W.B. Yeats and the World at War

War gripped the world,
History wrote,
Ripping out a fragile note,
Europe's bloodied throat,
Trench madness,
Gashed unfurled men,
Battering smattered brains,
As bitter war intends,
Shattering torn men,
Whipping forlorn horses,
Scattering bones and blood,
Trashed with horrid trends,
Sorry bits tossed,
Embossed onto graven earth,
Buried under smitten poems,
Smearing guts into ruts,
Wounds into cuts like old moldy oats,
Tarred forevermore,
Scarred with marred political stains,
A denizen barred,
Far beyond that gory horizon,
An emerald Isle,
A gem beyond Europe's rank moats,
Green hills still groaning,
Some other story thick with gorse,
There stood W.B. Yeats,
Ireland's applauded poet,
Fifty-two lauded beats,
Crossing a cold meniscus Irish sea,
Leathery hands stuck,
Searching for words in the Irish muck,
A weathered mind that often sighed,
Writing rose petal notes,
Such authoritative poetic force ,
Frenzied the panicked man,
Relying on his horoscope Yeats cried,
Desperation driving him,
Frantic Yeats jabbered as he tried,
A marbled versifier to a sandy coast,
"Marry me!" Yeats asked,
An old yawning flame,
As W.B. maniacally tried,
Clawing at heaven's stars,
Decorating poetic bogs across the moor,
Reaching for unreachable Venus and Mars,
Employing impotent ghosts,
"I shan't", she vied,
A wry smile creasing her Irish floor,
Trying her pleasing old maid face,
So wishing to hide every past hurtful trace,
Yeats bolted out her dank door,
Wandering rank down a damned beach,
Washed by frothy hosts,
Such a broke and awful tragedy,
So the ghastly sea taunted him,
Alas what  horrid morbid tales,
Should salty waves deride?
Ahead she stood ankle deep,
A frigid surf neurotically creeping,
Mocking twenty-odd washed years,
Warping sadly behind her mad dreams,
William B. Yeats reverently knelt,
Weeping before another buttery goddess,
As she deeply tilted t'wards the gasping sun,
"Marry me!",
William Butler Yeats,
Extended his grey prickly self,
Picketing with wretched hopes it seems,
"Fuck off", she laughed,
Gaffed the bent man twirled further,
Furtively kissing another wet stony run,
Rent W.B. Yeats crawled,
Mauled by that acerbic sum,
Sprawling into another rank street,
Searching for some wishful means,
Yet another femme fatale,
A faint light came into view,
So that mad poet smoked,
Smoldering like a burned out sun,
Another patriotic try,
Another cold discerning eye,
Casting bleak yearning looks,
T'wards another deathly scene,
Yet another mortal queen,
She seemed a final droning hum,
Equating a conflagration of stars,
One last desperate moan,
"Marry me!" Yeats bleated,
His girdled breath heated,
Nailing him to some grey washed beam,
Staring bleakly at the graven reckless rhymer,
Tears streaming down his unshaven face,
Like a feckless bearded roan,
"Okay", she answered,
Romancing a rash wee notion,
Weighing her emotional options,
Elections far too vexed and lean,
Some souls surrendered and transferred,
Rendered into a meaningless dream,
War hated those reckless bombs,
Stinking wretched trenches,
All those dead fetched by a worthless call,
Matchless war wanting them all tragically dead,
So Peace might stand on that shocked turf,
Flourish on those bloodied fields,
Bloom with blood red poppies,
Good nature rising for all it's worth,
Sprouting tombstone crops and fruiting bodies,
Row upon row of those generous marble yields,
Nourishing the wanting bossy earth,
Ripe with rotting horses and decaying men,
Terra firma aching to hear bluebirds sing again.