The History Book Club discussion

This is a thread requested by one of our members (JP). It will focus on the poetry written by soldiers and others during any of our world's conflicts.

You may post the poetry itself, write-ups on the poets, discussions concerning their poetry, etc. (poems, urls, research, discussions, etc) as well as your interpretations and emotional reactions to the poetry itself.

If you also have written war poetry, you may post that poetry here as well. Please make sure to follow all guidelines; and be civil and respectful of others.

Enjoy.

Bentley

This is a poem by Wilfred Owen:

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

1 DULCE ET DECORUM EST - the first words of a Latin saying (taken from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country. In other words, it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country
2 rockets which were sent up to burn with a brilliant glare to light up men and other targets in the area between the front lines (See illustration, page 118 of Out in the Dark.)
3 a camp away from the front line where exhausted soldiers might rest for a few days, or longer
4 the noise made by the shells rushing through the air
5 outpaced, the soldiers have struggled beyond the reach of these shells which are now falling behind them as they struggle away from the scene of battle

6 Five-Nines - 5.9 calibre explosive shells
7 poison gas. From the symptoms it would appear to be chlorine or phosgene gas. The filling of the lungs with fluid had the same effects as when a person drowned
8 the early name for gas masks
9 a white chalky substance which can burn live tissue
10 the glass in the eyepieces of the gas masks
11 Owen probably meant flickering out like a candle or gurgling like water draining down a gutter, referring to the sounds in the throat of the choking man, or it might be a sound partly like stuttering and partly like gurgling
12 normally the regurgitated grass that cows chew; here a similar looking material was issuing from the soldier's mouth
13 high zest - idealistic enthusiasm, keenly believing in the rightness of the idea
14 keen
15 see note 1
a

To see the source of Wilfred Owen's ideas about muddy conditions see his letter in Wilfred Owen's First Encounter with the Reality of War.
Notes copyright © David Roberts and Saxon Books 1998 and 1999. Free use by students for personal use only. The poem appears in both Out in the Dark and Minds at War, but the notes are only found in Out in the Dark.
Copyright © 1999 Saxon Books.


[image error] [image error] Wilfred Owen

This seems to be a respectable and good site on Wilfred Owen which you might like to take a look at:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owena.htm

Wilfred Owen's Shock of War:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owena.htm#...

Here is the poem -

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells2 for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out3 their hasty orisons.4
No mockeries5 now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented6 choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles7 calling for them from sad shires.8
What candles9 may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor10 of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk11 a drawing-down of blinds.12

September - October, 1917
Notes for students
1 Anthem - perhaps best known in the expression "The National Anthem;" also, an important religious song (often expressing joy); here, perhaps, a solemn song of celebration
2 passing-bells - a bell tolled after someone's death to announce the death to the world
3 patter out - rapidly speak
4 orisons - prayers, here funeral prayers
5 mockeries - ceremonies which are insults. Here Owen seems to be suggesting that the Christian religion, with its loving God, can have nothing to do with the deaths of so many thousands of men
6 demented - raving mad
7 bugles - a bugle is played at military funerals (sounding the last post)
8 shires - English counties and countryside from which so many of the soldiers came
9 candles - church candles, or the candles lit in the room where a body lies in a coffin
10 pallor - paleness
11 dusk has a symbolic significance here
12 drawing-down of blinds - normally a preparation for night, but also, here, the tradition of drawing the blinds in a room where a dead person lies, as a sign to the world and as a mark of respect. The coming of night is like the drawing down of blinds.
Notes copyright © David Roberts and Saxon Books 1998 and 1999. Free use by students for personal use only.
Copyright © 1999 Saxon Books.

Here Dead We Lie:

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.
Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

A E Housman

Source: http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/housman.html

Peace

by Rupert Brooke

the first of his sonnets in the 1914 sequence


Now, God be thanked Who has matched us1 with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!2

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release3 there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save4 this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

1 matched us - made us suitable to take part in these thrilling times
2 emptiness of love - Brooke was disillusioned with love. He had a stormy relationship with Katherine Cox which led to a nervous breakdown. Other relationships with young women were never lastingly satisfactory.
3 release - relief, a sense of freedom
4 save - except

All of Brooke's war sonnets appear in both Out in the Dark and Minds at War. Only Out in the Dark has basic notes.

