From the sound of the bugle
in the rush of the wind
The bodies are counted
as grieving begins
In the morrow replaying
as blood spills again
The enemy forward
whose countenance grim
The courage of many
all acting as one
Their wills long suborted
with fear on the run
Till the bugle goes silent
the bugler face down
Last day ill remembered
—a wounded dog howls
(The New Room: June, 2023)
-
Author:
Kurt Philip Behm (
Offline) - Published: June 8th, 2023 09:26
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments3
When you bring us a "longer" poem like this, the density of your language and your use of words and phrases as building bocks and strategic pieces on the chessboard remind me more and more of the poetry of Melville, for which he is not well known but should be. This poem of yours brought to mind this: https://mypoeticside.com/show-classic-poem-19013
Thanks. Gwendolyn Brooks once told me the three greatest
American Poets were: Whitman, Melville, and Dickinson.
I agree.
I'm glad you liked it.
Great weekend.
Kurt
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