have I been
And the light have I seen,
though I never even sought.
Chlostrophobia found me, and
Persecution ground me
Down, and out, as I climb aboard this boat.
I leave the land for the waves
To escape these Marabar Caves,
Surging away for my own island...
Out here, the air is clear.
No one near, for me to fear.
No one close to confront me...
No one to judge me...
Except me...
Only me out here to trust,
Yet still, run, I must...
Though now I'm lost
and dying, in my own dingy dusk.
WordsWorthLess.
Crime.
Doesn't have to rhyme.
Fighting.
Hurts to be writing.
'It's war'.
Need not be a metaphor.
'Kill'.
Poison from the quill.
Needy nation.
Needless alliteration.
'Pain'.
Word so inhumane.
Mirror Poetry.
Reflecting life;
Despair:
Mirror needs repair.
All poetry on this page is © Jonathan Fitzgerald and is the sole property of its owner.
It may not be used or reproduced without the author's expressed, written and signed permission.
All images are either personally designed or thought to be freeware.
Email: jonathan@poeticjustice.co.uk
