Great War Poetry

[Moston]

For me - it's AFTERMATH by Sassoon.

I like the way it grabs you, reminds you of the reality of what happened (look down) - then permits 'life' (look up), but with the previso that you live your life as a living 'Remembrance' of what happened.

That's why I use it on my guided trips and it always hits home...

Have you forgotten yet?...

For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,

Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:

And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow

Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,

Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

But the past is just the same—and War's a bloody game...

Have you forgotten yet?...

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz—

The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?

Do you remember the rats; and the stench

Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench—

And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?

Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack—

And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then

As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?

Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back

With dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-gray

Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

Have you forgotten yet?...

Look up, and swear by the green of spring that you'll never forget!

March 1919.

[Audax]

The Reapers

Red are the hands of the Reapers,

And the harvest is so white!

Red are the feet that are treading

The threshing floors by night:

And, on the young brows, dripping

AS with the dew of morn,

Deep rose-red are the woundings,

Like scars of a crown of thorns.

Tired, so many, with reaping, -

Tired with treading the grain,

Still they lie, in their sleeping,

Low in the Valley of Pain, -

Never again to be quaffing,

The joy of life, like wine;

Never again to laughing

In Youth’s glad hour divine.

Birds shall sing in the branches,

Children dance by the shore;

But they who share the red reaping

Shall come back never more.

Let whoso can forget them,

Walking life’s noisy ways;

We who have looked on the Reapers

Go quietly, all our days.

Lauchlan Maclean Watt C.F.

France 1916.

[pipvh]

This one has stuck with me more or less since I learned to read:

A Dead Boche

To you who'd read my songs of War

And only hear of blood and fame,

I'll say (you've heard it said before)

"War's Hell!" and if you doubt the same,

Today I found in Mametz Wood

A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,

In a great mess of things unclean,

Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk

With clothes and face a sodden green,

Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,

Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

Robert Graves

[hughkerr]

Hi All.

In the Winter of 1917 my Grandfather, who was an amateur poet, wrote a poem entitled 'The Great War'. I have attached this poem for you to read and hope it serves as a means of commemorating the 90th Anniversary of WW1, which in one way or another touches all of us.

(In verse 8 lines 2 and 3 were reversed by the printer and my Grandfather added two little arrows to show the switch. Hope you get something out of it.)

Best Regards

Hugh

[bobpike]

Hugh,

Is it possible, please, to copy the words out as I have great difficulty in reading it and it deserves a wider audience,

Regards,

Bob

[squirrel]

Written by an American who claimed to be Canadian and served with the Royal Artillery & Grenadier Guards in WW1.

A Lieutenant and severely wounded in 1918.

If Death should come with his cold, hasty kiss

Along the trench or in the battle strife,

I'll ask of death no greater boon than this:

That it shall be as wonderful as life.

Carroll Carstairs

[hughkerr]

The_Great_War___A_poem_by_Dot_Kerr_2.doc

Hugh,

Is it possible, please, to copy the words out as I have great difficulty in reading it and it deserves a wider audience,

Regards,

Bob

Hi Bob

I've written the poem out and downloaded it again. Hopefully you'll be able to read it now.

Regards

Hugh

[bobpike]

Hugh,

Thank you very much; it's well worth it.

Kind Regards

Bob

[leefer]

I love this thread,as someone who loves poetry and indeed its helped me through tough times in my life ive got to say for me poetry is all about the frame of mind ime in at the time...Sassoon is brilliant and probably the best yet i prefer reading poetry that is from an unknown soldier or indeed anyone who writes it.

To most natural poets i dont think they see what there writing as poetry,but just an account of part of there lives or indeed there imagination.

I wrote a very simple poem a few years back....i can never pretend nor would i believe its as hard hitting or real like it was for the war poets,.....so i hope you dont mind me posting it.

One mans horror,

One mans dream,

One mans glory,

Another mans scream.

One mans medal,

One mans legs,

One man takes aim

Another man begs.

