Daily Archives: November 8, 2015

The Fosse by Andrew Scotson

I am not a silent poet

Cold fingers undo the laces
one last time, thick mud
pulled away, stud marked
to the changing room floor.

Blue shirt leaves his thin torso
he turns, laughs, tries to forget.
The papers come, last game,
tomorrow to leave Leicester.

For France, for Belgium,
fighting someone he didn’t know
he didn’t like, for someone
he doesn’t know or care about.

Through bullet and blast wind
the boy runs for his life,
over dirt mixed with blood,
past wire and crater deep.

Till one random shot
ends the match
and twenty one years
becomes his full time.

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Commemoration Hour by Adam Horovitz

I am not a silent poet

A moth-cupped flame sputters

out of silence in my kitchen, draws insects

whining through the window’s crack.


They sing like distant bi-planes,

dogfight-dancing at the edge of sight.


I watch red wax spill

over the candle’s battered lip

and think of family, long dead,


the quiet men on unquiet fronts

who let the rituals of their religion


slide away, buoyed up

on propaganda, desperation, hunger,

as they wrote loving letters in the dark


succoured only by a single flame,

by the guttering distances of home.


Oh, how they dreamed of family,

gave thanks to G-d for the minuscule mercies

of the weekly post (when it got through)


but even the gentlest man will break inside

when bombs and snipers dictate their diet,


when all the animals of hell

come crawling out from under mud

on sinews of metal clasping at the bone.

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