Dogs of War
...come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines,
with a monarch’s voice, Cry “Havoc!”
and let slip the dogs of war...
Mark Antony
Act III, Scene I
The Tragedy of Julius Caesar
William Shakespeare
Standing by the dusty road
the corn stubble
reaches north and south
to the limit of eyes.
Long flattened grass
rises in low ditches
containing the decimated fields
and the long narrow road
running flat and straight
into the landscape
of Illinois into Indiana.
The wind is a northern rush
of enshrouding sound:
rancorous, determinant;
snapping up
with a certainty the shredded
stubble leaves, harassing
every blade of grass
to take up the cause
scoring even the earth itself
into restlessness --
devouring it all
in a vicious ravenous hunger
that carries all away
even sound and light and thought.
In the distance they came
across the stubble
snapping and barking
like a single broken wire
bounces against itself
in a storm; sparking
spiting ravaging
power within as
they flowed forward
toward the road.
Armed in barks and growls
feral they came
inside the angry wind
wrenching and yoked
to one need as
a single army of passion
integrated of movement
driven and driving
led in a powerful phalanx
across the stubble
streaming over the low ditch
achieving the road
engulfing the far grass
and suddenly off
in the southern distance
their rabble sounds
shocking the air before them.
Mired in the devastation
of this passing host
as a civilian in rags,
long I stared after them
until there was nothing left--
no signs, no sounds, no thought
only the unremittant wind
howling in unceasing victory.
Rose Lake
April 30, 2006
Rossville Series
©2006 Dogs of War — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
Shall in these confines,
with a monarch’s voice, Cry “Havoc!”
and let slip the dogs of war...
Mark Antony
Act III, Scene I
The Tragedy of Julius Caesar
William Shakespeare
Standing by the dusty road
the corn stubble
reaches north and south
to the limit of eyes.
Long flattened grass
rises in low ditches
containing the decimated fields
and the long narrow road
running flat and straight
into the landscape
of Illinois into Indiana.
The wind is a northern rush
of enshrouding sound:
rancorous, determinant;
snapping up
with a certainty the shredded
stubble leaves, harassing
every blade of grass
to take up the cause
scoring even the earth itself
into restlessness --
devouring it all
in a vicious ravenous hunger
that carries all away
even sound and light and thought.
In the distance they came
across the stubble
snapping and barking
like a single broken wire
bounces against itself
in a storm; sparking
spiting ravaging
power within as
they flowed forward
toward the road.
Armed in barks and growls
feral they came
inside the angry wind
wrenching and yoked
to one need as
a single army of passion
integrated of movement
driven and driving
led in a powerful phalanx
across the stubble
streaming over the low ditch
achieving the road
engulfing the far grass
and suddenly off
in the southern distance
their rabble sounds
shocking the air before them.
Mired in the devastation
of this passing host
as a civilian in rags,
long I stared after them
until there was nothing left--
no signs, no sounds, no thought
only the unremittant wind
howling in unceasing victory.
Rose Lake
April 30, 2006
Rossville Series
©2006 Dogs of War — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.