Commentaries On The Burden Of War

This is technically a war poem, but more a comment on war poetry. I meant for it to start out a little light but realized the subject matter would not let me. Still, I think it is one of my more unusual writings as it is also a reference work to others. Not that it is a contest, but I do challenge you to see how many writers I reference and whom, (not including myself, for I do) in slight homage to 'A Fable For Critics' by James Russell Lowell. Some of the writers I reference should be easy, others not so obvious.

'Commentaries on the Burden of War'

"You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you." -- Leon Trotsky

War is kind.
Weep not maiden, war is kind
Impined the war correspondent
Despondent for his lack of mettle
But emboldened to admit
He knew the horror of battle,
Watching from afar so he
Could comfort the living on
How war is so kind.

Honor and glory beckons.
The cause is just, therefore
Duty whispers 'lo' to the soldier
So he can volunteer
For daring deeds in
The arms of death.
He turns his back on wisdom
And gives one gallant gush,
All the while whispering 'I can'.

Riding into a valley of hell
Against those most terrifying odds.
They faced their foe undaunted,
But do they wonder
Should they falter and run... no!
The day will be theirs
For war is kind, so kind
That poets will laud them
Whilst they die in droves.

I wonder if the poets knew
What sort of burden was created,
This image the soldiers
Had to face
Generation after generation gone.
Inspired by words of those
Who never faced death's rendezvous.

He loved his duty and honor
To fight in one more just war
In order to be a noble man
So he could face his love,
Show her how much he cared.
Still, she took comfort
That he loved her so very much,
And yet, in the end...
He loved his honor more.

Dank trenches in Flanders fields,
Many await a gruesome end
Yet espousing the virtues of wars past.
Pressed against the walls, waiting to
Charge into that deadly space,
Resolving to stop the other
For they know their duty;
Even if the world abandons reason,
They stand firm and simply die.

An outpost in the deep of dark
Laden with the blood of the fallen
Is forgotten except for a few.
Those who scratched and clawed
At the face of death,
Watching their comrades fall
In a brief terrible moment.
Not for glory, nor for new lands
Only because someone said 'go'.

I dream of those honored dead
And hope they forgive us our
Need to comment and posture
On the soldier's burden.
One that we have not faced;
One we should never want to.
I dream of remembrance...

From bloodied creeks and streams at
Sharpsburg and Bull Run,
To sieges at Calais and Hue,
I long for an absolution
In the Teutonburg forest,
At the fall of Vera Cruz,
The terror of Gallipoli,
And the madness of Verdun.
It will never come...

War is kind.
If she will not weep,
Perhaps I shall.
For it will not end.
The ruin we have created
Cannot end.

C.