This is a very good resource for information regarding Rupert Brooke:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/brooke1.html

His reaction to war:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/brooke2.html

His Life:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/biogs99.ht...

Here are some sites on First World War poetry which are good:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/FWW_index....

HERE IS THE WAR POETRY SITE: (EXCELLENT)

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/biogs99.ht...

Gavin Roberts

STRANGE MEETING

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said that other, "save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour.
And it" it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed.
And of my weeping something had been left.
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold.
The pity of war. the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells.
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed und killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . ."

Wilfred Owen

Review of Minds of War (Gavin Roberts - although the War Poetry site called him David)

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/minds_p1.h...

Gavin Roberts

Excellent listing on poets and poems Bentley, my favourite is "ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH". I will have to start digging about in my poety books to find a few more favourites to share.

You are welcome Aussie Rick..I look forward to your posts.

It took a Canadian to write;

Vitai Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of the ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

The sand of the Desert is sodden red -
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel's dead,
And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

This is the world that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind -
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

Bloody stirring stuff Sir Henry! It was also truth at one time...

I came across some Civil War Poetry.

Here is one from the Confederate side by Henry Timrod:

http://www.civilwarpoetry.org/confede...


CHARLESTON
by Henry Timrod
(1829-1867)


Calm as that second summer which precedes
The first fall of snow,
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
The city bides the foe.

As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,
Her bolted thunders sleep, --
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
Looms o'er the solemn deep.

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur
To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war
Above the level sand.

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched,
Unseen, beside the flood, --
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched
That wait and watch for blood.

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,
Walk grave and thoughtful men,
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade
As lightly as the pen.

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim
Over a bleeding hound,
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him
Whose sword she sadly bound.

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,
Day patient following day,
Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome,
Across her tranquil bay.

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands
And spicy Indian ports,
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,
And Summer to her courts.

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,
The only hostile smoke
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,
From some frail, floating oak.

Shall the Spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles,
And with an unscathed brow,
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-covered isles,
As fair and free as now?

We know not; in the temple of the Fates
God has inscribed her doom;
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits
The triumph or the tomb.

Civil War Poetry - On the Union Side:


A WORD FOR THE HOUR
by John Greenleaf Whittier
(1807-1892)


The firmament breaks up. In black eclipse
Light after light goes out. One evil star,
Luridly glaring through the smoke of war,
As in the dream of the Apocalypse,
Drags others down. Let us not weakly weep
Nor rashly threaten. Give us grace to keep
Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap
On one hand into fratricidal fight,
Or, on the other, yield eternal right,
Frame lies of laws, and good and ill confound?
What fear we? Safe on freedom's vantage ground
Our feet are planted; let us there remain
In unrevengeful calm, no means untried
Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied,
The sad spectators of a suicide!
They break the lines of Union: shall we light
The fires of hell to weld anew the chain
On that red anvil where each blow is pain?
Draw we not even now a freer breath,
As from our shoulders falls a load of death
Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim bore
When keen with life to a dead horror bound?
Why take we up the accursed thing again?
Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more
Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag
With its vile reptile blazon. Let us press
The golden cluster on our brave old flag
In closer union, and, if numbering less,
Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.

16th, 1st month, 1861.

And of course, Walt Whitman musing the passing of Abraham Lincoln:


O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)


O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

About World War II:

ALONE AND FAR REMOVED


Alone and far removed from earthly care
The noble ruins of men lie buried here.
You were strong men, good men
Endowed with youth and much the will to live.
I hear no protest from the mute lips of the dead.
They rest; there is no more to give.
So long, my comrades,
Sleep ye where you fell upon the field.
But tread softly please
March o'er my heart with ease
March on and on,
But to God alone we kneeled.

By: Audie Murphy

About the Vietnam War:

VIETNAMESE MORNING

Before war starts
In early morning
The land is breath taking.
The low, blazing, ruby sun
Melts the night-shadow pools
Creating an ethereal appearance.

Each miniature house and tree
Sprouts its, long, thin shadow
Stretching long on dewy ground.
The countryside is panoramic maze,
Jungle, hamlets, hills and waterways,
Bomb-craters, paddies, broken-backed bridges.

