Poem by Luis Lázaro Tijerina


 

To the Poet Wilfred Edward Salter Owen
In memory of his birth

I am not the friend you killed, my friend,
Even though I parred with you with the bayonet
          of words,
Not where you died crossing the Sambre- Oise Canal,
that sludge of brown water, that eternity
          of soldiers’ blood upon the mirage
with boats heading south into France for
          the escapade of springtime,
And now I remember you were born the poet
at Plas Wilmot, near the old market town, Oswestry,
Where you must have walked towards
          the ancient Iron Age Hill Forts,
Not the walks you endured in the trenches
          with gas suffocating your poems.
How long do we live with the blood of tyrants
          Scribbled from our pens?

 

Luis Lázaro Tijerina was born in Salina, Kansas. Mr. Tijerina has a Master of Art degree in history, concentration being military history and diplomacy. He is a published author of military theory, short stories, essays and poetry. Mr. Tijerina resides in Vermont.

 

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