Great War Poetry

[marina]

Lovely piece by your Great Uncle, Mike. Your remark "He was not a poet but just an ordinary soldier" disturbed me as did Marina answer. It lead to the following train of thought. Who do we consider a WW1 poet. Somebody that was published, wrote more than one poem, well educated, an Officer. I wonder what Private George Green might have penned if he had live longer.

L

No creative artist is defined by his class, only by his ability. Owen isn't a great poet because of his class or his rank, but because of his superior artistry; by the same token, Ivor Gurney is not a lesser poet because he was a ranker.

I expect Mike means that his uncle does not rank among the greats because he was an ordinary man of ordinary talents who thought that poetry was a more fitting way to express what he was feeling on a day that obviously moved him and inspired him. There are times when everyday prose just will not do, so George Green reached for something else, something more ambitious to commemorate his dead Colonel and his Pals and a triumph. This gives him a place among the war poets. That he is not one of the most accomplished war poets has nothing to do with class or rank.

[MikeS]

To be honest the thought of Class or Rank didn't even enter into my thoughts on this. He was an ordinary Soldier, he was a Private and died for his country in a land that was not his. He was not a Poet in the true sense of the word. He didn't have anything published, as this (as far as I know) is the only piece in existance. Perhaps he wrote more, I don't know. I discovered this written in pencil on a small scrap of paper in his personal belongings that were returned to his family after his death after being fataly wounded on the first day of the Somme 1916. These items were given to me by my Grandmother (His Sister). However, and I'm sure he would have agreed, he was an ordinary soldier carrying out his orders. The piece written about the Victory at Neuve Chapelle was a simple piece that everyone could understand and told of his encounters "on that terrible tenth of March". No more no less. If this makes him a war poet then ok, I'm sure he would have been proud, I am. But to look for issues with Class and/or Rank by being referred to as an ordinary soldier is wrong.

Mike

[larneman]

To be honest the thought of Class or Rank didn't even enter into my thoughts on this. He was an ordinary Soldier, he was a Private and died for his country in a land that was not his. >snip<

But to look for issues with Class and/or Rank by being referred to as an ordinary soldier is wrong.

Mike

Again my apologies, Mike and Marina, and of course any others that might have viewed my remarks as incorrect. I, in no way wish to distract from your views of these fine gentlemen poets of all classes and ranks. They did their bit and left a legacy of fine words that still move us by their innocence, directness or no holds barred approach to recording their war in their way.

greetings

L

[MikeS]

No offence taken, just good debate !!

Mike

[Fedelmar]

This was sent to me ... I know nothing about its origins or the poet.

The Anzac on the Wall.

I wandered thru a country town 'cos I had time to spare,

And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.

Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,

A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac on the Wall.

"The Anzac have a name?" I asked. The old man answered "No,.

The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago."

The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,

The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

"I asked around," the old man said, "but no one knows his face,

He's been on that wall twenty years, deserves a better place.

For some one must have loved him so, it seems a shame somehow."

I nodded in agreement and then said, "I'll take him now."

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight,

A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right.

To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,

'Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,

Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes.

The first reveals my Anzac's name and regiment of course,

John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.

This letter written from the front, my interest now was keen,

This note was dated August seventh 1917.

"Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea,

They say it's in the Bible - looks like a Billabong to me.

"My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers she's still my bride to be,

I just cant wait to see you both you're all the world to me.

And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out,

I told him to call on you when he's up and about."

"That Bluey is a larrikin and we all thought it funny,

He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.

I told you how he dragged me wounded in from no man's land,

He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand."

"Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast,

It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last.

He woke up in hospital and nearly lost his mind,

Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind."

"He's been in a bad way mum, he knows he'll ride no more,

Like me he loves a horse's back, he was a champ before.

So please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my brother,

Raised in a Queensland orphanage he's never known a mother."

But struth, I miss Australia mum and in my mind each day,

I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away.

I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight,

And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night.

I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down,

I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town".

The second letter I could see was in a lady's hand,

An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land.

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean,

It bore the date November 3rd 1917.

''T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war,

I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more"

"Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away,

To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day.

And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been,

We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen."

