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    [ID] => 16237
    [post_author] => 16
    [post_date] => 2015-10-09 17:09:06
    [post_date_gmt] => 2015-10-09 17:09:06
    [post_content] => Who am I to talk
about my dead fathers?
Who am I to talk
about those who fled their homes?
Who am I to talk
about the eyeless, legless,
faceless men who fought
for no reason at all?
Who am I to talk
about the shaken souls
cutting off cow heads
after they returned?
Who am I to talk
about the mother who
lost all hope and who
am I to talk
about the young widow
with a shovel full of rubble and
her single vision of a rising city
shivering with life?
Who am I
to talk?
    [post_title] => Who Am I to Talk?
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
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    [post_name] => who-am-i-to-talk
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2016-11-18 15:52:09
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2016-11-18 15:52:09
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    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=16237
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    [post_type] => poems
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        (
            [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.

In my poem, I ask myself what gives me the right to talk on behalf of people who actually experienced the WWII. The rhetorical question in the beginning of each sentence implies that trying to write a poem from their point of view is nothing but pointless; no amount of empathy can match such experience. So instead, the narrative voice tries to express its speechlessness regarding the WWII. 
  
My poem expresses how hard it is for today’s Europe to fully grasp the overwhelming depth of human suffering during the WWII. Can you be sure you know what your ancestors felt like while hiding in trenches, working in field hospitals or waiting for letters from the front? I believe that the horrors of the WWII are too great for us to understand and for any poem – no matter how skilfully written – to capture them completely. 
 
This, of course, has never stopped writers from trying. I guess poets never quite succeed to put their pain into words as aptly as they would wish but they get close, so close. It is ok for us to fail at expressing ourselves absolutely because words are just a medium (although one of the most powerful ones) and never an exact duplicate of our inner wars. 
The real-life wars are beyond description as well and yet we try to reduce them into words. It is a task that can never be perfected; however, the fact that we fail to tell the story of suffering – our own speechlessness – have the biggest impact on the reader.
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            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Timothy Corsellis Prize 2015
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    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 2758
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Denisa Vítová
            [slug] => denisa-vitova
            [content] => Denisa Vítová is the overall winner in the 2016 Young Poets Network August Challenge #4, and is commended in the  Who is Giselle? poetry challenge. Her poems have also won several other challenges on Young Poets Network, including the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2015, the Animal Tales Challenge, and Helen Mort's Cape Farewell writing challenge. 
        )

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stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 2758
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Denisa Vítová
    [slug] => denisa-vitova
    [content] => Denisa Vítová is the overall winner in the 2016 Young Poets Network August Challenge #4, and is commended in the  Who is Giselle? poetry challenge. Her poems have also won several other challenges on Young Poets Network, including the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2015, the Animal Tales Challenge, and Helen Mort's Cape Farewell writing challenge. 
)

Who Am I to Talk?

Denisa Vítová

Who am I to talk
about my dead fathers?
Who am I to talk
about those who fled their homes?
Who am I to talk
about the eyeless, legless,
faceless men who fought
for no reason at all?
Who am I to talk
about the shaken souls
cutting off cow heads
after they returned?
Who am I to talk
about the mother who
lost all hope and who
am I to talk
about the young widow
with a shovel full of rubble and
her single vision of a rising city
shivering with life?
Who am I
to talk?