Selections from
SCORCHED
BIRTH
a
poetry cycle
by John Curl
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book
CONTENTS
THE TRAGEDY AT THE
CORE
MUTED SHADES OF BROWN
THE CLOUDS UNDERSIDES
OUR LIVES ON A SUMMER
BREEZE
THE SUN ROSE ON A
FOGGY
SHEET METAL FLAPS IN THE
BREEZE
ALL OF OUR MEN ARE
GONE
VEIL OF MIST AROUND THE
SUN
A FEW OLD MEN HAVE FOUND SHELTER
IN THE BASEMENT
TOWERS SILHOUETTE AGAINST THE
SKY
FALLING FROM THE
CLOUDS
A ROW OF HILLS
IN EARLIER ATTACKS
VIEW FROM THE BARRED
WINDOW
THE RAVEN SPOKE ABOUT THE
WAR
THE TRAGEDY AT THE
CORE
Information on what's going
on
on the ground is
sketchy.
They only show us the bomber's
eye view.
Reverberations of shelling bounce
off
the mountain sides.
The nervous ladies
chatting
about fashionable
colors.
A pale thin moon circling the
ring.
Misty peaks sink into the
dark surface of the
bay.
Light rippling.
While the mountain passes are
littered
with decomposing corpses
lying
as they died.
No one approaches.
Except a bulldozer driver and
six
jumpy soldiers. He
dumps
dirt on top of the pile.
Yet
in the midst we try
to lead decent lives, create
a
just society, even love and try
to
purify our human soul.
Maybe
we have to just accept
the
contradictions.
Nearby,
a gray wolf with frightened
eyes
dashes across a moonlit
stream.
THE CLOUDS'
UNDERSIDES
were dark and ragged
while
their tops shined and
billowed
above the bare hills,
almost
devoid of vegetation
while
not far away, in the grass
by
a whispering stream at
the
very spot where
wilderness
holds back
civilization,
the ruins of an ancient
temple
wince from shrapnel
wounds.
The state of human consciousness
in
our darkest age.
Vehicles scatter in charred
twisted
heaps. Unsafe to go
outside.
They refuse to identify the
bodies.
A small girl with a redhaired rag
doll,
left for dead, at nightfall
crawls away.
Is this our purification by
fire?
OUR LIVES ON A SUMMER
BREEZE
we have nothing but our
hands.
Some fifty thousand
refugees
stream out, the report
states,
independently
confirmed.
Rocket-propelled grenades
punch
holes in all the barn
roofs,
looting rampages along main
street,
no food or medicine getting
through,
she picks up the baby,
cluster bomb explodes,
you prick yourself on a
thorn:
your lover is lying to
you
one drop of blood sits on your
fingertip.
a huge antlered stag silouettes
for an instant
against the night sky.
Rebuilding shattered
dreams.
THE RAVEN SPOKE ABOUT
THE WAR
under conditions of
anonymity
1
white-crested waves as far as the
eye can see
killed by
paramilitaries
writers and schoolteachers,
executed yesterday,
shed a golden light over the
fields
a red brick house covered in
ivy
blames the flight of wild
ducks
while an elderly walled
garden
blooming with lilacs and
hawthorn
exhausted, in a state of
shock,
sleeps in doorways and on
sidewalks
2
babbling brooks are caressed by
the spiral of violence
air raid sirens sound confessions
of love
smooth thighs praise grim
pictures
children stare out of windows,
solemn and gloomy,
egrets charbroiled beyond
recognition
food medical supplies glide over
pools of mother's milk
anti-aircraft missile kissed
beyond exhilaration
bodies of foxes crash into
forgiveness
3
first robin of spring balancing
funerals
lawyers pound earthworms for a
sixth day
extremist groups rejoice under
cottonwood trees
spreading sweet nothings like
propaganda on the dance floor
pearl necklaces surround thousand
of refugees
as terrorists hurl passionate
melodies on violins
engulfing the buildings in a
balmy afternoon
4
sparrows whisper about the
troubled province
hydrangea shake the city with
strong intimations
red peonies hit by surface-to-air
missiles
carousels executed on
Sunday
fantasies of crystal shot dead by
police
ethnic hatred snapped the
turtle's endurance
gas masks dumped into corn
flowers
reliable sources
reported
5
pounding the southern city with
strange haunting pictures
featherless birds launch new
attacks against targets
dozens of missiles strike the
tree shaped like a hand
as a parade of naked men seated
on animals of every kind
fire missiles at three-fifteen
a.m.
on the populated part of the
city
helicopters and snipers augment
the usual security forces
with laws of color, unutterably
beautiful
while a grove of olive trees,
dark against the glimmering sky
announces it is sending
additional troops
and jets pummel a broad
swath
across the disturbing tranquility
of a woman
Copyright © 1999, 2001 by John
Curl.
All Rights Reserved.