i aspire to inspire
you, little girl
to pour out your heart
and break the walls you've build

i write to ignite
that fire in you, little girl
to stand on your two feet
and dare to dream

i aspire to inspire
for you too, little boy
to see that you can be different
and to see that you are one of a kind

i write to ignite
that fire in you too, little boy
to reach out to that light
and not let the darkness get into you

i have hope for you, little ones
to be the strong soldiers
in this world we live in.

They tell me "Don't be bitter,"
"Cuz son we were the victors!"
But still my anger simmers,
I just can't find the cause.

Can't ever close my eyelids,
All I'll see is violence,
and many good men dying,
When will these nightmares stop?

Back home, there's no hope there,
The people do not care,
they all just stop and stare,
My soul's forever gone.

Some say
That with victory – a continuity is required.
To win, you must, win, and win again
You claim each battle as your own ‘til life
meets its end.

I bask in these triumphs as much as the next
Relish the sick clang as the hilt gripped between my fingers
Wobbles with each and every blow
To an enemy’s weakened defence

As I watch rival fortresses vanish
In the smouldering chimney puff
That follows the blaze of the bomb

                        just like that.
Boom. Do you see that? Look. It’s gone.

Last moments in castle courtyards
As medals of valour are draped
Round the veins of my neck.
(Look what I can do. I am powerful.
                                                       ­  Or so I thought.)

No soldier is prepared for this.
The battle of the mind
Sharpened sword is useless
Throw your armour to the floor
No protection can be given
Clouds swell like balloons and blacken the corners
Of your brain
Eating from the edge like parasites
And this, I fight unarmoured.
Unarmed
And petrified.

So no.
I can’t say I agree.
To me
A victory
Does not entail an ounce of continuity.

For myself, any achievement
Is a success
No matter how large
How small
How scattered or random
Or spaced over time
If I can make it through the day
With a smile on my face
Sweet Victory, it’s mine.

The flags fly at half staff
On this downcast day,
I can hear the twenty one gun salute
Though not so far away.
I can see the tears upon their face,
As they walk with your soul in hand.
I can see the marching soldiers feet,
As they place you in the sand.
There were no sounds of laughter,
There were no signs of joy.
He thought he was a real man,
But he was just a boy.
He could not fight the battle,
That was placed before his eyes.
He could not pull the trigger,
When he heard the soldier sigh,
All his dreams were shattered,
When his world came to an end.
All his loved ones gathered,
His family and his friends.
By Suzanne Kelch

Dusty books lay side-by-side
like aged soldiers, still ready to march.
Except the war of the shelves is not physical but mental,
and the battleground resides in ourselves.

Studying students retreat with sighs of surrender.
Tests are no longer a measure of knowledge,
but a measure of life lost to professors’ orders,
glued to rows of chairs with rigid backs.

In the past, this was a place of wonder
where children dragged their mothers by the hand,
longing to discover adventure and mystery
when imaginations spat out images of pirates and princesses.

Now, the aisles of books bring despair,
just more work in a world without play,
where we treat text like landmines of ink
rather than the golden treasure that words used to be.

But the soldiers on shelves still march on,
still full of adventure and mystery,
waiting for ally hands to grasp their spines,
caress their pages and drink in their words.

Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”

Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.

Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”

Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.

Poulton Library and
Adele & I are here to
share with whoever
arrives some thoughts
concerning War and
Literature.  Linda sets
us up with chairs and
table, and first here is
delightful surprise: Pat
who I taught thirty years
ago - there will be no
need for me to dig a
trench and put on a
jacket bullet-proof
with tin hat on my
head - Philip Larkin
Alun Lewis, Sassoon
and Wilfred Owen
give staunch support
to Jon Stallworthy's
World War One tome
Anthem for Doomed
Youth: Twelve Poets
but doomed not us
this century later.


(c) C J Heyworth June 2014

The letters are aligned for you; stay
Drumming force of an army, and thousands of soldiers yet to come
Sleep, come my way

I dread the night and the brainwork that trails
Dark heartfelt burn by each passing day
Destined to lonely confinement
Contained
Cared for and then disdained

“Beware! despairing hope, the birth of a thought!”
Full moon, pale old rock, no cause for delight
a shimmering light that of silver, soldiers at the gates!
I descended, opened the gates
now stay

O the heart, heart knows no retreat
Misplaced, has it not been the case?
Prisoned in a dying body; a cave
Sentenced to expectancies; decay

Undead
occupied at last, toasting red wine
“Never been more alive” a lie
Cure the heart with reason
revolt! shake off this helplessness
all I see is the science behind beauty and her forgetful nature
I remembered the nameless shadows they were once close at bay; treason

And he, the lingering shadow of doubt, romanticized pain. an addiction, lack of shame

While she, cloud-footed and unaware, left to become a nameless ghost