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War on Iraq (Free verse) by Dhanesh M Kumar WAR ON IRAQ
Envisage ;
that you are there
where thousand of perilous
burns, ravaging the entire
reign,
That your son, daughter
and plenty of kin craving
for life, to refrain from
that fatal burns.
That they are right as a
trivet, not doing anything
wrong, alas happened to
be the dweller of that
land.
That you may sustain
that burns to live alone
your remaining days.
Believe me;
That my eyes are flooded
now thinking of you and
your kinâs fate.
That there can be such
thousand you, along
with a hundred I.
that the others are not
concerned of you as
they are on the safer
Land.
That there will be such
numerous wars if
the doctrine of
pre- emption gets
fuelled with.
Up the ladder:
Are life after death
Down the ladder:
Fragmental
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 3.3333333
Posted: March 7, 2006 6:56 AM PST; Last modified: March 7, 2006 6:56 AM PSTWeighted score: 4.8013287 Overall Rank: 11108 Comments:
Inta 3raqi? 3rab?
I expect to see that feature on a car numberplate in the near future.
Not a 10, but not a zero, so for the sake of balance:
Needs a stronger focus or pivot; less rant, more center/substance/something to grip, entice us in. The emotion's there, but it's more diatribe than poem right now. 158 view(s)
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--Perilous what? Wheres the fucking noun man?
"to refrain from that fatal burns."
--Trying to sound fancy & sophisticated? 'That' is singular, 'burns' being plural... wouldn't it have been more intelligent to say 'those'? Oh, yes, don't forget that the missing noun in the beginning confuses it all, unless you intended it as a noun there too- which still makes little sense.
"That they are right as a trivet"
--What the fuck? Did you disconnect your brain from your fingers when typing up this shit?
"alas happened to be the dweller of that land."
--Now this is plain cheesy and fucking gay.
I won't bother continuing, other than to add that using 'Envisage' was idiotic, thesaurophilic, & silly.
Your views on Iraq are cliched, and frankly I don't give a shit. Zero.
I was kind of considering writing a poem in this manner, asking the reader to envisage that they are the mother of a soldier who was shot dead by someone he'd travelled thousands of miles genuinely hoing to help. But quite honestly, I can't even envisage it myself. Oh well.
Kumar here spewed an vision of confusion, and conveyed a sense of wild verbal 'n grammarical masturbation. Red Biro can't save him, neither can Jesus. He must be Lazurus, let himself die and be ressurected... All through his own pensaber, and what little force he does posses.