Poetry has a neat little definition, it's,'distillation or compression of meaning.' The problem with this definition is that it's all encompassing, telling us little about what constitutes good or bad poetry- that's for us to decide.

I pinned my colours to the mast years ago, when I decided that for me, good poetry is concerned with the human condition.

Here's another powerful poem from my favourite poet, Bill Smith from Ramsbottom.

LEARNING LESSONS.

Take a walk through Pol Pots fields, sculptured white with bone.

Come live beneath a Lebanon sky, and make believe it's home.

Breathe deep the martyr's dusty breath, laced with innocent screams.

See the towers fall to earth, the nightmare of your dreams.

Wash it down with Columbine Red, lie low a Dresden night.

See ghosts in stripes through barbed wire fence, convince me they were right.

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Die silent in the Afghan hills, roast in a desert storm.

See the child run from the flames, on a sunny Vietnam morn.

Ride upon a train of death, start your day alive.

Don't bother packing sandwiches, for you'll be dead by five.

Hear the hum of death my friend, ride a bus to hell.

Take a tour of foreign fields, where a generation fell.

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Sing for me a Dixie song, where brother shot at brother.

Talk to me of holy wars, another grieving mother.

Convince me that your wrongs are right, your Gods the only one.

Live with the dead in yesterday, for them tomorrows gone.

Wear a rose of red or white, bear a flag with stars.

There's boxes waiting to be filled, and bombs to plant in cars.

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What is history for my friend, but to learn from our mistakes?

What if we choose to simply ignore, the path that hatred takes?

The circle goes around and round, the cycle of death repeats.

Until the day the whole world joins, where hell and heaven meet.

On that day there'll be no more, just a cloud in the sky to show.

That the history books aren't worth a toss, if the world don't want to know.

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