A Nuclear Local Threat and Mashup of WC Williams’ ‘Of Asphodel, that Greeny Flower‘
News First, Poem Follows – https://freeqo.com/2020/06/04/everyone-is-in-love-with-the-bomb-for-william-carlos-williams/
Excerpt from www.defensenews.com
New Russian policy allows use of atomic weapons against non-nuclear strike
President Vladimir Putin on Tuesday endorsed Russia’s nuclear deterrent policy, which allows him to use atomic weapons in response to a conventional strike targeting the nation’s critical government and military infrastructure.
By including a non-nuclear attack as a possible trigger for Russian nuclear retaliation, the document appears to send a warning signal to the U.S. The new expanded wording reflects Russian concerns about the development of prospective weapons that could give Washington the capability to knock out key military assets and government facilities without resorting to atomic weapons.
In line with Russian military doctrine, the new document reaffirms that the country could use nuclear weapons in response to a nuclear attack or an aggression involving conventional weapons that “threatens the very existence of the state.”
But the policy document now also offers a detailed description of situations that could trigger the use of nuclear weapons. They include the use of nuclear weapons or other weapons of mass destruction against Russia or its allies and an enemy attack with conventional weapons that threatens the country’s existence.
Source News Link
News Curated by PioneeringNews.com
Everyone is in Love with the Bomb
nuclear deterrent policy
Of asphodel, ,
like butter
upon its stem-
green and wooden-
sweet,
the localized apocolypse, the tea over-steamed, poured out over hot flowers,
weapons of mass
to sing you.
We lived long, we sung like executioners when no one else is around.
knock out key
a life,
response to a nuclear attack
if you will,
with flowers.
military doctrine
cheered
when I came first to know, the data supports the nuclear grenade….
warning signal to the U.S
that there were flowers also
in hell.
Today
I’m filled with the fade
both loved,
even poor
colorless thing- “the mirror is held up to the old man dying and writing a last confession to his wife in the poem, Asphodel, that Greeny Flower, or, as his imagined critics might call it, the Spring of Death,”
I saw it
when child-
little prized among the living, pecked away at the keys at the heart died in its old as the mind trickled into the memetic ooze of the child’s years, pecking, ‘of asphodel, of ash, the settling of the scores by sudden anihilation’
but the dead see,
asking among themselves:
“is this a ghost in the nuclear fall-out”
while our eyes fill
with tears. Love. Love.
Of love, abiding love
it will be telling, would be a telling, a tale told to pirates on the dawn of a new assault,
though too weak a wash of crimson
colors it
to make it wholly credible. the fauxness shines in the breeze better than the real petals do, of asphodel, the tip of the brush collapses into an idea that does not translate to canvas.
There will be no visual storm for the man’s final confession, wife, wife, I took on another woman.
There is something
something urgent
I have to say to you
and you alone, the crimson frost of the last memory of my fishing hole days in my very early years, freed, freed from the permanent necessity of the frost, thus,
let go, but not yet, as Williams would continue,
“but it must wait
while I drink in
the joy of your approach,
perhaps for the last time.
And so
with fear in my heart
I drag it out
and keep on talking
for I dare not stop.”
