How Farther to the Shores?

In memory of Alan Kurdi

Speak no more of white banners fluttering freely in the breeze,

May our tear-drenched bouquets pray no more for them to rest  in peace,

For the last of the white doves lost its flight in their bewildered , silent eyes-

Amidst the oceans vast, beneath capsized boats, in nameless graves, they lie.

No more, no more than a tiny speck on the breast of the raging seas,

He waits, in silent desperation, seeking a voice to his  stifled pleas-

Far away, the horizons whisper  tales of misty shores- 

A flickering ray of hope amidst the ocean’s mocking roars.

Dare he hope, dare he dream of Spring’s laughter rippling across the sunny plains,

Far,  far from  Death’s  glaring eyes  ,  from  Life’s  feeble wails?

A sudden squeal  of mirth- the nearing shores, they welcome in hopeful cries,

Yet, the little one’s bewildered gaze lingers on the darkening skies.

Hope’s blind to the ashen clouds creeping slowly across the shores,

As mighty waves rush up to the ominous grey in frantic, seething roars.

The flickering hope fades  away in a sudden torrent of tears, 

He feels  his mother’s arms around him, muttering silent, feeble prayers.

Pining for the sinking shores; no soul to hear them weep,

Lulled by the tempest, in his warm Paradise, the Lord has retired to sleep.

A tremor- icy sprays, in violent fury crash upon his bewildered eyes,

And he returns  to his far-away  home, beneath the pale, blue skies.

To those times when the laughter of his pals at play would light up his little world,

Till the War, in its wrathful claws, clipped the wings of the flying bird.

Memories fade- the shadowy remnants of a childhood lost- 

Traces of an autumn morn dying away into the winter frost.

Once more, he feels the tempest rage- gone are the sunny years-

As the waters, in their cold embrace, kiss away his silent tears.

Goodbye, blazing homes, bloodied lives wasted away in eternal strife!

In silence, the child welcomes an end calmer than his life.

A golden shaft peeps out from beyond the mystic pall of grey,

Pouring over the Turkish beach, the smiles of a new-born day.

Merry-makers , over the volleyball net, gaze upon the oceans mild,

And find, on the shores, caressed by the repentant seas, a little child.

They tremble, in mute anticipation, for the faintest trace of a breath;

Yet, in those chubby cheeks, those innocent eyes, rests the frozen touch of death.

But, surely, he’s a toddler, counting the twinkling stars in the dark,

In soft snores, in sweet dreams, awaiting the song of the lark;

But, he’s gone , leaving behind  Childhood’s starlit  cave,

Innocence rests, leagues below, in its watery grave.

Over the battered corpse of Innocence, roll the wheels of War,

Threatening to smother, in blankets dark, many a lonely star.

Yet, childish murmurs echo today across the smothered night,

Paving the way for the first ray of a new-born light;

Over showers of bullets, over the cannon-roars,

They sing of dawn on Syria’s blood-washed shores:

“Let white banners flutter , today, freely in the night breeze,

May your tear-decked bouquets pray no more for us to rest in peace

Let our doves soar higher than the tyrant’s thundering  roars,

How farther  to the peaceful world,  to those dreamy shores?”

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

“Let white banners flutter , today, freely in the night breeze,
May your tear-decked bouquets pray no more for us to rest in peace
Let our doves soar higher than the tyrant’s thundering roars,
How farther to the peaceful world, to those dreamy shores?”
The photo of the small boy broke my heart. Old world got colder and sadder. New sadness, 3,000 Immigrant children, took from parent. Locked away and parent, no records kept. I pray for better days my friend.
Coyote

[Esther]

Your wonderful review is a poem in itself!

[JayG]

You express yourself well. No denying that. Your focus, though, may be more self-referential than it might be, and as far as editing, it's rushed.

There are twenty double-spacing errors between words and five spaces dropped in before a comma. Given that the doubles could be fixed with a simple search and replace, and that the floating commas jump out at the reader, you're rushing. With any piece of writing it's a good idea to let it age for at least a week, so that when you edit you see it more as a reader than the writer, and are less likely to "fill in the blanks" as you read, and miss what hits the reader and causes a "huh?"

My comment on self-referential is because, often, the part of the line that would provide context for the reader never made it to the page. For example:

S1 talks in generalities about "white banners" fluttering. I've been in the service but not in combat, so I have no idea of what they represent, or why you specified "fluttering freely" rather than just fluttering. You also talk about the "last" of the white doves. Were there more? And why are the last of them bewildered? You know because you have access to your intent for how the words are to be taken and the scene in which the doves are released. The reader has only what the words suggest to them, based on THEIR background and experience.

In S1 you spoke of "our" tears. But then, in S2 you change setting, and we're at sea with an unknown, and apparently living, "he." But why are his pleas stifled? No way to tell because you're presenting effect, but not cause. But cause is what gives the reader context.

In general, it appears that you're focusing on making deeply meaningful statements, based on what you visualize as you create the poem. But without making the reader visualize the same inciting incident, will the result of it be meaningful to them?

In short: instead of just talking to the reader, invite them in as participants. Ideally, we create the words that will make the READER react, and think the words you provide here—live the events not hear of the result of them. Think in terms of involving, not informing.

Sorry my news isn't better. But you did ask... 🤪

[Esther]

Hello, Sir! Thank you very much for the detailed review. This was written in memory of Alan Kurdi, the Syrian boy washed up on the Turkish shores.
"Our tears" refers to the tear-decked bouquets offered by the world to honour the memories of Alan Kurdi and other Syrian children who perished in the war.
The poem was completed on the very night I published it! Yes, I should have waited a bit! Thanks a lot!

[JayG]

• This was written in memory of Alan Kurdi, the Syrian boy washed up on the Turkish shores.

But only you know that as you read. So, inherently, only you have the context to make it meaningful. You're presenting YOUR tears. By making it as meaningful to a reader, they'll cry WITH you.

[alanwgraham]

A wonderful and thought provoking piece of writing to the terrible price of war on the lives of the innocents Esther. The death of this little boy and many others unnamed to us and unrecorded shames us all. Apart from the importance of your message you have written it so well - the image of 'childhoods starlit cave' and the image of the volleyball players finding the child stand out for me. The big question is, will we learn? I fear that the answer is no! The Trumps Assads and Putins of this world see these things as a game.
Regards,
Alan

[Esther]

The "leaders" are leading us to this gloomy future, indeed. Thank you for the review!

[Chris Shaw]

Beautifully written with wonderful poetic expression. A subject which tears at the heart of anyone with an ounce of compassion. Well done.

Chris

[Esther]

Thank you!

[Chris Shaw]

You are welcome.

[John the Baptist]

This poem is filled with powerful, heart rending imagery, but few historical details. It is a memorial and speaks of war, but we are not told which one. The central tragedy is the death of a child by drowning, and we sense he may be a refugee, but that is not certain. Both Turkey and Syria are mentioned, and it seems the child was bound from the latter to the former. It could be an episode from the recent years of crisis in Syria, or it may refer to an earlier conflict. We can be sure, however, of the pain of those who loved the boy. It reverberates from the first line to the last.

[Esther]

This was written in memory of Alan Kurdi, who, if I'm not wrong was washed up on the Turkish shores. I've been trying to portray the situation in Syria in the recent past. Thank you for a detailed and honest review!