The Poetry of World War IV - 3

The Poetry of World War IV - 3
Christopher Bogart

“There was light…”

1.
A Child plays upon the sand;
Pushing the sand in mounds,
And mounding the sand toward
The sea.
His long, slender foot pushes the sand,
With the sole and curved digits.
Glass and sand,
Stroked by the sea,
Diminishes in size.
The Child bows low his head
To see the shadows on the sand
Of travelers from the ships of sea.
He hears the beat of feet,
Thundering on the sand.
His eyes catch the gleam
Of bleak indifference.
His tender gaze turns toward the Fisher King,
Throwing his silver net out to the sea.
The sea rolls in, and then recedes.
The Child looks at the peopled shore and laughs.
Then he cries.

2.
The tears dry upon his face.
Their salt seeded the sea.
His eyes view fantastic shapes.
Colors pinwheeling ‘round and ‘round.
The spectrum explodes over the sky.
Blues, greens, oranges, reds,
Yellows and violets drip over the sphere
Of his mind.
Spurts of color shoot out,
Like rays of some fantastic sun,
Merging hues,
New colors to describe.
Shapes appear,
First simple,
Then complex, sided and rounded
In coils and curves
Springing from columns and domes,
Spiraling upward, then shattering
Into new shapes at odds.
Then explosion, and now
Darkness overcomes all.
Shining stars appear in scenes
Enacted upon the mind of one child.

The Poetry of World War IV - 2

The Poetry of World War IV - 2
Christopher Bogart

2.
The Fisher King rests quietly on the rocks,
Arm outstretched with smile serene.
He casts his golden line
Upon the cold, blue waters.
He casts his silver net
To dredge seaweed and sand,
Metallic glimmering crystal clear,
Passing up the sands of time,
Slithering through the mud of doom.
His eyes can clearly see
Through cataracts of choice,
The dusting of clouds,
The atmospheric air,
The mists of brighter days,
The colors of a rainbowed sky.
And softly does the music lilt,
Drifting through the air,
Twisting and turning,
Coiling onward
From within and without,
Notes both sonorous and low,
Set in a minor key:
A lilting screech.
He does not hear.

3.
The water is silent and still.
The waves reached out to grasp the shore,
Falling out,
Receding back again.
The air is in abeyance of its pow’r.
It sprays a scent of salt,
The mark of its timelessness,
And its existence, in the air.
Two eyes peer out over the roll,
Their vision clear and salty,
Traveling on the cool night air.
Two eyes peer out to see a face,
Illuminate the mind with visions
Of the sun and one love shadow,
Shade of an ever-present memory.
Watch its long and slender form,
As it dances
Betwixt the sun and sand.
Watch the vision as it gives and takes.
It rises from the sea
And then recedes.
Watch, wonder, and be still.

The Poetry of World War IV

A number of years ago, when the Cold War was a reality, I started to write an extended piece on the assumption that World War III would be a nuclear conflict, and that it would "wipe the board" of life and war as we now know it. Pretentious, I know, that I would be able to figure that. But what intrigued me was the nature of the "new" type of conflict. If nuclear weapons would be the a war "without," then a new war might be a war "within."

As I said, The Poetry of World War IV is an extended piece, and a metaphoric one. I wanted explore our battles within ourselves, and how we would have to resolve them. In looking over this piece again, I believe that some of the assumptions I made are still valid. Whether this is good poetry, I will leave up to the reader, myself included. For this is also an exercise for me on revision. As always, please feel free to comment, as the feedback will help me as a writer.

The Poetry of World War IV
Christopher Bogart

“If the radiance of a thousand suns
Were to burst at once into the sky,
That would be like the splendor of the Mighty One.
I am become Death,
The Shatterer of Worlds.”