Rice fields glow sky-sheens,
Flat, calm, mirrored lakes
Reflect the morning peace.
The patchwork quilted earth,
Slashed by snaking tree-lines,
Slumbers in dawn's blue light.

Sharp, rugged mountain peaks
Sleep in a soft rolling blanket
Of clinging, slippery, misty fog.
Effortlessly, languidly, it flows
Shyly spreading wispy tentacles out
To embrace the earth with velvet arms.

Curt Bennett

Copyright Curt Bennett © 2003

Written at the time of the Korean War:

NIGHT INTRUDER LAMENT

I have a story to tell you
A story of men bold and brave
Who have fought, some have died, for their Country
With a brightly burning plane for their grave.

On an island we called Honshu
With the broad blue Pacific all around
We set up our tents and our shelters
And dug holes for our safety in the ground.

At night when day fighters are sleeping
And we call Hacksaw for a fix
The Heavens are filled with our thunder
And the roar of our Baker-26.

On a cold moonless night in December
The order was read with a sigh
And a happy-go-lucky young pilot
Took his plane and his crew out to die.

They went with a smile all unknowing
'Twas only a Korean patrol
Too bad that their duty included
Their answering GOD's Final Roll.

Moonshine gave them their vector
Surveillance to the Yalu and back.
They say the last words they transmitted
"We wish we were back in our sacks."

One hour stretched out into seven.
It was no time to jest or to grin.
We knew as we waited and listened
Another Night Intruder had augured in.

There was no one to see and report it.
No help from a searching patrol
Just three names written off the Roster
Who will no longer answer the roll.

So lift up your glasses my buddies
In honor of those who fought their fight.
The sleep you enjoy out of danger
Is because of the boys who fly at night.

-- Author Unknown

Poetry from the Iraq War:

Najaf 1820
Brian Turner


Camel caravans transport the dead

from Persia and beyond, their bodies dried

and wrapped in carpets, their dying wishes

to be buried near Ali,

where the first camel

dragged Ali's body across the desert

tied to the fate of its exhaustion.

Najaf is where the dead naturally go,

where the gates of Paradise open before them

in unbanded light, the blood washed clean

from their bodies.

It is November,

the clouds made of gunpowder and rain,

the earth pregnant with the dead;

cemetery mounds stretching row by row

with room enough yet for what the years

will bring: the gravediggers need only dig,

shovel by shovel.

NPR did a piece on the soldier and you can actually listen to him read his poetry:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/st...



Brian Turner

Of course the American Phillipine conflict and the Epic poem about Manila Bay

http://www.archive.org/stream/battleo...

The Battle of Manila Bay by William W. Gault

Crusades:

The Song of Roland

http://omacl.org/Roland/

Harvey wrote: "It took a Canadian to write;

Vitai Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last m..."

Thank you Harvey..who was the poet?

Bentley wrote: "Harvey wrote: "It took a Canadian to write;

Vitai Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play..."

Harvey..I did look it up: (Henry Newbolt)

It appears he was born and died in England. Did he live for a time in Canada..I was a little confused because you stated that the poet was Canadian.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Ne...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUpawN...

The Poetry of the Boer War

http://www.st-andrews.ac.uk/~pvm/Hard...

One of my favourites:

Charles Wolfe
1791–1823

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

Bentley wrote: "Bentley wrote: "Harvey wrote: "It took a Canadian to write;

Vitai Lampada

Yes Bentley, you are right. He did tour Canada and Via Lampada was very, very popular there. Newbolt felt he had created a monster! The poem there, became more popular than in England. I think I erroneously ascribed to him nationality on that basis.

Thank you Bentley!

I still like the poem, even if its sentiments are rather less than fashionable these days. To be fair, those sentiments were probably soon lost in the mud of Flanders.

W.B. Yeats

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Harvey wrote: "Bentley wrote: "Bentley wrote: "Harvey wrote: "It took a Canadian to write;

Vitai Lampada

Yes Bentley, you are right. He did tour Canada and Via Lampada was very, very popular there. Newbolt felt..."

