Friday Poetry: Randall Jarrell
Randall Jarrell
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
From my mother's sleep I feel into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
posted by Gemma @ 7:07 AM
1 comments
1 Comments:
really awesome poem gemma. it reminds me of this:
"Epitaph on a Tyrant" -- W. H. Auden
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
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