Luminous Decay
justinehrlich

Justin Ehrlich was born in Essex in 1985 and has a degree in Philosophy. He writes poetry and short fiction dealing with themes of death, insanity and the supernatural.

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2012 (29)
2011 (88)

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19 Jun 2011
June 19th, 5:31am 0 comments

Stephen Crane 1871 - 1900

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.


Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, 
Little souls who thirst for fight, 
These men were born to drill and die. 
The unexplained glory flies above them, 
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -- 
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

 

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.


Swift blazing flag of the regiment, 
Eagle with crest of red and gold, 
These men were born to drill and die. 
Point for them the virtue of slaughter, 
Make plain to them the excellence of killing 
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

 

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Painting1_3
Francisco Goya 1746 - 1828 - The Same2

Filed under Art Francisco Goya Poetry Stephen Crane The Same 2

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25 May 2011
May 25th, 3:44am 0 comments

Stephen Crane 1871 - 1900

On the desert 
A silence from the moon's deepest valley. 
Fire rays fall athwart the robes 
Of hooded men, squat and dumb. 
Before them, a woman 
Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles 
And distant thunder of drums, 
While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour, 
Sleepily fondle her body 
Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand. 
The snakes whisper softly; 
The whispering, whispering snakes, 
Dreaming and swaying and staring, But always whispering, softly whispering. 
The wind streams from the lone reaches 
Of Arabia, solemn with night, 
And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood 
Over the robes of the hooded men 
Squat and dumb. Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow, 
Circle the throat and the arms of her, 
And over the sands serpents move warily 
Slow, menacing and submissive, 
Swinging to the whistles and drums, 
The whispering, whispering snakes, 
Dreaming and swaying and staring, But always whispering, softly whispering. 
The dignity of the accursed; 
The glory of slavery, despair, death, 
Is in the dance of the whispering snakes. 

Sin_v2

Franz Stuck 1863 - 1928

 

Filed under Franz von Stuck Free verse Poetry Sin Stephen Crane

Posted