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Ode To The Confederate Dead

Rating: 3.5

Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plot
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Michael Walker 19 December 2019

I have read 'Ode to the Confederate Dead' many times lately. I picture a sprawling graveyard in which the many confederate soldiers are buried. Row after row of headstones and spoiled statues 'a wing chipped here, an arm there'. What to say of the bodies buried and ' lost in the acres of the insane green? ' Having looked around the endless cemetery, ' Leave now/ The shut gate and the decomposing wall'. A great Southern free verse poem.

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Gary Clark 19 November 2015

Why write a poem that requires effort to unravel and in that unraveling loses more of itself just as the reader substitutes more and more estimates and guesses of what it means? If a poet intends this as a test of the reader's ability to unravel what he wrote, why not become a teacher instead, where he or she can administer tests on a weekly basis?

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Bart Midwood 24 May 2015

can't figure where Tate stands - nice lyric deadpan eliotic versification though -

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