Great War Poetry

[elle72]

Being a mother, I find Jessie Pope's 'Socks' to be close to my heart.....probably because I imagine if one of my sons was away at war I would find myself behaving exactly the same....

Shining pins that dart and click

In the fireside's sheltered peace

Check the thoughts that cluster thick -

20 plain and then decrease.

He was brave - well, so was I -

Keen and merry, but his lip

Quivered when he said goodbye -

Purl the seam-stitch, purl and slip.

Never used to living rough,

Lots of things he'd got to learn;

Wonder if he's warm enough -

Knit 2, catch 2, knit 1, turn.

Hark! The paper-boys again!

Wish that shout could be suppressed;

Keeps one always on the strain -

Knit off 9, and slip the rest.

Wonder if he's fighting now,

What he's done and where he's been;

He'll come out on top, somehow -

Slip 1, knit 2, purl 14.

[marina]

Thanks for that, Nickoby. I have been unable to find it ANYWHERE!

Marina

[marina]

Talking of Kipling, has anyone read his short story 'Mary Postgate'. One of the most bizarre stories about the Great War I've ever read, particuarly coming from a writer like Kipling. The last few paragraphs were quite horrifying..

The story has been adapted to a play - and I[ve got tickets to see it next week at the Edinburgh Festival!

Marina

[Skipman]

I love sassoon's .

The Hawthorn Tree

Not much to me is yonder lane

Where i go every day

But when there's been a shower of rain

And hedge-birds whistle gay,

I know my lad that's out in France

With fearsome things to see

Would give his eyes for just one glance

At our white Hawthorn tree.

Not much to me is yonder lane

Where _he_ so longs to tread;

But when there's been a shower of rain

I think i'll never weep again

Until i've heard he's dead.

[andy66]

I found this poem recently which relates to a rear guard action fought by the 2Bn Duke of Wellington's West Riding Regiment on the 24th August 1914 at Wasmes, Belguim at the start of the retreat from Mons. (My Great Grandfather was one of those brave heroes who perished on that day).

I initially posted this in another thread but thought to add it here as it may be more appropriate

THE GALLANT WEST RIDINGS SAVED THE FIFTH DIVISION

Of our brave West Riding heroes

Tell the praise forth today,

Who at Mons with hosts against them

Kept those Prussian Huns at bay;

Tho’ Death stalk’d thro’ them, striking

Our lads in hundreds low,

They, “Saved the Fifth Division,”

And baulked the rabid Foe!

Five hundred of them perished-

More than five hundred fell-

Good God! How any issued

From that Hell, ‘tis hard to tell!

But all the grit of Yorkshire

Was in their bones we know-

Ay “they saved the Fifth Division”

From the onslaught of the Foe!

They saved some thousand others,

Who, but for them were lost,

Not counting dear their own lives,

They flinched not at the cost;

True to West Riding breeding,

That’s game when dangers grow,

Ah! They “saved the Fifth Division”

From the ramping, raging Foe.

Tom Halifax, in the Halifax Guardian about 1917

[Neil Mackenzie]

Edward Thomas's poem 'In Memorium' sums up that the men who died gave up half a life time or more of simple pleasures that we pretty much take for granted. For me that is the real tragedy of the whole thing. From memory it is:-

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood

This Eastertide call into mind the men

Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts should

Have gathered them but will never do again

That it is just 4 lines is also 'a good thing' as far as poems are concerned.

Neil

[Seadog]

Came across this today, apologies if it has been posted before.

Philip Larkin

MCMXIV:

Those long uneven lines

Standing as patiently

As if they were stretched outside

The Oval or Villa Park,

The crowns of hats, the sun

On moustached archaic faces

Grinning as if it were all

An August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleached

Established names on the sunblinds,

The farthings and sovereigns,

And dark-clothed children at play

Called after kings and queens,

The tin advertisements

For cocoa and twist, and the pubs

Wide open all day;

And the countryside not caring

The place-names all hazed over

With flowering grasses, and fields

Shadowing Domesday lines

Under wheat's restless silence;

The differently-dressed servants

With tiny rooms in huge houses,

The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,

Never before or since,

As changed itself to past

Without a word--the men

Leaving the gardens tidy,

The thousands of marriages

Lasting a little while longer:

Never such innocence again.