Yes, from the Boer War to World War I...by then the fervor for the glory of war was waning for sure. And yet England had far more to endure and the country and its people demonstrated a lot of bravery and courage.

England did have so much to endure, yet the Empire (maybe a dirty word in this day and age) and the Dominions sacrificed so much, importantly, were steadfast too in their support. Leaving aside Canada's Governor-General not able to keep up with Churchill's drinking; it is difficult to imagine today the same ethos pervading large sections of the population, that is, any population!

Harvey wrote: "England did have so much to endure, yet the Empire (maybe a dirty word in this day and age) and the Dominions sacrificed so much, importantly, were steadfast too in their support. Leaving aside Can..."

Very true Harvey, I doubt if sections of Australia's population would understand the motivation and ethos of those from the earlier generations.

Not a Hero


The ANZAC Day march was over - the old Digger had done his best.
His body ached from marching - it was time to sit and rest.
He made his way to a park bench and sat with lowered head.
A young boy passing saw him - approached and politely said,
"Please sir do you mind if I ask you what the medals you wear are for?
Did you get them for being a hero, when fighting in a war?"

Startled, the old Digger moved over and beckoned the boy to sit.
Eagerly the lad accepted - he had not expected this!
"First of all I was not a hero," said the old Digger in solemn tone,
"But I served with many heroes, the ones that never came home.
So when you talk of heroes, it's important to understand,
The greatest of all heroes gave their lives defending this land.

"The medals are worn in their honour, as a symbol of respect.
All diggers wear them on ANZAC Day - it shows they don't forget."
The old digger then climbed to his feet and asked the boy to stand.
Carefully he removed the medals and placed them in his hand.
He told him he could keep them - to treasure throughout his life,
A legacy of a kind - left behind - paid for in sacrifice.

Overwhelmed the young boy was speechless - he couldn’t find words to say.
It was there the old Digger left him - going quietly on his way.
In the distance the young boy glimpsed him - saw him turn and wave goodbye.
Saddened he sat alone on the bench - tears welled in his eyes.
He never again saw him ever - but still remembers with pride,
When the old Digger told him of Heroes and a young boy sat and cried.

Clyde Hamilton

Very emotional poem Rick.

It's a Queer Time
from
OVER THE BRAZIER
Robert Graves

It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
When steel and fire go roaring through your head.

One moment you'll be crouching at your gun
Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun :
The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast
No time to think leave all and off you go . . .
To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime
Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Rest West!
It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yeling 'Fag!'
When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
And find . . . You're digging tunnels through the hay
In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.
O springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
You're back in the old sailor suit again.
It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out
A great roar the trench shakes and falls about
You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo!
Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,
Hanky to nose -- theat lyddite makes a stench
Getting her pinafore all over grime.
Funny! because she died ten years ago!
It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
Up jump the Boshes, rifles thump and click,
You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
Even good Christians don't like passing straight
From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate
To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime
Of golden harps . . . and . . . I'm not well today . . .
It's a queer time.

Graves is of course talking about the trenches

'Aussie Rick' wrote: "Not a Hero

The ANZAC Day march was over - the old Digger had done his best.
His body ached from marching - it was time to sit and rest.
He made his way to a park bench and sat with lowered he..."

My first time to read that one; I'm with Bentley, it is so emotional!

William Collins
1721–1759

‘How sleep the Brave’

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

Another great one.

Rupert Brooke

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Siegfried Sassoon

Dreamers

Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,
Drawing no dividend from time's tomorrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.
I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

Such a sad Sassoon poem..so real.

It is so close to the truth that I have seen in a poem for quite a while, it is very sad.

Bentley wrote: "Such a sad Sassoon poem..so real."
I agree, Bentley.

I think of this one as a sequel to "In Flanders Fields"

The Anxious Dead.

by John McCrae
1872 - 1918

O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.

These lines were so chilling Gabriele

(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

Gabriele wrote: "Bentley wrote: "Such a sad Sassoon poem..so real."
I agree, Bentley.

I think of this one as a sequel to "In Flanders Fields"

The Anxious Dead.

by John McCrae
1872 - 1918

O guns, fall silent ti..."

