Great War Poetry

[Guest Fabrice]

My mothers mother,

my sunshine for ever more

She was only three years old,

when here mummy past away.

My mothers mother,

got trough the war anyways.

My mothers mother,

was lucky, as she encountered here husband to be,

The first child of a Parisian prostitute.

Here husband, Arnould Vandenhole,

and me where the best friends ever,

When PEPE died in 1980, my world eclapsed,

My Sunshine faded away as NENENE passed away in 1994

I live by the sea now,

and every time i go near the shore,

words don't come.

For my beloved grandparents.

[Guest Helen South]

I love the classics and have studied Homer, so I really love Patrick Shaw Stewart's poem - I don't know the title, but this stanza stays with me always

'I will go back this morning

From Imbros over the sea

Stand in the trench, Achilles,

Flame-capped, and shout for me.'

for me it evokes an image of the great warior and his searing anguish at the death of his beloved friend.

The insane, awful waste of fine young lives in this war is beyond me. To lose the best and brightest of a whole generation, such madness. These sons, brothers, husbands, fathers.

Helen

[marina]

Untitled

I saw a man this morning

Who did not wish to die:

I ask, and cannot answer,

If otherwise wish I.

Fair broke the day this morning

Against the Dardanelles;

The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks

Were cold as cold sea-shells.

But other shells are waiting

Across the Aegean Sea,

Shrapnel and high explosive,

Shells and hells for me.

O hell of ships and cities,

Hell of men like me,

Fatal second Helen,

Why must I follow thee?

Achilles came to Troyland

And I to Chersonese:

He turned from wrath to battle,

And I from three days' peace.

Was it so hard, Achilles,

So very hard to die?

Thou knowest and I know not--

So much the happier am I.

I will go back this morning

From Imbros over the sea;

Stand in the trench, Achilles,

Flame-capped, and shout for me.

Patrick Shaw-Stewart

I always liked this one too, Helen.

Marina

[Guest Helen South]

Oh, thank you, Marina. I don't know why I never learned the whole poem - I think there might have been just a couple of stanzas in my textbook, but its very firm in my memory, without even trying. I shall learn it all, now.

This is a wonderful thread. I remember studying Wilfrid Owen in high school, too. I think it was the first time poetry ever seemed really powerful to me.

best

Helen

[marina]

Yes, he is powrful. I rmember vividly the impact of his poems. Lots of good stuff on this thread too!

Marina

[Guest Braganza]

I am really enjoying this thread. There was a lot of poetry in the Wipers Times, some of it quite good. Sadly, it was almost invariably anonymous, but one of my favourites was published in November 1917 (at which time it was the BEF Times). It says something to me about the British front line soldier and what makes him so resilient.

The Burning Question

Three Tommies sat in a trench one day,

Discussing the war, in the usual way,

They talked of the mud, and they talked of the Hun,

Of what was to do, and what had been done,

They talked about rum, and – ’tis hard to believe –

They even found time to speak about leave.

But the point which they argued from post back to pillar,

Was whether Notts County could beat Aston Villa.

The night sped away, and zero drew nigh,

Equipment made ready, all lips getting dry,

And watches consulted with each passing minute

Till five more to go, then ‘twould find them all in it;

The word came along down the line to “get ready!”

The sergeants admonishing all to keep steady,

But out rang a voice getting shriller and shriller:

“I tell yer Notts County can beat Aston Villa!”

The Earth shook and swayed, and the barrage was on

As they leapt o’er the top with a rush and were gone

Away into Hunland, through mud and through wire,

Stabbing and dragging themselves through the mire,

No time to heed those who are falling en route

Till, stopped by a strong point, they lay down to shoot,

Then, through the din came a voice: “Say, Jack Miller!

I tell yer Notts County can beat Aston Villa!”

The strong point has gone, and forward they press

Towards their objective, in numbers grown less

They reach it at last, and prepare to resist

The counter-attack which will come through the mist

Of the rain falling steadily; dig and hang on,

The word for support back to H.Q. has gone,

The air, charge with moment, grows stiller and stiller –

“Notts County’s no earthly beside Aston Villa.”

Two “Blighties”, a struggle through mud to get back

To the old A.D.S. down a rough duck-board track,

A hasty field dressing, a ride in a car,

A wait in a C.C.S., then there they are:

Packed side by side in a clean Red Cross train,

Happy in hopes to see Blighty again,

Still, through the bandages, muffled, “Jack Miller,

I bet you Notts County can beat Aston Villa!”

[Tom Kilkenny]

I confess to not having looked at every contribution to this thread but I haven't noticed any mention of one of my favourites by WB 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 a waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death

The poem is in response to the death of Major Robert Gregory, the son of Yeats's patron, Lady Gregory. Yeats, of course, didn't fight. I wonder if he could have written quite so beautifully if he had.