[Seadog]

The Ancre at Hamel Afterwards

Where tongues were loud and hearts were light

I heard the Ancre flow;

Waking oft in the mid of night

I heard the Ancre flow.

I heard it crying that sad rill,

Below the painful ridge,

By the burnt unraftered Mill

And the relic of a bridge.

And could this sighing river seem

To call me far away,

And its pale word dismiss as dreams

The voices of today?

The voices in the bright room chilled

And that mourned on alone,

The silence of the full moon filled

With that brook’s troubling tone.

The struggling Ancre had no part

In these new hours of mine,

And yet its stream ran through my heart;

I heard it grieve and pine,

As if it’s rainy tortured blood

Had swirled into my own,

When by its battered bank I stood

And shared its wounded moan.

Edmund Blunden

[Seadog]

From; Beaucourt Revisited by A P Herbert

I crossed the blood red ribbon, that once was no-man's land,

I saw a misty daybreak and a creeping minute-hand;

And here the lads went over, and there was Harmsworth shot,

And here was William lying-but the new men know them not.

And I said, There is still the river, and still the stiff, stark trees,

To treasure here our story, but there are only these.

But under the white wood crosses the dead men answered low,

The new men know not Beaucourt, but we are here-we know.

Photo

Ancre War Cemetery

[marina]

I enjoyed seeing the poems accompanied by the photos. Good idea!

Marina

[Seadog]

Thanks Marina, I think that photos can perhaps give an added dimension to the poems especially for those not lucky enough to have visited the locations.

Norman

MENIN GATE

“ 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”.

“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”.

[Seadog]

REMEMBER

Take my hand and come with me

to a special place across the sea

a sacred place in hallowed ground

its not a church you'll understand

just a part of home in another land

A place where gravestones stand arrayed

like a phantom army on parade

stand close to me and patience keep

and soon you'll see a brave man weep

he cries for his comrade beneath the stones

and I tell you friend he's not alone

Scenes like this are commonplace

in our special meeting place

so as you stroll down memory lane

think of us who must remain

and now its time to say adieu

but remember friend, we died for you

Photo: Tyne Cot War Cemetery, FLanders.

[Guest geoff501]

THE SECRET

YOU were askin' 'ow we sticks it,

Sticks this blarsted rain and mud,

'Ow it is we keeps on smilin'

When the place runs red wi' blood.

Since you're askin', I can tell ye,

And I thinks I tells ye true,

But it ain't official, mind ye,

It's a tip 'twixt me and you.

For the General thinks it's tactics,

And the bloomin' plans e' makes;

And the C.O. thinks it's trainin',

And the trouble as he takes.

Sargint-Major says it's drillin',

And 'is straffin' on parade;

Doctor swears it's sanitation,

And some patent stinks 'e's made.

Padre tells us it's religion,

And the Spirit of the Lord;

But I ain't got much religion,

And I sticks it still, by Gawd.

Quarters kids us it's the rations,

And the dinners as we gets;

But I knows what keeps us smilin',

It's the Woodbine Cigarettes.

For the daytime seems more dreary,

And the night-time seems to drag

To eternity of darkness,

When ye 'aven't got a fag.

Then the rain seems some'ow wetter,

And the cold cuts twice as keen,

And ye keeps on seein' Boches,

What the Sargint 'asn't seen.

If ole Fritz 'as been and got ye,

And ye 'ave to stick the pain,

If ye 'aven't got a fag on,

Why, it 'urts as bad again.

When there ain't no fags to pull at,

Then there's terror in the ranks.

That's the secret--(yes, I'll 'ave one)

Just a fag--and many Tanks.

G. A. Studdert-Kennedy

(WOODBINE WILLY)

[dekenai]

Was Vera Brittain considered a "War Poet" .

Was there any/more women War Poets.

