Le Charnier

Another wow moment from one of your masterpieces.

You cram so much imagery into so few words it is unbelievable.

love how you begin with all the 'c' words draws you straight in and builds the atmosphere immediately.

The skimming stones part is fantastic the way you say they drown forever is very clever.

The end was perfection, the word 'soon' has such a ring to it, it asks so many questions on it's own.

as usual from you an excellent piece.

I can only say based on what I understood that I hope it is not soon...

Pablo Picasso's Guernica and The Charned House are great metaphors. His vision of war through Cubism has always got me thinking about the atrocities mankind has been through last century and why not to mention this century too.
I still don't know if it is death that gives meaning to life or life that gives meaning to death. I guess it will always be a philosophical question.In the beginning, I shall find my end just like T.S.Elliot because we are born doomed to die. That is the only certainty in life.Every day we die a little.It is sad but it is our greatest tragedy in life.Whether we want or not death is imminent.Picasso depicted his vision of war.Pieces, fractures: this is the post-modern man. His umbilical cord was cut and because of that he no longer can find bliss and paradise.Maybe death is the answer when answers can't be found.I will leave an extract of T.S.Elliot's poem:

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field,, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the elctric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

But whenever I read your pieces and I am sure that in your beginning, there was only one word written:Poetry.You are an inspiration Xanthe.You are an asset for this website.It is always good to see your muse around.

Ok...officially left with no words...so happy to see this nominated. It needs to win....wow!! <3

What is this?it freaked me out.

But wooooow you are an awesome poetess, was quite for long time then BANG, you hit us with this awesome piece of yours:)