"He really is a comfort and works hard around the farm,

I read the same hope in his eyes that you won't come to harm.

Mc Connell's kids rode Billy but suddenly that changed,

We had a violent lightning storm and it was really strange."

"Last Wednesday just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight,

It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright.

It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared,

And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared."

"They brought him back next afternoon but something's changed I fear,

It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near.

Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?,

Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,"

"That's why we need you home son" - then the flow of ink went dry,

This letter was unfinished and I couldn't work out why.

Until I started reading the letter number three,

A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy.

Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been,

The same date as her letter - 3rd November 1917.

This letter which was never sent, became then one of three,

She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's old timers -children when he went to war,

Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.

They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell,

How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.

She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak,

"My Johnny's at the war you know, he's coming home next week."

They all remembered Bluey, he stayed on to the end,

A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend.

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak,

And always softly say, "Yes dear - John will be home next week."

Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say,

I tried to find out where he went but don't know to this day.

And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd,

She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God.

John's mother left no will I learned on my detective trail,

This explains my photo's journey, that clearance sale.

So I continued digging 'cause I wanted to know more,

I found John's name with thousands in the records of the war.

His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim,

The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame.

That last day in October back in 1917,

At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean.

That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear,

But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here.......

So as John's gallant spirit rose to cross the great divide,

Were lightning bolts back home a signal from the other side?

Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain,

Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?

Was it coincidental? Same time - same day - same date?

Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?

I think it's more than that, you know, as I've heard wiser men,

Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken.

Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder,

Where hoof beats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder.

Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again,

Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men.

Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track,

They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.

Yes sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions,

Oh no, my friend you can't dismiss all this as superstition.

The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range,

John Stuart rides forever there - Now I don't find that strange.

Now some gaze at this photo and they often question me,

And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.

"You must be proud of him." they say - I tell them, one and all,

That's why he takes the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall.

[marina]

Oh, my - that was a tear jerker!

Marina

[frev]

Sandra

'The Anzac on the Wall' was written as performance poetry by Jim Brown of Victoria. He won 1st place for 'original performance' of this poem at the 2005 Victorian Bush Poetry Championships.

It is a pretty fascinating tale.

Cheers, Frev

[Fedelmar]

Thanks Frev ... very worthy of the award.

I tried to locate Stuart but no luck.

Bright Blessings

Sandra

[Jon Haslock]

I think 'Disabled' by Wilfred Owen is a particularly poignant poem.

[Jon Haslock]

Apologies if its already been posted anywhere else.

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,

And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,

Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park

Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,

Voices of play and pleasure after day,

Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay

When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees

And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,

- In the old times, before he threw away his knees.

Now he will never feel again how slim

Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,

All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,

For it was younger than his youth, last year.

Now he is old; his back will never brace;

He's lost his colour very far from here,

Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,

And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,

And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,

After the matches carried shoulder-high.

It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,

He thought he'd better join. He wonders why...

Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.

That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,

Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,

He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;

Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears

Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts

For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;

And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;

Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.

And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.

Only a solemn man who brought him fruits

Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,

And do what things the rules consider wise,

And take whatever pity they may dole.

To-night he noticed how the women's eyes

Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.

How cold and late it is! Why don't they come

And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

[Arras100]

My favourite war poem would have to be "Aftermath" by S. Sassoon. Not a big surprise, I guess, seeing as it's my signature. I don't think I've read a war poem that's moved me quite as much as this one has.

[marina]

I don't know that I can pick one favourite, but I always find this one moving:

Futility

Move him into the sun—

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,—

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?

Wilfred Owen

[Arras100]

Marina, I also love that one. Between Owen and Sassoon, it's difficult to choose just one poem that stands out.

[jenniferwaller]

I must recommend the book, "In Flanders Fields and other poems of the First World War" edited by Brian Busby.

Beautiful poetry

My favourites poems from the book are

V. The Soldier by Rupert Brooke Page 17

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.

