Friday, March 6, 2026

Grant Brissett : War And Human Phyche

 

This poem began, quietly, as a
reckoning. I wanted to understand why, in every era, the same fever spreads under different banners. 

It never starts with generals; it starts with longing — to be certain, to belong, to mean something. And so the bravely foolish rise again, convinced that dying well can redeem a world built on fear.

Each war, I think, is a mirror. We keep mistaking the reflection for the enemy. The battlefield moves, but the impulse doesn’t; it lives in the heart’s suspicion of its own good.

I wrote this in Melbourne, in the cool air of early Autumn 2026 — a season of calm light and quiet foreboding. The leaves turn to flame without a sound, and you can almost 

believe that beauty, too, remembers what it cost.

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What Causes Bloody War

“Every age begins with hope and ends with reason’s rust.  

Man makes his meaning from the dust.”

When fire was faith and bone was law,  

man learned to guard his patch of sky.  

He named his fear, he sharpened awe,  

and swore to live while others die.

The earth grew loud with marching feet,  

the gods grew rich on mortal sin.  

Each noble lie was made complete,  

for peace was never born within.

The bravely foolish took the vow,  

their blood the ink of history’s scroll.  

They fought for truths they’d not endow,  

and crowned each grave an honoured goal.

From Troy to Flanders, same refrain—  

the cause reborn in newer dress.  

A martyr’s heart, a tyrant’s gain,  

the rhythm hums its faithfulness.

Now drones hum hymns where soldiers bled,  

and screens redeem what guns implore.  

The living quote the nameless dead,  

and call it peace to fight once more.

Until the mind unlearns its steel,  

and love outgrows the flags it wore,  

the human heart will burn to feel—  

and learn again the cause of war.


So sleep, brief dreamer in the din;  

your hope will wake, your truth will fail.  

The war begins and ends within—  

The rest is echo, thin and frail.



     ***

His works never leave a direct message, but instead stir the reader's quiet thoughts and compel them to think deeply. Readers are exposed to new facets of life. This is his masterpiece, which depicts war and the human psyche and Sensitivity. ( Editor)


3 comments:

  1. Thank you for sharing this, poem. I sat with it quietly. I let it move through me. The poem, the painting, your reflection. There is something here that does not ask to be analyzed. It asks only to be witnessed. And I witness it.

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  2. https://www.actualfreedom.com.au/library/

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  3. Lao Tzu points to the Tao—the Way. It cannot be named, for the name is not the thing. It cannot be grasped, for the grasping hand is the problem. It is the source of all things, yet it is no thing at all. It is empty, yet it produces endlessly. It is still, yet it moves all.

    His guidebook is simple: Live in harmony with the Tao. Do not force. Do not strive. Do not cling. Be like water—soft, yielding, humble. Water does not fight; it flows around obstacles and over time wears down the hardest stone. Be like the valley—receptive, low, empty. The valley receives all and competes with none.

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