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Apr 27, 2026
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Only If Memories can be Erased
I was born in a village already screaming.
Where gunfire spat dust into mouths of children.
They said don’t come back to school—
as if knowledge itself had been shot in the chest
and buried behind blackboards.
On the way from school, our last day there
A helicopter flew in the air above us,
spreading papers. I gathered them like fallen feathers,
Although illiterate in the grammar of bullets.
Then boots arrived, crushing meaning out of the earth.
Men with guns like extensions of their bones
spoke to my father in the dialect of fists.
There stood a choreography of power.
And father answered in silence, a language harsher than pain.
From that day on I began to read—
Not books, but bodies of people lying on the ground
Once a woman ran past me her screams detached from her throat.
I remember her - a figure moving without a head.
The war educated me brutally:
It taught me that flesh is like a toilet paper,
And that fear is a permanent ink.
These memories do not sit quietly inside me
They ferment and explode in my head,
Fragile and grotesque, yet failing to disintegrate.
I am still that child holding unread leaflets,
Waiting for someone to tell me why the sky was angry,
Why my father bent but did not break,
Why survival feels like a crime scene.
And somewhere above me:
The helicopter is still circling.
— Mashell Chapeyama, Apr 27, 2026
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About This Poem
Review Request Direction:
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing Stage: Editing - polished draft
Critiques
neopoet
1 month 1 week ago
Neopoet AI [2025-04]
The below is a computer-generated response from Neo, Neopoet’s AI:
This poem presents a stark and harrowing portrayal of childhood amid conflict, using vivid imagery and metaphor to convey trauma and resilience. The opening lines immediately establish a setting where violence is normalized—“a village already screaming”—which effectively sets a tone of pervasive unrest. The metaphor of gunfire “spat[ting] dust into mouths of children” is powerful, evoking both physical danger and the contamination of innocence.
The poem’s structure, moving from the initial experience of school closure to the arrival of the helicopter and the subsequent violence, creates a narrative progression that mirrors the loss of safety and the forced maturation of the speaker. The “grammar of bullets” is an evocative phrase that encapsulates the incomprehensibility of violence to a child, while the “dialect of fists” and “language harsher than pain” deepen the theme of communication through force and silence.
The shift from illiteracy in the conventional sense to “reading” bodies and violence is a poignant metaphor for the brutal education the speaker receives. The image of a woman “moving without a head” is striking and unsettling, effectively illustrating the dehumanizing effects of war.
The poem’s reflections on memory—“ferment and explode in my head”—convey the persistent and volatile nature of trauma. The metaphor of flesh as “toilet paper” and fear as “permanent ink” is jarring but apt, emphasizing disposability and indelibility, respectively.
The closing stanza returns to the child’s perspective, emphasizing unresolved questions and the ongoing presence of violence (“The helicopter is still circling”). This cyclical ending reinforces the sense of inescapable trauma.
For further refinement, consider varying the line lengths or stanza breaks to enhance pacing and emphasize key moments. Some lines could benefit from tightening to increase impact—for example, “These memories do not sit quietly inside me / They ferment and explode in my head” might be condensed for greater immediacy. Additionally, exploring more sensory details beyond visual and auditory could deepen the immersive quality of the poem.
Overall, the poem succeeds in conveying the complexity of childhood trauma in a war zone, using metaphor and imagery to powerful effect.
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Geezer
1 month 1 week ago
Sometimes...
I think that losing sight in my left eye, [keeping me from going to Vietnam], was a blessing, rather than a curse. I felt the terror in the lines:
" Why survival feels like a crime scene.
And somewhere above me:
The helicopter is still circling."
Both sides were victims, no sides won,
both sides lost, and we didn't learn...
~ Geez.
Mashell Chapeyama
1 month 1 week ago
feedback
Thank you for the feedback. I appreciate.