Poetry Challenge #7 03/06/2012

photo credit google

“War Child”

Who will save the war child baby?
Who controls the key?
The web we weave is thick and sordid,
Fine by me.

At times of war we’re all the losers,
There’s no victory.
We shoot to kill and kill your lover,
Fine by me.

War child, victim of political pride.
Plant the seed, territorial greed.
Mind the war child,
We should mind the war child.

I spent last winter in New York,
And came upon a man.
He was sleeping on the streets and homeless,
He said, “I fought in Vietnam.”

Beneath his shirt he wore the mark,
He bore the mark with pride.
A two inch deep incision carved,
Into his side.

War child, victim of political pride.
Plant the seed, territorial greed.
Mind the war child,
We should mind the war child.

Who’s the loser now? Who’s the loser now?
We’re all the losers now. We’re all the losers now.

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The words were written by  Dolores O’Riordan  when asked about the song she said : “I love children and I received a letter from Brian Eno who asked me to design something for a War Child fashion show that didn’t happen, but I was moved by Bosnia and that morning in my hotel room I wrote the song in about 10 minutes – children suffer most of all whether it’s Bosnia or the Bogside. It’s sick. They’re so vulnerable.” (in article written by Jayne Margetts, 1996

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Dolores Mary Eileen O’Riordan (/ˈrɪərdən/) (born 6 September 1971) is an Irish singer, guitarist and songwriter. She led the rock band The Cranberries to worldwide success and fame for 13 years before the band took a hiatus in 2003, but have since reunited in 2012.[1] Her first solo album Are You Listening? was released in May 2007 and was followed up by No Baggage in 2009. O’Riordan is notable for her unmistakable lilting voice and strong Irish accent.[2]

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Children have always been the silent casualties of war. They become the annihilation of the future. In every war from the beinning of time from the first cave man to throw a stone in anger through all wars up to ww1,ww2 and every war since. Whether they be child soldiers, refugees, orphans. Scarred mentally or physically or both we should weep, we should hang our heads in shame for what we do to the war child.

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Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

photo credits http://cache2.allpostersimages.com/p/LRG/15/1555/GFHDD00Z/posters/rowan-carol-vibrant-poppies.jpg

Gentle she was.

Polesden  Lacey

Gentle she was, a young woman of means, beautiful in her Marcel Wave she was. A hair dresser with her own shop a teaser of hair and tresses. Then the quiet Irish man took her eye and her heart.

Not impressed were her parents with the young Irish trade unionist from the motor trade. Time eventually brought them round to accept the vows the young couple had made.

Grief she bore when her fist born died at six months brave she was to have more. Three girls then two boys , and two more angels lost in-between. Then after all was finished me, making six. Hard she worked to bring us up and support her quiet man who was there for her too.

Kind she was, good and open hearted she was. The door always open to family and waifs and strays big hearted she was to all who past through our door. Always there she was, with words of wisdom and comfort. Her beautiful heart shone through her eyes.

Patient she was  but there was temper there if needed, she was not strong or mean but if needed her children and her man she would defend to the death!

Beautiful she was in features and in heart there was not task she would not finish if she had made a start. Cried for her daughters she did as her man gave them away and when her sons went too she had a proud day.

Together alone again by themselves again. Happy she was full of the business of her quiet man. Yet she was always ready to talk and help and ease our pain. Cleaver she was but not school or college wise she was wise in life and love and truth and need.

Lonely she was when her man was taken , wept she did as she wanted to join him. Lost she was without the quiet man . Heart broken she became though she threw herself in to caring for grandchildren.

Gone she was before her body, her mind and soul went to him. Lost to us she was a smile here and there maybe a flash of recognition.Unknowing of all around her she was,sad eyed frighted lamb lonely lonely.

Tiny she was when she went sadly lost to us long before . Gone into her mind to find her quiet man. Tears we shed for her,we wept in grief and I in anger because so long had she been gone and I had wanted to talk to her,  but gone she really was.

Anemones her favourite flowers were they always remind me of her. I forgave her for leaving me and now accept she had to go as by the side of her quiet man was where she had to be.Never to be forgotten.

Anemones her favourite flowers

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