One Man, One Sword, One Fight

[Harmonics Death]

One man, One sword, One fight.
It began; the blades were in a flurry of sparks and marks of death upon a single cuirass. The swing of one bladed landed and the crimson rain began, blurring the vision of all warriors, but none ceased the onslaught against the competitors. A second died, his heart lay there with his soul crying over it. A third was gone a spray of crimson as the blood slowly filled his lungs. A fourth dead as the blade of the arrow pierced his brain and he began to go into convulsions. The last standing was the victor, he fell as his own mind began to kill itself from his own treachery.

[JBI]

From Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

[JBI]

From Shield of Achilles by W. H. Auden

The thin-lipped armorer,
Hephaestos, hobbled away,
Thetis of the shining breasts
Cried out in dismay
At what the god had wrought
To please her son, the strong
Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
Who would not live long.

[JBI]

Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

[JBI]

From Come Away, Death by E. J. Pratt

Willy-nilly, he comes or goes, with the clown's logic,
Comic in epitaph, tragic in epithalamium,
And unseduced by any mused rhyme.
However blow the winds over the pollen,
Whatever the course of the garden variables,
He remains the constant,
Ever flowering from the poppy seeds.

There was a time he came in formal dress,
Announced by Silence tapping at the panels
In deep apology.
A touch of chivalry in his approach,
He offered sacramental wine,
And with acanthus leaf
And petals of the hyacinth
He took the fever from the temples
And closed the eyelids,
Then led the way to his cool longitudes
In the dignity of the candles.

His mediaeval grace is gone --
Gone with the flame of the capitals
And the leisured turn of the thumb
Leafing the manuscripts,
Gone with the marbles
And the Venetian mosaics,
With the bend of the knee
Before the rose-strewn feet of the Virgin.
The paternosters of his priests,
Committing clay to clay,
Have rattled in their throats
Under the gride of his traction tread.
...............
One night we heard his footfall -- one September night --
In the outskirts of a village near the sea.
There was a moment when the storm
Delayed its fist, when the surf fell
Like velvet on the rocks -- a moment only;
The strangest lull we ever knew!
A sudden truce among the oaks
Released their fratricidal arms;
The poplars straightened to attention
As the winds stopped to listen
To the sound of a motor drone --
And then the drone was still.
We heard the tick-tock on the shelf,
And the leak of valves in our hearts.
A calm condensed and lidded
As at the core of a cyclone ended breathing.
This was the monologue of Silence

[Etienne]

With no offense intended, you text, Mr. Harmonics is quite plainly bad. It is confused, honestly cheesy, and it seems like you are trying too much at being lyrical, without mastering it, which cause an awkward result.

I suggest you read what JBI has posted, and then some more.

[JBI]

Oh, I just posted those to put some retrospect into the preoccupation of 20th century literature with war, and its subsequent view today. In truth, I was actually having an interesting conversation with Quasimodo by PM about how something like the environment, or some other topic, could take over from war as the central preoccupation of 21st century literature (particularly verse).

[Harmonics Death]

Confused, Yes, as for the bibliophile, i hate that stuff. Thank you for informing me how horrible my writing is.

[JBI]

Confused, Yes, as for the bibliophile, i hate that stuff. Thank you for informing me how horrible my writing is.

I didn't say anything of the sort - quit putting words in my mouth. You didn't offer a question in your post, merely a paragraph that perhaps could, or could not have been written by you. I merely posted some cuttings on a similar theme to put things into comparison. There is no need for bickering.

[andave_ya]

One man, One sword, One fight.
It began; the blades were in a flurry of sparks and marks of death upon a single cuirass. The swing of one bladed landed and the crimson rain began, blurring the vision of all warriors, but none ceased the onslaught against the competitors. A second died, his heart lay there with his soul crying over it. A third was gone a spray of crimson as the blood slowly filled his lungs. A fourth dead as the blade of the arrow pierced his brain and he began to go into convulsions. The last standing was the victor, he fell as his own mind began to kill itself from his own treachery.

The idea is fine, the execution a little forced. Can you elaborate? Is it a chunk from a novel or a standalone piece? Why are they fighting? What's the plot? Why did the "victor" betray his companions? Where is it? When is it? Who are they? Is this a subplot in a greater story?

Then of course, with such a matter as war and death there is potential for far more elaboration, far more of the mental, inner struggle. I can see some, I dunno what the word is, seeds of sophistication, I guess, in it but you can develop them a lot more. I like the use of "crimson rain," "soul crying over it," and "kill itself from his own treachery," although it shouldn't be "blade of the arrow," it should be "shaft."