Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Imperial Stone

I spent early evenings in the fields
with mothers, my own, and those
who were painted in frosted glass

Daughters, hunched between the rows
a litter of pauper sheep
worn, wooded toes

trailing tales of vine and grape
a hue of women, hollow eyes, baked and stained
his story told

Ninette was her own
she fed on his ruin:
'We march on Moscow', flurry firn, his error

'We send more', she flung handfuls of sweetened pebbles into the air
The taste in my mouth
thick and sour

Our brothers and fathers
yet to come home
And those who were buried, turned to fish under the snow

Our trust, he ate, and swallowed whole
His vindication:
The creeping plant in Burgundy, turning to black, peppered and old

Before him, there was a King who borrowed our souls
What was left, we sold to him, he used us to color the North in blood
A jingle still rings of children who are made of stone and snow


  1. The imagery is stunning. Powerful, and your writing is equally as wonderful.

  2. Beautiful imagery! War is so terrible, and you captured its essence with your words.

    1. Yes, war is nothing but terrible. Thanks Sherry!

  3. the imagery describes the horror of war well

  4. There is gravitas in this wonderful stone itself..women seem to be at the core..worn a different kind of war perhaps..Jae

    1. Gravitas, as proprietors believe is war. I think that the ones left behind have as much solemn strength as those who leave. Unfortunately, their stories are rarely deemed.

  5. I love the notion of borrowed souls. What a wonderful piece of writing.

  6. Like the Emergency Hospital workers in Afghanistan, your women know that there is no real honor or merit in war.

    1. Yes, and usually feed a lie of equality and prosperity as ambition. Sadly, hearts have been held out in hope.

      Thank you for visiting, Kim.

  7. wow, arcna, this is a chilling poem. i feel like this is
    an old folk tale steamed in truth told in bedrooms to
    children at night.

    1. This one is a tunnel through eastern Europe, but I'm sure that the same story, told in truth, would chill a child's bedroom in any corner of the planet.

      Thanks for stopping by, Paige.

  8. a beautiful beauty told in cycles circling... war, what good is it....

    1. My thoughts: no good at all. :)

      Thank you for reading.