Liam

here's a few (and what l reckon is their best poems), many were more 'anti-war' poets;

Jessie Pope--The Call

Nina Murdoch--Warbride

Vera Brittain--To My Brother

my favourite May Herschel-Clark---The Mother (written in 1915 in direct response to Brooke's The Soldier)

May Sinclair--Field Ambulance in Retreat

Margaret Postgate Cole--The Falling Leaves

Constance Powell---A Story of Today

Kay Boyle==Mothers

May Wedderburn Cannan--Lamplight

Margaret Sackville--A Memory

also

Eleanor Farjeon, Nina McDonald, M. Winifred Wedgwood, Mary Gabrielle Collins, Helen Parry Eden, Rose Macaulay, Theresa hooley, Eva Dobell, Edith Warton, Charlotte Mew

enjoy

dekenai

[dekenai]

Does anyone know of an anthology of German poetry of the Great War? I have read some in German but need one as a present for a friend who does not speak the language. I have had a search online but not come up with anything.

Thanks

One of my favourites;

A poem by Alfred Lichtenstein--who was killed within the first two months of the war.

God protect me from misfortune,

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

May no high explosives hit me,

May our enemies, the ********,

Never take me, never shoot me,

May l never die in squalor

For our well beloved Fatherland.

Look, I'd like to live much longer,

Milk the cows and stuff my girlfriends

And beat up that lousy Josef,

Get drunk on lots more occasions

Till a blissful death o'ertakes me.

Look, l'll offer heartfelt prayers,

Say my beads seven times a daily,

If you, God, of your gracious bounty

Choose to kill my mate, say Huber

Or else Meier, and let me off.

But l suppose l have to take it

Don;t let me get badly wounded.

Send me just a little leg wound

Or a slight gash on the forearm

So l go home as a hero

Who has got a tale to tell.

brilliant----

rdc

[dekenai]

This is from May Herschel-Clark, (1850-1950), that was written in 1917, in direct response to Brooke's 'The Soldier'.

May was an anti-war poet.

The Mother

If you should die, think only this of me

In that still quietness where is space for thought,

Where parting, loss and bloodshed shall not be,

And men may rest themselves and dream of nought:

That in some place a mystic mile away

One whom you loved has drained the bitter cup

Till there is nought to drink; has faced the day

Once more, and now, has raised the standard up.

And think, my son, with eyes grown clear and dry

She lives as though for ever in your sight,

Loving the things you loved, with heart aglow

For country, honour, truth, traditions high,

--Proud that you paid their price. (And if some night

Her heart should break--well, lad, you will not know.

rdc

[dekenai]

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

The Anzac on the Wall.

A ripper----

rdc

[dekenai]

Australia's Woodbine Willy,

Ginger Mick---from C.J.Dennis, The Moods of Ginger Mick,

XV. "A GALLANT GENTLEMAN"

A month ago the world grew grey fer me;

A month ago the light went out fer Rose.

To 'er they broke it gentle as might be;

But fer 'is pal 'twus one uv them swift blows

That stops the 'eart-beat; fer to me it came

Jist, "Killed in Action," an' beneath 'is name.

'Ow many times 'ave I sat dreamin' 'ere

An' seen the boys returnin', gay an' proud.

I've seen the greetin's, 'eard 'is rousin' cheer,

An' watched ole Mick come stridin' thro' the crowd.

'Ow many times 'ave I sat in this chair

An' seen 'is 'ard chiv grinnin' over there.

'E's laughed, an' told me stories uv the war.

Changed some 'e looked, but still the same ole Mick,

Keener an' cleaner than 'e wus before;

'E's took me 'and, an' said 'e's in great nick.

Sich wus the dreamin's uv a fool 'oo tried

To jist crack 'ardy, an' 'old gloom aside.

An' now - well, wot's the odds? I'm only one:

One out uv many 'oo 'as lost a friend.

Manlike, I'll bounce again, an' find me fun;

But fer Poor Rose it seems the bitter end.

Fer Rose, an' sich as Rose, when one man dies

It seems the world goes black before their eyes.

Ar, well; if Mick could 'ear me blither now,

I know jist wot 'e'd say an' 'ow 'e'd look:

"Aw, cut it out, mate; chuck that silly row!

There ain't so sense in takin' sich things crook.

I've took me gamble; an' there's none to blame

Becos I drew a blank; it's in the game."

A parson cove he broke the noos to Rose -

A friend uv mine, a bloke wiv snowy 'air,

An' gentle, soothin' sort o'ways, 'oo goes

Thro' life jist 'umpin' others' loads uv care.

