Awake!
So... after having not posted for a month, I thought I'd throw up a no-rythm poem I did off the cuff today. I thought up the beginning while trying to get myself out of bed this morning to go with Rob to fighter practice, and finished it AFTER fighter practice, being then more inspired than I have been in months. Its rough, its raw, its inconclusive, and I'm probably going to change quit a bit, but here is the inception, given in the hopes we can all start offering at least a shard of creativity to one another, to keep the inspiration flowing.
My brothers call to me,
Sighing in my blankets.
My spirit smoulders within.
Awake. Awake, and arm thyself.
Brigands hound our borders.
Ravage our people.
My brothers call to me.
My fire is cold.
Endless nights of weary travel,
And fruitless labor,
While the words of cynics
Fester in my head.
I choke on sharp grey doubt.
Awake! Awake, my brothers call.
I rise.
My blankets fall from me.
My eyes on weapons gleam.
A fire lights within.
Awake! Awake!
Your brothers call!
Fight beside us!
Life is short,
And battle brutal!
No time to wallow, warm
In lonely bed.
Would you die there shamed?
Or in manful glory?
Awake! Awake Now!
Fire fills my heart
Burns in my eyes,
Fills my aching arms
Sears my lungs
Erupts from my throat
Explodes from my hands
In strokes of fury.
Teeth spread, bloody grin.
Armor is my skin.
Blood burning pumps within
Steel in fury spins.
I laugh at wounds,
Murder all who dare
To draw my precious blood.
ALIVE! ALIVE!
It fills me now.
Raging as never before.
Why in the midst of death
Does life so sweetly sing?
Not even the beauty of woman,
Naught but slaughter and battle
Charges me with such lusty life.
Why are my fires fueled by blood?
Human sacrifice fills my soul once more.
Overflowing now, the words come again, but why?
What have I to offer now, but songs of death?
What use to sing of these things?
We all know them.
We all hate them.
But also love.
Awake.
My brothers call to me,
Sighing in my blankets.
My spirit smoulders within.
Awake. Awake, and arm thyself.
Brigands hound our borders.
Ravage our people.
My brothers call to me.
My fire is cold.
Endless nights of weary travel,
And fruitless labor,
While the words of cynics
Fester in my head.
I choke on sharp grey doubt.
Awake! Awake, my brothers call.
I rise.
My blankets fall from me.
My eyes on weapons gleam.
A fire lights within.
Awake! Awake!
Your brothers call!
Fight beside us!
Life is short,
And battle brutal!
No time to wallow, warm
In lonely bed.
Would you die there shamed?
Or in manful glory?
Awake! Awake Now!
Fire fills my heart
Burns in my eyes,
Fills my aching arms
Sears my lungs
Erupts from my throat
Explodes from my hands
In strokes of fury.
Teeth spread, bloody grin.
Armor is my skin.
Blood burning pumps within
Steel in fury spins.
I laugh at wounds,
Murder all who dare
To draw my precious blood.
ALIVE! ALIVE!
It fills me now.
Raging as never before.
Why in the midst of death
Does life so sweetly sing?
Not even the beauty of woman,
Naught but slaughter and battle
Charges me with such lusty life.
Why are my fires fueled by blood?
Human sacrifice fills my soul once more.
Overflowing now, the words come again, but why?
What have I to offer now, but songs of death?
What use to sing of these things?
We all know them.
We all hate them.
But also love.
Awake.
Submitted by MythWind at 9:04 PM
6 Comments:
Very stirring. But if you were so inspired, how come you didn't actually show up to fight???
This poem is uber-passionate. I got a little scared around the human sacrifice filling your soul part...KALIMAAA!!! (teehee) I get overwhelmed sometimes by the sheer force of raw emotion in your writing. Perhaps it is just not my cup of tea. But i am glad you were so inspired to write!
I...I did. Kicked a lotta ass and got the bruises to proove.
I like that this seems to come more from some visceral part of your soul and didn't spend too much time window-shopping in the over-analysis portion of your mind. That being said, much of the prose is still very period-specific, and I especially like it when you get a little more neutral about your choice of vernacular. You know, all the thees and thous, as it were. Really powerful stuff, and I especially enjoy the cadence and Bukowskian experimentation with capitalization. Groovy.
And who is that first "anonymous" anyway? I'm tempted to just delete it. Vagabonds.
Somehow, i suspect you're the only one that can delete it.
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