(from sacred Hindu writings)


“In the beginning …”

1.
In from the sea they came
Travelers of indifference
With an apathetic mind,
Blending confusion and chaos,
Unordering order
And sounding out the waves.
They row with blades of steel,
Shining in the sun,
Sparks flashing,
Then sizzling,
As they dip into the calm, cold sea.
Their strokes are long and hard,
Pushing them onward toward land,
Governed by the silent sound,
One stroke for another,
In cadence undefined,
Moving onto the straight edge of the sword.
They are coming for the land,
Unknown travelers on an unknown cause,
In the style of their mission
Blending confusion with chaos,
Mixing symmetry with sound,
Holding paradox in time.
They have come to claim their due.

The Audacity of Hope

The Audacity of Hope
Christopher Bogart

For the young sailor whose chin rests on the rough wood rail
Below the full sails of the Mayflower, the setting sun at his back,
Looking toward the future for the dawn of a new day, a new world.

For the patriot whose faith trumps fear, clutching his rifle near,
As he gazes across the morning mists of Lexington and Concord,
And dares to believe that he will one day call himself American.

For the black slave who sits on the splintered steps of a wooden shack,
Smoke rising from hearth fires and the remains of the meager meal,
And clasps his calloused hands together, daring to pray for his deliverance.

For the immigrant whose hands clasp the cold metal rail of the transport ship,
His family gathered around him, their eyes staring at the Lady of the Harbor
As she holds her torch aloft, promising them entrance into the golden door.

For the soldier on the fields of Europe, of Africa, of the Middle East and the Far East,
Who gazes out over the fields of conflict, and holds within his heart, the well-won
Ideal that his actions this day will keep the aggressor at bay, and guarantee our freedom.

For the welder, the bricklayer, the fireman, the teacher, the politician and the poet,
Who work, day by day, to fulfill the Declaration made so long ago, for all who hoped
That our new land would be a beacon of hope for all who chose to dream their dream,
For black as well as white,
For yellow, red and brown,
For the old and the young,
That this world will be better than the last,
That this cause will be worth the sacrifice,
That this life will be lived in liberty,
And that the pursuit of happiness be guaranteed
For all who have
The audacity to hope.

Sonnet 18

Sonnet 18
Christopher Bogart

When lighted street lamps gild the green leaves gold
And Autumn’s earliest whisper leaves its lair
To unlock the mind for images that it holds,
Releasing them to haunt the still night air –
One faint figure, hidden half in shadows’ stealth,
Leaks into lamplight, warm with welcoming glow,
To test the memory’s long forgotten wealth
And tease the eyes with things they long to know.
What of this young man filled with frivolous dreams
Emerging from the light in arrogant stride,
Hands holding firm his textbooks by the seams,
The rudders he will use against the tide?
Will he be true to promises made before,
Or will his dreams be lost on distant shores?

The Arts Babblative and Scribblative

The Arts Babblative and Scribblative
Christopher Bogart

“The arts babblative and scribblative.”
Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society, No. 1, pt. 2
Robert Southey (1829)

Have I been a professor of old Bob Southey’s arts
Of the babblative and scribblative?
Or was my clime more the nursery rhyme of
Wynken, Blynken and Nod?

Like the fourth, not-so famous, Dutch sailor,
I, too, set sail early one childhood night
from a river of bright crystal light,
with high hopes of reaching the famed sea of dew.

My own journey began,
not in old wooden shoes,
or even in a pea green boat,
but in the deep blue waters of words.

I launched life afloat
on a sea of these words,
words I babbled, words I scribbled,
but always words used,
to instruct, to convince
my all listeners
of knowledge,
of thought,
and of what I believed.

However, I taught,
not with Bob Southey’s reason,
but in the passionate fantasy
of nursery rhyme,
while my students, often times,
to my sailor’s dismay,
seemed only able
to manage
a wink,
a blink,
and a nod.

stream

stream
christopher bogart

waters wind
down
gurgling sound
bound over rocks
lap against banks
transport
yellow leaves
slender twigs
pedal boats
float
each moment
held
our life
like flow
suspended
in time
spent watching
its mellifluous slow.