Tom

[Guest C Beard]

Can I thank you all for these poems. I am a huge fan of WW1 poetry and there are several I have never seen before.

I am not ashamed to say that I am sat here with tears in my eyes.

My personal favourite is Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfrid Owen, although overall I prefer Siegfried Sassoon. The bitterness and anger he shows for those whom he held responsible and the contempt for those who never went near the front strike a real chord.

Just A quick word for Poziers (forgive me if I spelt it incorrectly) - that's very fine piece of work indeed.

[Guest nrpaterson]

Hi Folks -

Here's a couple from the April 14, 1915 issue of "Punch" -

A GENUINE ANTIQUE

(Messrs. Christie are holding a sale of art treasures and historical relics in aid of the funds of the British Red Cross Society and the Order of St. John)

Out yonder where the Reaper grim and grey

Sweeps o'er bare fields that held last Autumn's corn,

Brave souls uplift the stricken and forlorn,

And bind their wounds and nurse them back to day.

Here where no skies with imminent horrors shriek,

Collectors bring their treasures with glad heart,

For Love has ever been an ancient art,

And Mercy is a genuine antique.

(Unattributed)

and

MORE THOROUGHNESS

(The value of the stinging nettle as a vegetable is being emphasised in German War cookery notes.)

Yes, let the nettle's leaves appear,

Most succulently fine,

Each evening with the supper beer,

Each noontide when you dine,

For then, whene'er that charming thing,

Your Hymn of Hate, is sung,

They'll surely lend an added sting

To every Teuton tongue.

(Unattributed)

That issue is a Double Number - the supplement is "Our Navy" - 24 pages of great cartoons from the 1890's onwards. They're another story!!

Nigel P.

[SiegeGunner]

Seeing as this thread has been resurrected. Just to raise the tempo and then lower the tone, here are a couple of poems from Robert Service and Alan Herbert.

Tipperary_Days.doc

The_General_inspecting_the_Trenches.doc

[marina]

Am I right in saying the navy Reserves did not care for General Shute?

I liked the Service poem - the swinging rhythm makes it even more macabre.

Marina

[Jan Nix]

Time to share this sonnet by M J Disney, the last two lines of which form my signature. I'm afraid I know nothing else about the poet. I only remember that I copied out this poem from a library book, probably about forty years ago. Apologies if it's a repeat. But hey, I don't care, it's worth repeating.

To An Unknown British Soldier

We shall not stay to see the peace we won,

Nor watch the world grow clean again from war;

Find no forgetfulness of things we saw,

In careless freedom under England's sun.

Let not the living mock the price we paid,

Or bring dishonour on our half done task;

Hold not from us the only gift we ask -

Assurance that the dead be not betrayed.

When others feel the joy of lover's kiss

Or gaze in gladness on the springtime flowers,

Or hear the children laugh in playtime hours,

We shall not grudge the happiness we miss.

But let no hatred wake us from our peace

Who gave our lives that enmity might cease.

I know that the poem makes reference to England and a British soldier but to me the sentiments expressed are universal and could apply to a fighting man or woman of any nationality.

[marina]

Nice one, Jan. I haven't seen that one bfore.

Marina

[Guest Dangerfield]

Apparently an NCO or officer got so bored with sending the reports back so he decided to spruce them up a bit. I can't tell if that is a real story or not, but it did end up in a poem at least!

There is nothing I can tell you

That you really do not know -

Except that we are on the Ridge

And Fritz is down below.

I'm tired of "situations"

And of "wind" entirely "vane."

The gas-guard yawns and tells me

"It's blowing up for rain."

He's a human little fellow

With a thoughtful point of view,

And his report (uncensored)

I pass, please, on to you.

"When's old Fritzie coming over?

Does the General really know?

The Colonel seems to think so,

The Captain tells us 'No.'

"When's someone going to tell us

We can 'Stand-to' as before?

An hour at dawn and one at dusk,

Lor' blimey, who wants more?"

[Guest geoff501]

Not really a war poet, but much of Charles Causley's work was moulded by the experience of war. His father died of wounds in the 1920s and he served in The Royal Navy 1940-46. Refused to write his biography claiming his poems to be biographical. This one is from childhood memories and is about casualties who returned home and have no roll of honour and no possibility now of counting their numbers. I often wonder who the subject was, probably he existed as in the poem. Another poem; At The British War Cemetery, Bayeux is also on the forum somewhere.

Dick Lander

When we were children at the National School

We passed each day, clipped to the corner of

Old Sion Street, Dick Lander, six foot four,

Playing a game of trains with match-boxes.

He poked them with a silver-headed cane

In the seven kinds of daily weather God

Granted the Cornish. Wore a rusted suit.

It dangled off him like he was a tree.