Great poem Gabriele

THERE are some that go for love of a fight
And some for love of a land,
And some for a dream of the world set free
Which they barely understand.


A dream of the world set free from Hate -
But splendidly, one and all,
Danger they drink as 'twere wine of Life
And jest as they reel and fall.


Clean aims, rare faculties, strength and youth,
They have poured them freely forth
For the sake of the sun-steeped land they left
And the far green isle in the north.


What can we do to be worthy of them,
Now hearts are breaking for pride?
Give comfort at least to the wounded men
And the kin of the man that died

By Dorothea MacKellar

This is a military poem I've been meaning to write and today the words finally came out of me and on to paper. I'm open to any input on it.

To My Brothers and Sisters

My brothers and sisters
We go out today,
To fight a war
Far away.
Our uniforms may be different,
But our cause is the same,
To protect the ones that we love,
That will carry on our name,
We do our duty,
Without complaint,
Our job is not,
For the faint.
We aren't here for the glory,
Or to make a front page story.
We did it for the red, white, and blue,
Trusting it to lead us true.

I know we all
Won't come home today,
Don't worry I won't
Let you stay,
I'll take you home
To mom and dad,
Tell them of
The courage you had,
I'll be there
When you're laid to rest,
On the hill's
Dark green crest.
I bring a stiff hand
To my eye,
I do my best
Not to cry.
A crisp salute,
I do render,
To my brothers and sisters,
That did not surrender.

By Martin Lamb, 9 February 2010

Martin wrote: "This is a military poem I've been meaning to write and today the words finally came out of me and on to paper. I'm open to any input on it.

To My Brothers and Sisters

My brothers and sisters..."

Hi Martin, great poem, well done!

An Australian poem from the Vietnam War:

HE WAS A MATE

He was a mate, a real good mate 'e was,
A friendly sort of feller, liked a joke;
And if it had to happen, it's a shame
It had to happen to such a decent bloke.

But - ah, fair dinkum, don't it make you wonder
What God in Heaven's thinkin' about up there;
The way He chooses who to sacrifice
To me somehow it doesn't quite seem fair.

You'd think He'd want to take a bloke like me
Who'd be no loss to no-one here on Earth;
But no, He always seems to pick the best
Whose life amounts to ten times what mine's worth.

But I suppose He'd say it's not His fault,
It's us and how we treat our fellow man;
And if too many good blokes' lives are lost
We can't just blame it all on His great plan.

He slung us here on Earth and said "Righto,
Get on with it you blokes, the world is yours";
But all we've done is fight among ourselves
And destroy each other with our endless wars.

Now, there's a sort of aching here inside,
I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong;
But a soldier can't afford to feel this way,
He's got to grit his teeth and carry on.

So how's a bloke supposed to deal with this?
I know they trained me well, I can't complain;
But this is somethin' you don't learn about
When they teach you how to play the soldier's game.

They teach you how to shoot and how to kill,
You even learn which enemy to hate;
But nowhere in their training do you learn
How to live with the loss of a real good mate.


Lachlan Irvine

A well written poem with a deep meaning. There really is no way to understand a loss. It a question that many of our service men and women wonder everyday. Thanks for sharing the poem with us Aussie Rick.

This was an interesting clip:

Wilfred Owen in Voices of Wartime:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOk-wU...

Also, Wilfred Owen Remembered:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ug-ztF...

Here are the lyrics of a popular anti-war song, written before the U.S. entered WW1:

I Didn't Raise My Boy to be a Soldier
by Al Pianadosi and Alfred Bryan

Ten million soldiers to the war have gone,
Who may never return again.
Ten million mothers' hearts must break,
For the ones who died in vain.
Head bowed down in sorrow in her lonely years,
I heard a mother murmur thro' her tears:

Chorus:
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,
I brought him up to be my pride and joy,
Who dares to put a musket on his shoulder,
To shoot some other mother’s darling boy?
Let nations arbitrate their future troubles,
It’s time to lay the sword and gun away,
There’d be no war today,
If mothers all would say,
I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier.

What victory can cheer a mother’s heart,
When she looks at her blighted home?
What victory can bring her back,
All she cared to call her own?
Let each mother answer in the year to be,
Remember that my boy belongs to me!

(Chorus)