One mans smiling,

One man cries,

One man lives,

Another man dies.

One mans honour,

One mans beat,

One mans won yards,

Anothers lost feet.

One man loses,

One man wins,

One war finishes,

Another begins...

[Guest herosassoon]

Hi there all

My favourite poet has to be Siegfried Sassoon. I admire him both as a poet and a man, I love him very much.

His poems are definitely my favourite war poems, although this poem really strikes a chord for me:

In Memoriam - E A Mackintosh:

So you were David's father,

And he was your only son,

And the new-cut peats are rotting

And the work is left undone,

Because of an old man weeping,

Just an old man in pain,

For David, his son David,

That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,

And I can see them still,

Not a word of the fighting,

But just the sheep on the hill

And how you should get the crops in

Ere the year get stormier,

And the Bosches have got his body,

And I was his officer.

You were only David's father,

But I had fifty sons

When we went up in the evening

Under the arch of the guns,

And we came back at twilight -

O God! I heard them call

To me for help and pity

That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,

My men that trusted me,

More my sons than your fathers',

For they could only see

The little helpless babies

And the young men in their pride.

They could not see you dying,

And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,

They saw their first-born go,

But not the strong limbs broken

And the beautiful men brought low,

The piteous writhing bodies,

They screamed 'Don't leave me, sir',

For they were only your fathers

But I was your officer.

sarah x

[Michelle Young]

I tried to read that poem at MacIntoshs ' grave a few years back and failed dismally. Thank you for posting it Sarah.

Michelle

[Guest herosassoon]

I tried to read that poem at MacIntoshs ' grave a few years back and failed dismally. Thank you for posting it Sarah.

Michelle

You're very welcome!

I also like Hero by Sassoon, one of my favourite poems by him.

Another extremelly poignant poem

Hero - Sassoon

‘Jack fell as he’d have wished,’ the Mother said,

And folded up the letter that she’d read.

‘The Colonel writes so nicely.’ Something broke

In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.

She half looked up. ‘We mothers are so proud

Of our dead soldiers.’ Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.

He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies

That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.

For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes

Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,

Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,

Had panicked down the trench that night the mine

Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried

To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,

Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care

Except that lonely woman with white hair.

sarah x

[Tinhat47]

How do you feel as you stand in a trench

Awaiting the whistle to blow?

Are you frightened, anxious, shaking with fear,

Or are you ready to go?

All men react in a different way

But few to heroics aspire

But should a man boast that he never felt fear

Then, in my book, that man is a liar.

- Harry Fellowes

12th Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers

[leefer]

Do you know if Harry survived the war Matt?....that poem is brilliant.

[Tinhat47]

Looks like he did survive. Apparently a short film was made about his life and can be watched in one of the exhibits at the Imperial War Museum in London.

[leefer]

Interesting...thanks.

[Private Butler]

I have to agree that poetry is dependent on state of mind, but there are a few that speak to me whatever the occasion:

1. Dulce et Decorum

2 The Fates

3 And I Must Go

All by Wilfred Owen of course and particularly these lines/verses, or as in 3. the whole poem:

1.

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired outstripped five-nines that dropped behind.

2.

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes,

O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

And when the cordon tightens of the spies

Let the close iris of your eyes grow great.

So I'll evade the vice and rack of age

And miss the march of lifetime, stage by stage.

3.

Gongs hum and buzz like saucepan-lid at dusk,

I see a food-hog whet his gold-filled tusk

To eat less bread, and more luxurious rusk.

Then sometimes late at night my window bumps

From gunnery-practice, till my small heart thumps

And listens for the shell-shrieks and the crumps,

But that's not all.

For leaning out last midnight on my sill

I heard the sighs of men, that have no skill

To speak of their distress, no, nor the will!

A voice I know. And I must go.

[leefer]

Dulce et Decorum is brilliant.....Owens is brilliant,a very articulate poet.

[aliecoco]

Hi everyone,

Having just had to analyse the poem, Futility by Owen, for an 800 word essay, for an online Oxford University course, this has to be my now favourite. Owen's use of language, to convey his message, is brilliant.

