Had a baby born of rape, had a
gun, and she said she loved him,
and he said nothing at all.

Told the story until it
became a myth.

Cursed the walls, cursed the water,
stood naked at its edge until
it ran red with blood.

Held him close, and he wept.

Held him closer, and he screamed.

Sounded like a child waking up
in a room on fire.

This is excellent, love the jarring starkness. Not sure why more people haven't commented on this. Not sure the title works, though?

Take care,

-O

The title did catch me off guard, but it makes me think of Vietnam for some reason, yes? no? And I really do like all of your poetry, it has a honesty to it, which is a wonderful quality.

thanks for the comments.  EB, i like the viet nam reference you were able to get out of this.  i seem to be mumbling vaguely about specific ideas these days, which leaves the work wide open to interpretation, but that's cool by me.  this is a combination of local and regional events, all of which were horrible (yet not overly shocking in this day and age), and the way that they all took on mythic qualities as they were spread by word of mouth.  the usual grim assortment of children dying in trailer fires, incestuous relationships, women refusing to press rape charges because they loved the men who committed the crimes, etc etc. 

the title, i think, might be a comment on the dying of faith (not necessarily in god/religion), or possibly the failure of it to stop the everyday atrocities. 

i like to leave a lot of empty room in the poems, to allow for the possibility of other conclusions.

hi john;
    haven't seen you in a while.  oh, and for anyone who's interested...i've got yr newest book and it's a killer!
     speaking of which...i find it curious to note how often children, violence, blood, death, etc appear in your work.  i haven't yet figured out what to make of it.
     as ever, your work crackles with brilliance.
     take care...
               john

john, glad you like the new book.  another one due out in january (i think).

was just talking to non-writer about the imagery in my work, and we agreed it's probably a combination of
a) me being a miserable s.o.b.
b) the absolute grimness of upstate new york in late fall & winter.

my work seems to get a little more laid back in the warmer weather (for me, anyway), but then it gets full-bore doomladen in the cold months.  i think my writing is a coping mechanism.  there's a certain beauty to the landscape, but it's like saying "there's a certain beauty to the music of godspeed you black emperor".  it's a heavy kind of beauty, w/ undertones of mortality.

Stark and hard edged. Works.

larry

Very strong poem.  Excellent.  lynn

hello, johnsweet----this kind of work is home for me, and I'm delighted to see it here----really agree with you about how our moods change with the seasons----mine's in the same dark place right now, over here in the wet and dreary Pacific Northwest...

I like it that you aren't afraid of raw truth, broken crosses and all----and I like your spare-and-barely-there lines too----hope to see lots more of you...

Michael

always great to hear from the pacific northwest!  a kindred spirit in terms of gloomy weather.  temp here is 14 degrees today, wind chill of ten below.  definitely conducive to writing.  thanks for the comments on the poem....

Had mixed feelings about this piece. Edgy. Stark as Oleska said. I couldn't quite pull all the lines together. Your later explanation helped. Good, thought provoking work anyway.

Had a baby born of rape.
He had a gun, she said she loved him
he said nothing at all.

I keep coming back to this. Does it read/look better like this?

more minimalistic.  i like it.

Dredging them up tonight.