Poems about fighting - Battle is the dance of creation

Let me pour myself out onto this page. A poem

I’ve always liked poems with a little surprise at the end. One of the reasons I keep writing them is that poetry is an area where I am still able to surprise myself.

This poem is the first in a small (but growing collection) about fighting. I’ve spent the last twenty years around people who are passionate about combat sports and fighting. They are a special people. Full of life, yet so keen to risk it. Disciplined, yet incredibly impulsive. Almost addicted to physical contact, but only if it is violent. Quiet, stoic, and enduring ,yet ready to explode at any moment.

These are not qualities I possess, but elements I have observed. Great ingredients for poems. And being a watcher of things, and a writer downer of things, suits me best. (rather than being a smasher or a dasher of things)

In any case,

the tensions,

between fighting,

and poetry,

is more than enough,

to get the pens out. 

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Here is my poem:

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Battle is the dance of creation 

If you want to learn 

 - To destroy.  

Why not learn 

 - To create 

The iron hand can still hold 

 - A brush 

 - A pen 

Hundreds of years ago 

The most powerful kings dug in their heels 

And invested all their riches in gunpowder and muskets, 

While slaves sang and bent notes in a lilt.  

Now; 

None of you could reload a musket, 

But the whole world sings the blues.  

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