Post by jeannerené on Jun 23, 2014 13:33:24 GMT -8
I am submitting five poems to Consequence Magazine ... for publication in their next issue.
Consequence Magazine, an international literary magazine focusing on the culture of war
Of course, my perspective is as a mother of a soldier who has seen and lived through battle. Submitting my poems to Consequence Magazine is important to me, simply wanting to be a voice from a point of view of the consequences of war that needs to be heard as well. I am not entering the Consequence poetry contest which is for a small amount of cash ... don't care about that ... I simply would like to have my poems ... one of my poems ... selected for the next issue.
I am entering 3 poems that I have posted here at PH before ... one that was not posted here, but needs to be reworked ... and one completely new poem which I am going to post here for a read. The new poem is more of a stream of conscious poem unlike the others.
The poem I am posting here is incomplete ...
I know that critiquing a very personal poem is difficult, but I always appreciate any thoughts, opinions that come my way. Specifically, I am unsure about the "bolding" I am using in the new poem.
Links to other poems I am submitting if you care to take a peek:
Damned Basket
Moment Unforgivable
soldier gripping the wheel of a '72 mustang
Maybe this one ... don't know ..
until ... somewhere in country
With none of these poems am I making any sort of political statement ... I am simply making a "mother's statement" ...
Here's the new poem ... a work in progress .....and unfinished
He came home
Don't tell me, he's come home.
Don't declare while in my presence, you must be so relieved now that he's home safe and sound.
I know he pulled into the driveway in his 89' Brougham Cadillac on February 8th, 2013,
don't tell me I don't know, because I am the mother
and I remember
in 1989 Johnny was three years old, lining up toy cars in perfect row after row. Period. Exclamation mark!
I know he's come home.
I tell you, I saw him come to a halt in his 1989 Brougham Cadillac,
and I could see he was the sole keeper of bulging sea bags, and desert utilities,
dress blues and contraband he reclaimed from sergeants living off base.
Proprietor of all 5 years crammed into the backseat,
I know because I still remember full scale battles were fought (with sound effects)
on multi-leveled terrains across the carpet, over shelves, dressers and twin beds.
I still hear spontaneous stratagems barked to little green Lieutenants and Generals,
as battles were won with ease
and then Johnny would come out of his room,
hug me at war's end. Period. Exclamation mark!
Johnny came home,
and sea bags were propped up in the corner of the room
four, five, six months, eight months and they are still at ease in the same corner.
Johnny came home.
I recognized him when he entered my bedroom ... I thought you might want these ...
and he folded my hand over a dirty patch stained with Afghanistan
and a dog tag he had kept in his boot, just in case all that was found of him was a foot (I assume).
And I know he remembers me, because I understood why he remained so calm
the night I called to tell him George had put a gun to his head.
Johnny came home,
I know he came home,
because I examined my son, cover to shine of shoe, as he gave a heavy deliberate salute,
saw him depart with precision on his heals ... the flag enbosomed in the mother's misery.
... make it home for your mother ... George had told Johnny.
So he made it home. Period. Exclamation mark!
... and I was searching
for the freckles across the bridge of his nose and ruddy cheeks.
I was ... I am deviously digging in between every word left unsaid,
sifting through cigarette butts smashed on the heal of his boots,
flicked into the air and dropping dead on the driveway
for a shred of DNA, a reason to believe he's come home.
In the back yard , I swear at George ... you came home to your mother
(unfinished) .. still not done
Consequence Magazine, an international literary magazine focusing on the culture of war
Of course, my perspective is as a mother of a soldier who has seen and lived through battle. Submitting my poems to Consequence Magazine is important to me, simply wanting to be a voice from a point of view of the consequences of war that needs to be heard as well. I am not entering the Consequence poetry contest which is for a small amount of cash ... don't care about that ... I simply would like to have my poems ... one of my poems ... selected for the next issue.
I am entering 3 poems that I have posted here at PH before ... one that was not posted here, but needs to be reworked ... and one completely new poem which I am going to post here for a read. The new poem is more of a stream of conscious poem unlike the others.
The poem I am posting here is incomplete ...
I know that critiquing a very personal poem is difficult, but I always appreciate any thoughts, opinions that come my way. Specifically, I am unsure about the "bolding" I am using in the new poem.
Links to other poems I am submitting if you care to take a peek:
Damned Basket
Moment Unforgivable
soldier gripping the wheel of a '72 mustang
Maybe this one ... don't know ..
until ... somewhere in country
With none of these poems am I making any sort of political statement ... I am simply making a "mother's statement" ...
Here's the new poem ... a work in progress .....and unfinished
He came home
Don't tell me, he's come home.
Don't declare while in my presence, you must be so relieved now that he's home safe and sound.
I know he pulled into the driveway in his 89' Brougham Cadillac on February 8th, 2013,
don't tell me I don't know, because I am the mother
and I remember
in 1989 Johnny was three years old, lining up toy cars in perfect row after row. Period. Exclamation mark!
I know he's come home.
I tell you, I saw him come to a halt in his 1989 Brougham Cadillac,
and I could see he was the sole keeper of bulging sea bags, and desert utilities,
dress blues and contraband he reclaimed from sergeants living off base.
Proprietor of all 5 years crammed into the backseat,
I know because I still remember full scale battles were fought (with sound effects)
on multi-leveled terrains across the carpet, over shelves, dressers and twin beds.
I still hear spontaneous stratagems barked to little green Lieutenants and Generals,
as battles were won with ease
and then Johnny would come out of his room,
hug me at war's end. Period. Exclamation mark!
Johnny came home,
and sea bags were propped up in the corner of the room
four, five, six months, eight months and they are still at ease in the same corner.
Johnny came home.
I recognized him when he entered my bedroom ... I thought you might want these ...
and he folded my hand over a dirty patch stained with Afghanistan
and a dog tag he had kept in his boot, just in case all that was found of him was a foot (I assume).
And I know he remembers me, because I understood why he remained so calm
the night I called to tell him George had put a gun to his head.
Johnny came home,
I know he came home,
because I examined my son, cover to shine of shoe, as he gave a heavy deliberate salute,
saw him depart with precision on his heals ... the flag enbosomed in the mother's misery.
... make it home for your mother ... George had told Johnny.
So he made it home. Period. Exclamation mark!
... and I was searching
for the freckles across the bridge of his nose and ruddy cheeks.
I was ... I am deviously digging in between every word left unsaid,
sifting through cigarette butts smashed on the heal of his boots,
flicked into the air and dropping dead on the driveway
for a shred of DNA, a reason to believe he's come home.
In the back yard , I swear at George ... you came home to your mother
(unfinished) .. still not done