Oh, and I passed the course and have gained 10 credits!! Yippee!!

Alie.

[marina]

Congrats, Alie!

Marina

Congrats, Alie!

Marina

[leefer]

Hi everyone,

Having just had to analyse the poem, Futility by Owen, for an 800 word essay, for an online Oxford University course, this has to be my now favourite. Owen's use of language, to convey his message, is brilliant.

Oh, and I passed the course and have gained 10 credits!! Yippee!!

Alie.

Congrats,sounds like hard work.....

[aliecoco]

Hi Leefer,

Thanks for that! It was very hard work. I mean how can 'one' start to write out an 800 word essay on Owen's words, when he did it perfectly well himself! Most of the words that he wrote for 'Futility', were short, sharp and to the point, apart from the words 'whispering', and 'fatuous'. But when you analyse it, it was for me, just sheer brilliance. Kind of sums up WW1? Well, for him anyway.

I have sent a PM to Marina, as I did not want to 'clog' this classic thread with my humble achievements, then I saw your reply and thought 'what the heck'!

Thank you!

Alie.

[Private Butler]

That sounds like a seriously tough assignment. I don't know what to add to that other than congratulations. Owen speaks to me like no other poet does. The last few lines of Dulce et Decorum make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

[digger5410]

I particularly like this written by a Light Horse officer on Gallipoli and is in the "Anzac Book"

Where the ranges cast their shadows

Down a valley where a river used to wander to the sea

On a rising patch of level rest the men that dared to tender

Life and all its sweetness for their love of liberty.

In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation

Just that little space of level showing open to the sea

Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure it needs no decoration)

Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.

There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads that joked and chatted

Just this morning. Now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes away

From the blanket hidden body, coat and shirt all blood bespattered

Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.

There are records in the office- date of death and facts pertaining,

Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit

More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigning

More than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.

There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered

(Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear)

Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories-things that never really mattered

Lying buried where he’s buried ‘neath the stars all shining clear.

There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conception

Of that brief conclusive message deep fulfilment of her dread;

There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception

Simple words that bring her memories from the boundaries of the dead.

Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger finger-rounded

Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s prayer?

Could he know some that she knew, might his hate have been confounded?

But he only did his duty and did it fighting fair.

Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly

Monuments and tributes to the men who’ve done their share.

Pain and death, the fruits of battle and the crosses tell it plainly

Short and quick and silent suffering; wish to God it ended there.

Lt Harry McCann

HQ 4th Australian Light Horse

Gallipoli 1915

[leefer]

I particularly like this written by a Light Horse officer on Gallipoli and is in the "Anzac Book"

Where the ranges cast their shadows

Down a valley where a river used to wander to the sea

On a rising patch of level rest the men that dared to tender

Life and all its sweetness for their love of liberty.

In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation

Just that little space of level showing open to the sea

Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure it needs no decoration)

Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.

There's a band of quiet workers, artless lads that joked and chatted

Just this morning. Now they're sullen and they keep their eyes away

From the blanket hidden body, coat and shirt all blood bespattered

Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.

There are records in the office- date of death and facts pertaining,

Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit

More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigning

More than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.

There's a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered

(Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear)

Boyhood's dreams and idle memories-things that never really mattered

Lying buried where he's buried 'neath the stars all shining clear.

There's a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conception

Of that brief conclusive message deep fulfilment of her dread;

There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception

Simple words that bring her memories from the boundaries of the dead.

Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger finger-rounded

Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother's prayer?

Could he know some that she knew, might his hate have been confounded?

But he only did his duty and did it fighting fair.

Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly

Monuments and tributes to the men who've done their share.

Pain and death, the fruits of battle and the crosses tell it plainly

Short and quick and silent suffering; wish to God it ended there.

Lt Harry McCann

HQ 4th Australian Light Horse

Gallipoli 1915

Brilliant Digger...very moving.