Post by elementary on Aug 15, 2011 21:53:59 GMT -5
To all,
I have stated elsewhere that I have been writing for the first time in a while. Most of what I have been writing has been prose related, but for one major exception; this poem derived from the massacre in Norway a few weeks ago.
The repeated phrase that gives the poem its title (Red Is Blood) came to me while listening to my pastor speak. His comments ranged from the recent attack in Norway to other similar topics. As he spoke, I shut my eyes and visualized the photos I had seen, especially the one with the bodies of young people scattered across the rocky shore of this tiny Norwegian island. I couldn't imagine being put in that situation. Being at church, I also couldn't shake one of the tenets of Christianity, that being forgiveness, and I wondered how the people so affected by this murderous assault would counter their faith with their emotional responses.
My daughter is half Norwegian. My wife's family (both sides) came over from Norway two generations ago. Many were fishermen, some of whom never returned from the sea. They talk about these lost souls in a way that indicated these losses were expected and part of the ancient traditions of fishing. If you went out, there was a chance you wouldn't return. These recent deaths were much different.
There are no answers in the poem.
This poem is just my way of dealing with these thoughts and questions. I really don't know if it's any good, but if it makes you ponder or consider or think about things in a new manner, or if it invokes any emotional response, then it does its job.
If you take your time to read it, please do it aloud. It should have a ebb and flow and rhythm. Silent reading will limit that aspect of the poem
Thank you for coming down this road with me,
Lowell
Red is Blood
Red is blood.
Red is hate. Is ignorance
Is pain. Is fury
Red is hollow.
Today. On this day.
There is red on the rocks
And on the trees
And in the water.
There is red on shirts
And hands and on legs and faces
And on scattered shoes
And on the ground.
There is red all over the ground.
They do not understand this alien landscape.
These young people. These random victims. These targets.
Comprehension eludes
As they are chased
And red covers the ground.
Red is fire.
Red is anger. Is flash.
Is rage. Is sorrow.
Red is mourning.
Today. On this day.
Red expands from the streets
Engulfs buildings
Pulls at their facades.
Red scatters pedestrians
Blows out windows
Imbeds itself into concrete and steel
And consciousness.
Red spreads across asphalt
Spinning, twirling, congealing,
Passes from bodies to hands
To legs to the ground.
There is so much red on the ground.
Red is brilliance
Radiating from foci
So strong it kills
Snuffing out life like candles.
Who chose this calamity
To befall these people
On a day drenched in sun
Blue waters, green foliage, shining glass, and white marble?
Who allowed this world to be drenched in red?
People kneel, stand, sit, lay, bleed, die.
Are they victims
Are they guilty
Are they damned
Are they innocent
Are they ascending
Are they lost
Are they remembered?
Red lingers
In doubt and confusion
And faith
And millions of red roses.
Red is salvation
Red is sacrifice. Is forgiveness.
Is compassion. Is selfless.
Red is God.
Today. On this day.
Red cries from the streets
Emanates from the town squares
And pours from cathedral doorways.
Red demands peace and absolution
Advises patience and understanding
Provides wisdom and context.
In this moment red confronts red
Bitterness engages love
Fellowship rebuffs revenge
Impulse smothers reason
Old conflicts new
And the color red
Red is blood
Covers this Northern Land
Red is sacrifice
Testing its people’s resolve
Red is redemption
To their individual souls.
Red is blood.
8-1-11
Lowell Foster
I have stated elsewhere that I have been writing for the first time in a while. Most of what I have been writing has been prose related, but for one major exception; this poem derived from the massacre in Norway a few weeks ago.
The repeated phrase that gives the poem its title (Red Is Blood) came to me while listening to my pastor speak. His comments ranged from the recent attack in Norway to other similar topics. As he spoke, I shut my eyes and visualized the photos I had seen, especially the one with the bodies of young people scattered across the rocky shore of this tiny Norwegian island. I couldn't imagine being put in that situation. Being at church, I also couldn't shake one of the tenets of Christianity, that being forgiveness, and I wondered how the people so affected by this murderous assault would counter their faith with their emotional responses.
My daughter is half Norwegian. My wife's family (both sides) came over from Norway two generations ago. Many were fishermen, some of whom never returned from the sea. They talk about these lost souls in a way that indicated these losses were expected and part of the ancient traditions of fishing. If you went out, there was a chance you wouldn't return. These recent deaths were much different.
There are no answers in the poem.
This poem is just my way of dealing with these thoughts and questions. I really don't know if it's any good, but if it makes you ponder or consider or think about things in a new manner, or if it invokes any emotional response, then it does its job.
If you take your time to read it, please do it aloud. It should have a ebb and flow and rhythm. Silent reading will limit that aspect of the poem
Thank you for coming down this road with me,
Lowell
Red is Blood
Red is blood.
Red is hate. Is ignorance
Is pain. Is fury
Red is hollow.
Today. On this day.
There is red on the rocks
And on the trees
And in the water.
There is red on shirts
And hands and on legs and faces
And on scattered shoes
And on the ground.
There is red all over the ground.
They do not understand this alien landscape.
These young people. These random victims. These targets.
Comprehension eludes
As they are chased
And red covers the ground.
Red is fire.
Red is anger. Is flash.
Is rage. Is sorrow.
Red is mourning.
Today. On this day.
Red expands from the streets
Engulfs buildings
Pulls at their facades.
Red scatters pedestrians
Blows out windows
Imbeds itself into concrete and steel
And consciousness.
Red spreads across asphalt
Spinning, twirling, congealing,
Passes from bodies to hands
To legs to the ground.
There is so much red on the ground.
Red is brilliance
Radiating from foci
So strong it kills
Snuffing out life like candles.
Who chose this calamity
To befall these people
On a day drenched in sun
Blue waters, green foliage, shining glass, and white marble?
Who allowed this world to be drenched in red?
People kneel, stand, sit, lay, bleed, die.
Are they victims
Are they guilty
Are they damned
Are they innocent
Are they ascending
Are they lost
Are they remembered?
Red lingers
In doubt and confusion
And faith
And millions of red roses.
Red is salvation
Red is sacrifice. Is forgiveness.
Is compassion. Is selfless.
Red is God.
Today. On this day.
Red cries from the streets
Emanates from the town squares
And pours from cathedral doorways.
Red demands peace and absolution
Advises patience and understanding
Provides wisdom and context.
In this moment red confronts red
Bitterness engages love
Fellowship rebuffs revenge
Impulse smothers reason
Old conflicts new
And the color red
Red is blood
Covers this Northern Land
Red is sacrifice
Testing its people’s resolve
Red is redemption
To their individual souls.
Red is blood.
8-1-11
Lowell Foster