Protests Are Gentle

Tardy to the party, but glad to be here.  Life got in my way, or I'd been here earlier.  
I have read S. Crane's poem again and again over the years.  It must make we think.  So I decided to try my hand at it. I don't know what to say under the title, but I'm thinking I need to give Crane credit. Thank you for reading and thinking on this.  


Protests Are Gentle
 
(after War Is Kind by Stephen Crane)
 
Mothers, do not fret,
for protests are gentle.
Wild fists fly high into sky.
Mates and children, somewhere else.
Fret no more.
Protests are gentle.
 
          Chaos has a croaky voice
          as found on battlefields.
          These wild ones hunger for battle,
          but fame does not come close.
          Impressive is the protest-god
          leaning toward celebrated confusion.
       
Mothers, do not fret.
Distancing and masking
play no parts. Nor does hand-washing.
Come. You are welcome.
Watch how rage flairs up
as demonstrators erupt
against corrupt law and order.
Is that right? Do they remember why?
Do not fret.
Protests are gentle.
         
          Sweat runs down foreheads,
          bodies push and shove,
          strip, rip and tear.
          The other shoe drops.
          At last, a chance for achievement.
          Perhaps to be called heroic.
 
Mother whose chest hurts to breathe,
do not fret.
Protests are gentle.

How okay or not okay is it to model after Crane or anyone else?  
Is it a problem?  
No response, so I'm asking.

Pat

I believe all should do pastiche, imitation of the work of others.  I believe it causes us to examine details.

One of the details that I like about Crane's poem is how he changes the refrain each time.  Another strength is the word play of "Hoarse" in S2.  His poem seems to focus on a topic with little deviation.

I think you can strengthen your poem by adding those details to yours.

S1 L4 seems to need attention.  not sure who the players are.

Love to read another version of this now that the "flame" may have diminished a bit.

Todd

those lines and words.  I'll study Crane's a little longer. 

More in a few days....

Pat

I had forgotten about the poem, but reading your poem felt familiar which I really liked. I am excited to see what you do with the poem.

of Stephen Crane's, but when you model after another poet's poem, it's evidently the thing to do.  I learned how hard this is: felt like driving an 18 wheeler with no experience.  Also, I tried to model after a LONG poem.  What was I thinking!?  This is where the poem is now.  

Protests Are Gentle, 2020
 
(after War Is Kind by Stephen Crane)
 
Do not fret, Mothers, for protests are gentle.
Because your young ones threw wild fists into sky
And the black and white cars drove to other neighborhoods,
Fret no more.
Protests are gentle.
 
          Varoom, the thunder of protestors,
          Small souls who thirst for fight,
          These men were born to loot and destroy.
          Unexplained glory flies above them,
          Great is the fracas—
          Protest-god, great, and his kingdom
          A city where broken teeth are exposed.
       
Do not fret, Mothers, for protests are gentle.
Because tempers erupted on television,
Felt deep in the chest, gulped, and failed,
Do not fret.
Protests are gentle.
         
          Blazing signs of the protestors,
          Buzzards with talons rip and tear.
          These men were born to loot and destroy.
          Point for them the virtue of achievement.
          Make plain to them the excellence of ruination
          And a city where broken teeth are exposed.
 
Mothers whose chests cave-in like a waning moon
on the bright burial clothes of sons,
Do not fret.
Protests are gentle.

Pat

The power is evident in this version.  I vote you let it rest and come back to it with fresh eyes.

Select another shorter poem for next time.  I remember modeling Frost's "The Road not Taken" and discovering it rhymed.  Silly, Todd.  However, my respect for Frost DEEPENED exponentially.

I really like your work and am very proud of you.

Todd

Thank you, Todd.

And now, what about the title?






Passing It On
 
A bright red canna
stands tall, a bit tattered
beside the black, iron bell
mounted on a post overlooking a river.
The fog hovers near the bloom
of wordless lips
and crimson ears.
The flower drips,
passing tiny sweetness
to greenery below,
as if it’s a soft cue
on how simple things
bear something of the limitless,

the higher path.