Instid uv Mick - jist one rough soljer lad -

Yeh'd think 'e'd lost the dearest friend 'e 'ad.

But 'ow kin blows be sof'n'd sich as that?

Rose took it as 'er sort must take sich things.

An' if the jolt uv it 'as knocked me flat,

Well, 'oo is there to blame 'er if it brings

Black thorts that comes to women when they frets,

An' makes 'er tork wild tork an' foolish threats.

An' then there comes the letter that wus sent

To give the strength uv Ginger's passin' out -

A long, straight letter frum a bloke called Trent;

'Tain't no use tellin' wot it's orl about:

There's things that's in it I kin see quite clear

Ole Ginger Mick ud be ashamed to 'ear.

Things praisin 'im, that pore ole Mick ud say

Wus comin' it too 'ot; fer, spare me days!

I well remember that 'e 'ad a way

Uv curlin' up when 'e wus slung bokays.

An' Trent 'e seems to think that in some way

'E owes Mick somethin' that 'e can't repay.

Well, p'raps 'e does,- an' in the note 'e sends

'E arsts if Mick 'as people 'e kin find.

Fer Trent's an English toff wiv swanky friends,

An' wants to 'elp wot Ginger's left be'ind.

'E sez strange things in this 'ere note 'e sends:

"He was a gallant gentleman," it ends.

A gallant gentleman! Well, I dunno.

I 'ardly think that Mick ud like that name.

But this 'ere Trent's a toff, an' ort to know

The breedin' uv the stock frum which 'e came.

Gallant an' game Mick might 'a' bin; but then -

Lord! Fancy 'im among the gentlemen!

'E wus a man; that's good enough fer me,

'Oo wus 'is cobber many years before

'E writ it plain fer other blokes to see,

An' proved it good an' pleny at the war.

'E wus a man; an', by the way 'e died,

'E wus a man 'is friend can claim wiv pride.

The way 'e died ... Gawd! but it makes me proud

I ever 'eld 'is 'and, to read that tale.

An' Trent is one uv that 'igh-steppin' crowd

That don't sling pral'se around be ev'ry mail.

To 'im it seemed some great 'eroic lurk;

But Mick, I know, jist took it wiv 'is work.

No matter wot 'e done. It's jist a thing

I knoo 'e'd do if once 'e got the show.

An' it would never please 'im fer to sling

Tall tork at 'im jist cos 'e acted so.

"Don't make a song uv it!" I 'ear 'im growl,

"I've done me limit, an' tossed in the tow'l."

This little job, 'e knoo - an' I know well -

A thousand uv 'is cobbers would 'ave done.

Fer they are soljers; an' it's crook to tell

A tale that marks fer praise a single one.

An' that's 'ow Mick wouold 'ave it, as I know;

An', as 'e'd 'ave it, so we'll let it go.

Trent tells 'ow, when they found 'im, near the end,

'E starts a fag an' grins orl bright an' gay.

An' when they arsts fer messages to send

To friends, 'is look goes dreamin' far away.

"Look after Rose," 'e sez, "when I move on.

Look after ... Rose ... Mafeesh!" An' 'e wus gone.

"We buried 'im," sez Trent, "down by the beach.

We put mimosa on the mound uv sand

Above 'im. 'Twus the nearest thing in reach

To golden wattle uv 'is native land.

But never wus the fairest wattle wreath

More golden than the 'eart uv 'im beneath."

An' so - Mafeesh! as Mick 'ad learned to say.

'E's finished; an' there's few 'as marked 'im go.

Only one soljer, outed in the fray,

'Oo took 'is gamble, an' 'oo 'a 'is show.

There's few to mourn 'im: an' the less they leave,

The less uv sorrer, fewer 'earts to grieve.

An' when I'm feelin' blue, an' mopin' 'ere

About h epal I've lorst; Doreen, my wifem

She come an' takes my 'and, an' tells me, "Dear,

Ther's be more cause to mourn a wasted life.

'E proved 'imself a man, an' 'e's at rest."

An' so, I tries to think sich things is best.

A gallant gentleman ... Well, let it go.

