12-17-2014, 12:51 AM
A call, a cry, a father’s name; a million heads turn round.
No John, or David, Pete or Mat will bring Mohammed down.
Though saints infest the west the east protects its sneaking thief;
steals thinking sons from thoughtful life,
named in good faith to limit strife... [I enjoyed these first few lines, but you definitely approached it in a more abstract way, that is a stylistic choice but I found myself asking for more details]
all synonyms for grief. [LOVE this final line, nice way to pointedly wrap up the whole concept]
A century, millennium; time all but bombed by history.
The curse of being son of man eats hearts and souls; a mystery
made secret by your place of birth, unsure of what life means,
the young treat death as blessed demise
to trade for early paradise;
and everlasting dreams. [this section creates nice contrast with the first section, the imagery is very nice here, and I feel like your concept is starting to take shape a little more clearly. Not a lot I would do with this]
Love when you can for gods are strange, and do not love you back.
Why else do mortals fight their fights, in holy lands, in black Iraq,
in sunlit places, made for peace? They kill us with commands
to maim, to glorify a Lord.
Oh how we play on things absurd
right into hell’s hands. [again, these are stylistic choices but I feel like this is the one place in the poem where your concept becomes more pointed, but I feel like your imagery and word choice started suffering more here. I'm still finding myself asking for more depth to the subjects in this area, but a great way to tie it up conceptually]
No John, or David, Pete or Mat will bring Mohammed down.
Though saints infest the west the east protects its sneaking thief;
steals thinking sons from thoughtful life,
named in good faith to limit strife... [I enjoyed these first few lines, but you definitely approached it in a more abstract way, that is a stylistic choice but I found myself asking for more details]
all synonyms for grief. [LOVE this final line, nice way to pointedly wrap up the whole concept]
A century, millennium; time all but bombed by history.
The curse of being son of man eats hearts and souls; a mystery
made secret by your place of birth, unsure of what life means,
the young treat death as blessed demise
to trade for early paradise;
and everlasting dreams. [this section creates nice contrast with the first section, the imagery is very nice here, and I feel like your concept is starting to take shape a little more clearly. Not a lot I would do with this]
Love when you can for gods are strange, and do not love you back.
Why else do mortals fight their fights, in holy lands, in black Iraq,
in sunlit places, made for peace? They kill us with commands
to maim, to glorify a Lord.
Oh how we play on things absurd
right into hell’s hands. [again, these are stylistic choices but I feel like this is the one place in the poem where your concept becomes more pointed, but I feel like your imagery and word choice started suffering more here. I'm still finding myself asking for more depth to the subjects in this area, but a great way to tie it up conceptually]