Sirens Wailed

Stefan des Lauriers with poem
"Sirens Wailed" (1967)

Writing one “good” poem does not make you a poet…

Sirens wailed
People ran row upon row
Far from the city and neon lights
To a hole in the ground down far below
To a shelter where people pray in the night
For forgiveness because upon enemy sod
We've trespassed innocent killed
Our way of life in the name of God
People deceived lives filled
With so much hate
We must repent
No time for Fate
Is near
We've spent
So much
Time and Effort
On the Ultimate Weapon
To resort
Upon even yet
Now the sky is so bright
Such a devastating bomb
To shatter the night
All eternity
Gone
Off the face
Of the world
To whatever place
It has been hurled
It seems such an insanity
That a little bomb so big
Could end humanity Sirens wailed
People ran row upon row
Far from the city and neon lights
To a hole in the ground down far below
To a shelter where people pray in the night
For forgiveness because upon enemy sod
We've trespassed innocent killed
Our way of life in the name of God
People deceived lives filled
With so much hate
We must repent
No time for Fate
Is near
We've spent
So much
Time and Effort
On the Ultimate Weapon
To resort
Upon even yet
Now the sky is so bright
Such a devastating bomb
To shatter the night
All eternity
Gone
Off the face
Of the world
To whatever place
It has been hurled
It seems such an insanity
That a little bomb so big
Could end humanity

© 1967 Stefan des Lauriers

Writing one “good” poem does not make you a poet…

My Grade nine High School English class had assignment to write poetry, which inspired my latent muse. "Sirens Wailed" became my first poem. Shaped like a mushroom cloud it expressed the need to repent for creating the ultimate weapon. (I had read 'Hiroshima' in Grade six; Mrs. Robins snatched it out of my hands thinking it was a dirty pocketbook; it had a profound affect on me.) When I took the poem to the "Canadian Champion" to have it published I asked them to print it in the shape of a "bomb," but it didn't work, until I clarified my intentions.

There was a girl in my grade nine class who offered to type my poem for me, in return for having me write a poem that she could hand in as her own. She invited me to the Sadie Hawkins dance, but I was too immature for a relationship. I went to her house to meet her parents, and they were put off by some flippant comments I made. Also, while walking along Thomas street with her I saw that a school bus about to pass us would splash us and stopped without telling her, letting the puddle splash on her.

The English teacher had me help as her assistant, giving the students advice. As soon as I finished a poem I would show it around, sometimes even to students I hardly knew. I decided that I would become a famous poet, like T.S. Elliot. Most of my poetry was really lousy though. Writing one “good poem does not make you a poet…

[At the high school reunion in 2006, the best friend of the girl who asked me to the dance asked, “Didn’t you write a poem for her?”]