The one time i was a judge at a poetry slam, i got booed because i only gave 1’s & 2’s (on a scale of 5). Like, poetry isn’t a sliding scale.
"The Night is Chilly but not Dark
On nights when the moon creeps shrouded up the sky
And hedge and holt lie glimmering ghostly grey,
A voice still whispers in me, far away –
A good night, this, for wiring – and suddenly
There rises from the dead that shadowy hell,
The barbed-wire rasps, uncoiling through my hand,
The flares dance flickering over no-man's-land,
A dull machine-gun raps from La Boisselle.
Then fades the phantom, and once more I know
Our spider-webs of wire are rust by now,
Our battlefields reconquered by the plough,
And hands that worked with mine, dust long ago."
—F L Lucas via
"The scene is not a static allegory but a captured catastrophe."
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