They sez they've put them words above 'is 'ead,

Out there where lonely graves stretch in a row;

But Mick 'ell never mind it now 'e's dead.

An' where 'e's gone, when they weigh praise an' blame,

P'raps gentlemen an' men is much the same.

They fights; an' orl the land is filled wiv cheers.

They dies; an' 'ere an' there a 'eart is broke.

An' when I weighs it orl - the shouts, the tears -

I sees it's well Mick wus a lonely bloke.

'E found a game 'e knoo, an' played it well;

An' now 'e's gone. Wot more is there to tell?

A month ago, fer me the world grew grey;

A month ago the light went out fer Rose;

Becos one common soljer crossed the way,

Leavin' a common message as 'e goes.

But ev'ry dyin' soljer's 'ope lies there:

"Look after Rose. Mafeesh!" Gawd! It's a pray'r!

That's wot it is; an' when yeh sort it out,

Shuttin' yer ears to orl the sounds o' strife -

The shouts, the cheers, the curses - 'oo kin doubt

The claims uv women; mother, sweet'eart, wife?

An' 'oos to 'ear our soljers' dyin' wish?

An' 'oo's to 'eed? . . . "Look after Rose . . . Mafeesh!"

[markjtowers]

Though I live a few miles from Francis Ledwidge's birthplace in Slane, County Meath, and pass his cottage every day, and should perhaps show loyalty to a local hero, my favorite poem is W. B. Yeats' "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death". I first came upon it 35 years ago in school. The last six lines are sublime and always move me.

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.

[JPAE]

This is a poem by Siegfreid Sassoon called 'Local Train of Thought', which is a lovely play on words by itself. It has huge nostalgic implications for me, and always acts as a tonic. Simple but effective. Ah! Peace at last!

Alone, in silence, at a certain time of night,

Listening, and looking up from what I'm trying to write

I hear a local train along the Valley. And "There

Goes the one-fifty," think I to myself; aware

That somehow its habitual travelling comforts me,

Making my world seem safer, hemelier, sure to be

The same to-morrow; and the same, one hopes, next year.

"There's peacetime in that train," One hears it disappear

With needless warning whistle and rail-resounding wheels.

"That train's quite like an old familiar friend," one feels.

Phil.

[JPAE]

Homelier . Touch of vowel trouble. Sorry.

Phil.

[marina]

THE CHILDREN

( "The Honours of War" - A Diversity of Creatures )

These were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight.

We have only the memory left of their home-treasured sayings and laughter.

The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another's hereafter.

Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide it. That is our right.

But who shall return us the children?

At the hour the Barbarian chose to disclose his pretences,

And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us,

The first felon-stroke of the sword he had long-time prepared for us,

Their bodies were all our defence while we wrought our defences.

They bought us anew with their blood, forbearing to blame us,

Those hours which we had not made good when the Judgement o'ercame us.

They believed us and perished for it. Our statecraft, our learning Delivered them bound to the Pit and alive to the burning Whither they mirthfully hastened as jostling for honour -Not since her birth has our Earth seen such worth loosed upon her.

Nor was their agony brief, or once only imposed on them.

The wounded, the war-spent, the sick received no exemption:

Being cured they returned and endured and achieved our redemption,

Hopeless themselves of relief, till Death, marvelling, closed on them.

That flesh we had nursed from the first in all cleanness was given

To corruption unveiled and assailed by the malice of Heaven -

By the heart-shaking jests of Decay where it lolled on the wires -

To be blanched or gay-painted by fumes - to be cindered by fires -

To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation

From crater to crater. For this we shall take expiation.

But who shall return us our children?

Rudyard Kipling.

[salesie]

Wonderful, Marina - Kipling's grief and guilt, so evident in this piece (which I've never read before, so thanks), always brings a tear to my eye. And when I think of those other words of his, "If they ask you why they died, tell them that their fathers lied" I can palpably feel his terrible anguish. Such a sad outcome for a great writer!

Cheers-salesie.

[marina]

Glad you liked it, Salesie. You're right - it';s full of raw grief and guilt. Great poem.

Marina

[dutchbarge]

Alan Seeger's Rendezvous with Death. Cheers, Bill