#WarPoem hashtag - Bluesky

@humanityunleashed.bsky.social

3 hours ago

Eight Against the Dark | HFY Cosmic Horror Poem – When Humanity Made the Abyss Blink YouTube video by Humanity Unleashed

Eight soldiers.
An eldritch swarm.
They didn’t survive — but neither did the darkness leave unchanged.
youtu.be/VrWVgYcUev0?...
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#WarPoem

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Comedy FEEDBACK Film & Screenplay Festival

@comedyfilmfestival.bsky.social

3 weeks ago

WAR Poetry Reading: THE LAND, by Patrick Trombly YouTube video by Wildsound Festival

WAR Poetry Reading: THE LAND, by Patrick Trombly

www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHXr...

documentaryshortfilmfestival.com/2026/03/04/w...

#warpoem #warstory #wildsound #poet #poetry

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Peter J. King

@rock-rex.bsky.social

3 weeks ago

There is a small child lying in the dark, a tight-pulled knot of hunger, thirst, and fear, not knowing what has happened to her home and friends and parents. Though she doesn’t understand, she has a hard-gained sick familiarity with sharp small-arms fire, dull explosions, shattered buildings, falling dust, has grown accustomed to the screams and to the screaming silence, waking and in dream. She can’t remember who she is — has lost her name, her playfulness, her curiosity, affection, warmth. She can’t remember where she lived: in Syria, or Yemen, or Sudan, or Palestine, Iraq, Ukraine, Somalia....? So many lands she might have once called home; they’ve merged into a broken nightmare, filled with smoke. It billows from a burnt-out tank, from blocks of flats and hospitals, from camp-fires, crematoria, and cigarettes that glow in sentried night — smoke is the substance, grief the form of war.

1917 Grandad died badly: drowned in a sucking, claggy trench at dawn, face down, lungs burning as they strained and failed to fill. Grandma maybe had it worse; she might have lived, but something in her broke the day the village fell, and she was raped too many times to count. She slit her wrists, and then – impatient, maybe – cut her throat. Their neighbour made it through all right, unharmed and sitting on a tidy profit from the sale of bayonets and boots. 1943 Dad died badly too, I’m told: roasted as he struggled to escape his tank, lungs seared with smoke and superheated air. Mum almost made it, joined a group of refugees that straggled down a road all overhung with willow and with Old Man’s Beard that hid them from the strafing planes — but they were found by soldiers from one side or the other, all the women raped, then shot and left to lie. Their neighbour spent the war in Switzerland, and ended up a millionaire: munitions and black-market booze. 2014 My body’s lain here underneath the rubble for a week or so. My wife was at her mother’s when they shelled our house; I heard her when she came back looking for me, but my mouth was shrivelled up with thirst, my lungs collapsed, I couldn’t call, not even when I heard them find her and my little daughter, when the two were raped and raped again, then casually shot. Still, B.A.E. and Hewlett Packard and the rest will have good news for shareholders this year.

The politicians, journalists, the vicars and the priests —they danced the measure given them by makers of munitions. They sprayed the language of the grave from spittle-shining lechers’ lips: the love of country. I did not give my life for any cause — my leaders wrapped them up in khaki, grey, or tan, tossed them away to serve commercial and political ambitions. I did not make a sacrifice — they threw me down upon an altar and cut out my heart, dyed little scraps of paper with my pulsing blood and pinned them on the chests of politicians, journalists, of vicars and of priests. They pinned them onto children while they murmured their seductive lies of honour, pride, and glory.

Would wars be shorter if, instead of solemn notices when loved ones fell, our letterboxes rattled with a sick parade of letters giving details of our loved ones’ kills?

Four poems on war.

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