stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 16249
    [post_author] => 16
    [post_date] => 2015-10-10 17:07:56
    [post_date_gmt] => 2015-10-10 17:07:56
    [post_content] => We spent the hour before this, fishing the celestial sea
for swallows and swifts; deciphering their differences,
A mark, we found none made. But now,
Rigor mortised angels collect in our skies, piloted by lads;
Whose fear has been fermented to drink in their blood.
The war is over- and we are under
Our friends, in the sky, and mad made meadow streets, and sea state dunes.
Wait.

We`ll repeat the rifles rosary: lock,bolt,clip,sight-
Some fumble like virgins, some are Casanovas in all arms-
There are paltry few relics here,
Of a peace practiced war. This is one that sticks.
The sweet toothed and the sugarless, among cigarettes find time,
to content themselves, on black and white sweethearts.
And the seasoned; Pleated by boredom, and barrage,
Cure their ills on memories of home; and deserted lilies,
left to the shade, they once gave.

Oh god, the wait of wondering; Which mother will win. This,
Pass the parcel of sons. Who will unwrap a living boy,
from the coats, and caps, and girl-made guns. Or cry,
with a paper grave in their hands.

What makes us stay here, and water the flies with our sweat?
Under birds of standardised steel, we watch; like rabid fans,
for the strip. As we did, trying to distinguish,
between swallows, and swifts. I wonder.
How it would be if they sang,
If the engines voices, were that of songbirds.
And how, then, the dawn chorusing over London, would
be as rich, as any welsh copse.
    [post_title] => Swallows and Swifts
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => swallows-and-swifts
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2016-11-18 15:34:55
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2016-11-18 15:34:55
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=16249
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2015
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem was commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2015.

Charlotte says of her poem: In my poem, I try to express the feelings and the experience of a solider in active service, during an instant of sudden change. From a period of calm, to one of war. Though the descriptions and views, expressed by all six poets, on war and wartime, gave context and depth to a last century conflict. It was specifically Keith Douglas, with his ability to distance himself from his subjects, while leaving the reader to face them, and Timothy Corsellis stressed rhythms and powerful descriptions, most notably in,” Dawn After The Raid “, that I found most compelling. With these, I tried to incorporate metaphors and alliteration that would enhance, rather than detract from the honesty of Douglas and Corsellis styles.

In my poem, I wanted to show the soldiers thought process, as he attempts to transition, from revery to battle. As he is plunged back into war, with the planes still unidentified, and the prospect of combat becoming ever more present, he slowly becomes more detached from the battle. In his thoughts he merges the war, with the songbirds of his home.

Though I did not want to include any patriotic sentiment to my poem, I found naming a city expressed how far the soldiers thoughts had wandered, while also bringing the iconic images of the London blitz to mind. In the last line, I name the soldiers copse as welsh, in a tribute to Alun Lewis, and his beautiful use of nature in “All Day It Has Rained”. My poem is an attempt to show the cruel way in which we ask soldiers to dehumanise those they are fighting, to see them as something other than human, and, for the lucky, how utterly impossible that is.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Timothy Corsellis Prize 2015
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 16376
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Charlotte King-Davies
            [slug] => charlotte-king-davies
            [content] => Charlotte is a commended poet in the 2015 Timothy Corsellis Prize.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 16376
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Charlotte King-Davies
    [slug] => charlotte-king-davies
    [content] => Charlotte is a commended poet in the 2015 Timothy Corsellis Prize.
)

Swallows and Swifts

Charlotte King-Davies

We spent the hour before this, fishing the celestial sea
for swallows and swifts; deciphering their differences,
A mark, we found none made. But now,
Rigor mortised angels collect in our skies, piloted by lads;
Whose fear has been fermented to drink in their blood.
The war is over- and we are under
Our friends, in the sky, and mad made meadow streets, and sea state dunes.
Wait.

We`ll repeat the rifles rosary: lock,bolt,clip,sight-
Some fumble like virgins, some are Casanovas in all arms-
There are paltry few relics here,
Of a peace practiced war. This is one that sticks.
The sweet toothed and the sugarless, among cigarettes find time,
to content themselves, on black and white sweethearts.
And the seasoned; Pleated by boredom, and barrage,
Cure their ills on memories of home; and deserted lilies,
left to the shade, they once gave.

Oh god, the wait of wondering; Which mother will win. This,
Pass the parcel of sons. Who will unwrap a living boy,
from the coats, and caps, and girl-made guns. Or cry,
with a paper grave in their hands.

What makes us stay here, and water the flies with our sweat?
Under birds of standardised steel, we watch; like rabid fans,
for the strip. As we did, trying to distinguish,
between swallows, and swifts. I wonder.
How it would be if they sang,
If the engines voices, were that of songbirds.
And how, then, the dawn chorusing over London, would
be as rich, as any welsh copse.