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A STUDENT WRITES OF COLUMBINE by George Moore

July 1, 2011 Contributed By: George Moore

What is incomprehensible to us,
in our ancient wisdom, the wars
that have sparked wars, the fights

across oceans with mother lands,
fatherlands, are minor trophies
in the case of contemporary shams,

when the young become our
mentors, mediators to our truth
of violence.  The student says

someone did not treat them right,
their eyes were blurred by video,
their minds strung out on anti-

this-and-that, depression the blank
board of the game of pills,
and of course their parents forgot

to kill them in the womb, or treat
them like children, giving them
everything and nothing at will,

retrieving only the smile of madness
and the growing pains of adolescence,
and the trigger of the magician.

What is incomprehensible to us
is ourselves, where we have come
over the millennium.  The darkness

of the cave of home, the flick of
socialization, the growing mass
of babies in answer to the call of God.

Education’s deadly taunt becomes
a disease.  The shooters are drunk
with wisdom, and know only

what they cannot see.

 

Return to table of contents for Issue 4 Summer 2011

Filed Under: Poetry Posted On: July 1, 2011

Further Reading

MOONLIGHT 月光 by Xiao Qiao (translated by Cindy M. Carter)

The moonlight at my door is white. It flashes by like weaponry. A shattered scenery resolves into sweet and sharpened drops of candy. Bit by bit, they prick the slightly-slanted corners of your eyes. 我门前的月光很白 像某种兵器一闪而过 破碎的景象慢慢坚实 变成甜蜜的有点尖锐的球形糖果 一颗一颗 刺穿你微微倾斜的眼角 Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010

Yellow Cake by Rebecca Cook

When I’m small enough to still wear white tights and lacy white panties with my navy blue sailor dress, we go to the funeral home in Ringgold. I walk into a crowd of people talking in hushed voices, looking into a box. I’m too short to see what’s in the box and I know better […]

When He
by Remi Recchia

  When he takes the other woman to bed, does he think of his wife? Her goodness trailing soot, eyes   ringed and fringed in black? She stays up all night, clips coupons from old letters, unlicks the envelopes.   They are weathered and damp. A waste of postage. Shoes untie themselves in his absence. […]

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