The Poetry of World War IV - 10

The Poetry of World War IV - 10
Christopher Bogart

3.
Behold, a black horse.
His rider advances him forth,
And halts.
On his breast,
A mirror catches light
Reflecting back
For those who dare to see:
The mirrored images,
Fixed by distortion of time,
Pass on and on
In an endless history –
Backwards.
The mirror frosts
With the chill of numbing pity:
Gone – an adolescence,
Tanned and strong,
Gone to intellect
And tame pursuits.
The Boy looks back
With yearning and remorse
As time,
Through crumbling passages,
Still shoots.

The Poetry of World War IV - 9

The Poetry of World War IV - 9
Christopher Bogart

2.
Behold, a red horse.
His rider advances him forth,
And halts.
In a cavity
From which emits
The sounds of martial music,
And the stench of decay,
There march:
Legions upon legions
Of beings at war
With themselves, and with humanity.
Sharpened steel, clubs, pickaxes,
Cannon burst and mushroom cloud,
A hail of fire and frantic confusion,
Twisted minds and contorted bodies,
Writhe in brown fields of slow agony.
A crimson red reign
Rains down from the colorless cavity
And splatters the rider’s horse.
The cries of men, the sobbing of women,
The screaming of mangled and singed infants –
And the harsh, shrill sound of alarm
Encircle the glassy-eyed mask.

The Poetry of World War IV - 8

The Poetry of World War IV - 8
Christopher Bogart

“One flame to curse the darkness…”

1.
Behold, a white horse.
His rider advances him forth,
And halts.
Peering below the heavy metallic visor,
The Boy beholds the faceless visage of power.
Through the rider’s eyes, he sees:
Men who, chosen to command,
Twist the tender fate of Man –
Telling what was never true
To cover inconsistencies.
He views men who command by force,
Who spike the bridle of the horse;
Whose boot, equipped with golden spur,
Cuts deep into the tender flank –
Unwitting mortality.
Then, before his tender eyes,
A vision rift with human cries:
People walking in straight lines,
Over hills, through deeper valleys…
A winding caravan of winding figures,
Following the one before him,
Eyes fixed still on slender rods,
Tied in bundles, raising up high –
Senselessly, in seemed eternities.

The Poetry of World War IV - 7

The Poetry of World War IV - 7
Christopher Bogart

“It began with the light of one flame …”

1.
Rising – he begins to walk,
Ascending from his hill retreat
Up and onward
To the plain above.
There – where tall, green waving grass
Simulates the ocean’s flow;
There, the Boy – a savior stands,
Legs and arms wait for command,
Eyes soft stare intent across the plain.
Ready he to face the foe,
Ready for the foe below –
He watches
As the high grass licks his legs.
There before him, on the plain,
Stands the horsemen, hand and mane,
Spectre-like, and yet in form,
Earthbound.
The Boy quivers in their gaze.
He, who chosen to defy,
Stands firm on soil of his birth;
Yet, no roots.
He sees into the future of his fate.
He yearns, he hopes, he holds to purify.

The Poetry of World War IV - 6

The Poetry of World War IV - 6
Christopher Bogart

3.
Quietly he sits
On the side of the hill
Like a wolf upon the steppes.
He watches the world
As it ‘rounds and ‘rounds,
A circular life
From shore to plain,
From city to town,
Watching the horse on the carousel
Prancing down to the water’s edge,
And splashing, lemming-like
Into the sea.
A horrible thing for a child to see-
A hopeless dizzying carousel,
A whirlwind of humanist animal life
Swirling down an eternity.
He looks transfixed
Upon the scene
Self same upon the hill,
Self same within himself.
Confused from without
And within.

4.
One thought.
One thought begins to grow,
Projected on his tender mind.
One thought begins to build and grow
Like balanced, columned, pure white temples,
Like gothic spires vaulting high,
Like great cathedrals, domed and strong.
Like towering palaces, gilded gold-
One thought.
Soon followed by another.
This one built both great and grand.
This one built of awesome power.
This one built of frightening might.
This one moved all life to see.
This too carved in majesty –
Then nothing.
Nothing but the strength of stone,
Nothing but the height of clouds,
Nothing but the light of millions –
Stars upon his tender mind,
Gleaming brightly, turning ‘round.
He lifts his soft and feeling hand,
And stretches his palm to face the sky.

The Poetry of World War IV - 5

The Poetry of World War IV - 5
Christopher Bogart

“The Light invaded the darkened plain.”

1.
See the silence of the Child.
See the silent solitude
Of the thoughts
On the mind
Of the Child.
Armies of strangers,
Travelers from afar
Cannot move
What will move
The thoughts of the Child.
One thousand hands,
Five hundred hearts
Cannot move
What will move
The Child to smile.
Be aware
Of the air
Of a thousand hands.
Keep your eyes
To the eyes
As the scene is told
On the mind
Of the Child.

2.
Shadows are dancing – shading the green,
Hands reaching out
Around the Child
Forming a ring with hands.
They dance a fast but meaningless dance,
Around and around
With a meaningless chant
To a mad cacophony.
“Actions speak louder than words.”
Thought the Child,
“Actions speak louder than words.”
He stretched out his hand
Toward the shadowy face,
The face of the Fisher King.
The flash of a silver web-
It was gone.
Alone – he fell on blades of grass,
His eyes toward the sky.
Bright stars reveal a night
Like any night in his life,
Or any day.
No dew today will coat the blades of grass.
Now dew tonight will rain upon the stars.

The Poetry of World War IV - 4

The Poetry of World War IV - 4
Christopher Bogart

“And, as the waters receded…”1

On the plains above the shore,
Green grass grows,
Flowering forth in waves,
In chase of a fleeting sun.
The gleam of swords and plowshares
Sticking firmly in the porous soil
Are the metal remains,
Obsolete weapons of now warriors
Preparing for the war.
Only the air contains the clash.
The sundial of the dawn and dusk
Become irrelevants.
The barricades of war are not defined.
They lie within the softness of humanity,
Their movement’s silent,
But not serene.
The Child
Listens to their silent sounds.
His eyes – they salt the sea
As they watch the play:
The drama of unnumbered acts.
The message lies a million miles away –
By light, by sound, and by night.