Into Battle (Flanders, April 1915) by Julian Grenfell page 27

The naked earth is warm with spring,

And with green grass and bursting trees

Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,

And quivers in the sunny breeze;

And life is colour and warmth and light,

And a striving evermore for these;

And he is dead who will not fight;

And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun

Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;

Speed with the light-foot winds to run,

And with the trees to newer birth;

And find, when fighting shall be done,

Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven

Hold him in their high comradeship,

The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven,

Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together,

They stand to him each one a friend;

They gently speak in the windy weather;

They guide to valley and ridge's end.

The kestrel hovering by day,

And the little owls that call by night,

Bid him be swift and keen as they,

As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him,"Brother, brother,

If this be the last song you shall sing,

Sing well, for you may not sing another;

Brother, sing."

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,

Before the brazen frenzy starts,

The horses show him nobler powers;

O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks,

And all things else are out of mind,

And only joy of battle takes

Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

Through joy and blindness he shall know,

Not caring much to know, that still

Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so

That it be not the Destin'd Will.

The thundering line of battle stands,

And in the air Death moans and sings:

But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,

And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

I really love the last two lines of this poem, gives me goospimples every time

Jen

[1st east yorks]

'A dead Boche' by Robert Graves.

A poem de glorifying and recalling the true horror of war.

'In Flanders Fields' by John McCrae.

A very poignant poem,possibly one of the best known poems of the war.

'Dulce et decorum est' by Wilfred Owen.

A poem i read at school but didnt appreciate.A descriptive account of life at the front,where life was fragile and death a constant companion.

Anthony.

[susanhemmings]

Joint favourites: In Flanders Fields and Man at Arms (Menin Gate). I was screeching with delight at work - the "girls" gave me the most wonderful gift for my birthday. As i was gently pulling it out of the cardboard tube I kept hoping and praying it was what it was... could only see the midnight blue of the sky...... joy of joys.... THE best birthday present ever.

A print of "Menin Gate at Midnight". It is truly haunting and superb and I cannot wait to get it wall mounted under a downlight.

Susan.

[Arras100]

Susan,

Could you perhaps post the poem "Man at Arms"?

[marina]

Man at Arms

What are you guarding, Man-at-Arms?

Why do you watch and wait?

'I guard the graves, said the Man-at-Arms,

I guard the graves by Flanders farms

Where the dead will rise at my call to arms,

And march to the Menin gate'.

'When do they march then, Man-at-Arms?

Cold is the hour - and late'

'They march tonight' said the Man-at-Arms,

With the moon on the Menin gate.

They march when the midnight bids them go.

With they're rifles slung and their pipes aglow,

Along the roads,the roads they know,

The roads to the Menin gate.

'What are they singing, Man-at-Arms,

As they march to the Menin gate?'

'The Marching songs', said the Man-at-Arms,

That let them laugh at fate.

No more will the night be cold for them,

For the last tattoo has rolled for them,

And their souls will sing as of old for them,

As they march to the Menin gate.

Anon

[squirrel]

Brilliant, brilliant poem - shiver down the spine and lump in the throat time.

Here is another anonymous one:

A thousand strong with laugh and song,

to charge the guns or line a trench,

we marched away one August day

and fought beside the gallant French.

A thousand strong, but not for long,

some lie entombed in Belgian clay.

Some torn by shell lie where they fell

beneath the turf of La Bassee.

But when at night up to the fight

eager from camp or trench we throng;

our comrades dead march at our head

and still we charge, a thousand strong!

[marina]

You're not the only one getting the shivers!

Marina

[squirrel]

I'll have a root about and see what else I can find................post tomorrow.

[Arras100]

Thank you, Marina, for posting 'Man at Arms'. Very haunting indeed.

[squirrel]

This one is by Wifred Gibson - Back

They ask where I've been,

And What I've done and seen.

But what can I reply

Who know it wasn't I?

But someone just like me,

Who went across the sea

And with my head and hands

Killed men in foreign lands.....

Though I must bear the blame,

Because he bore my name.

[squirrel]

I can't remember who wrote this one and hope I have got it right.

Lament for Mark Anderson

On the low table by the bed

Where it was set aside last night,

Beyond the bloodied, bandaged, lifeless head,

It twinkles in the morning light.

And, as I gaze upon it

I cannot speak ,or move, or think.

Only gaze upon the glass of water

That he could not drink.

[truthergw]

Wilfrid Gibson.