My friend Sid Bull, six months my senior, and

A world authority on medicine,

Explained to me just what was wrong with Dick.

'Shell-shopped,' he said. 'You catch it in the war.'

We never went too close to Dick in case

It spread like measles. 'Shell-shopped, ain't you, Dick?'

The brass-voiced Sid would bawl. Dick never spoke.

Carried on shunting as if we weren't there.

My Auntie said before he went away

Dick was a master cricketer. Could run

As fast as light. Was the town joker. Had

Every girl after him. Was spoiled quite out

Of recognition, and at twenty-one

looked set to take the family business on

(Builders merchants, seed, wool, manure and corn).

'He's never done a day's work since they sent

'Him home after the Somme,' my Uncle grinned.

'If he's mazed as a brush, my name's Lord George.

Why worry if the money's coming in?'

At fireworks time we throw a few at Dick.

Shout, 'Here comes Kaiser Bill!' Dick stares us through

As if we're glass. We yell, 'What did you do

In the Great War?' And skid into the dark.

'Choo, choo,' says Dick. 'Choo, choo, choo, choo, choo,

choo.'

Charles Causley

[DaveBrigg]

A gem, deeply moving. Thanks Geoff.

[marina]

I'll second that,

Marina

[Guest geoff501]

I must have first read this around 1990, just looked inside the cover of my MacMillan copy of Collected Poems by Charles Causley. Its inscribed with the date I purchased it: 1st July.

[Guest geoff501]

In a few minutes, it will be 90 years ago, so I thought I would pull this thread back up with more Charles Causley (only a few verses of the poem). Remembering all those who died on 31st May, 90 years ago tomorrow.

....

Suddenly around me

The Gunnery Jacks all spoke

Their terrible words of gunpowder

And sentences of smoke.

The deck blew up like a candle,

I heard the Gunner's Mate say,

It looks more like November the fifth

Than the thirty-first of May.

But the catherine wheels were made of iron,

The stars were made of steel,

And downward came a scarring rain

The sun will never heal.

Death came on like winter

Through the water-gate.

All I could do by the forecastle gun

Was stand alone, and wait.

Mother, all around me

My freezing comrades lie,

And though to each I speak his name

No one makes reply.

All around me, mother,

Their coats of sleep they wear

As if for a long journey

They must now prepare.

I put my hand in my flannel,

The air was black, was red,

And when I pulled it out again

I knew that I was dead.

They took me down to London,

They launched me up the nave,

They sank me in a wooden boat

Into a poor man's grave.

....

From The Ballad of Jack Cornwell

by Charles Causley.

John Travers Cornwell, 1st Class Boy, RN, sight-setter of

the forecastle gun in HMS 'Chester', was mortally wounded at the

Battle of Jutland, 31 May 1916. He was posthumously

awarded the Victoria Cross.

His age was under 16 1/2 years.

[marina]

Nice one. Hadn't seen that before. Is there more of it?

Marina

[Guest geoff501]

Nice one. Hadn't seen that before. Is there more of it?

Marina

I WOKE up one morning,

Unwound my sheet of clay,

Lifted up my tombstone lid

And asked the time of day.

I walked out one morning

When the sun was dark

Left my messmates sleeping

Deep in Manor Park.

In the Admiralty heaven

Lurked the gods of war,

Waiting for young Jack Cornwell

As they had once before.

High in the pusser's heaven

The naked war gods hung,

With palpitating eyes, stiff parts,

And leaking tongues.

When I went down to Devonport

My face was cold as slate,

They gave me a number for my name

As I went through the barrack gate.

Round the banks of the dry dock

Wandered the iron tree;

Close in its jacket of water

Jerked the idiot sea.

When I came out of the depot

My heart was beating bright.

The lily bloomed in the valley,

The holly flowers were white.

As we sailed to meet the enemy

The history books looked raw,

John Jellicoe put on his golden arm,

And Beatty his bulldog jaw.

Mother don't watch for postie,

I shan't have time to write,

I'm off to the Battle of Jutland,

And there's no shore leave tonight.

Don't weep on the kitchen table

If a letter I don't send.

Today is the Battle of Jutland

And there won't be a make and mend.

Who are all those swimmers

Knocking on our bulkhead,

Gazing face-down at their fortunes

On the stone sea bed?

With the ramming waters

They no longer toil.

Their breath is turned to quiet salt,

And their lungs to oil.

Suddenly around me

The Gunnery Jacks all spoke

Their terrible words of gunpowder

And sentences of smoke.

The deck blew up like a candle,

I heard the Gunner's Mate say,

It looks more like November the fifth

Than the thirty-first of May.

But the catherine wheels were made of iron,

The stars were made of steel,

And downward came a scarring rain

The sun will never heal.

Death came on like winter

Through the water-gate.

All I could do by the forecastle gun

Was stand alone, and wait.

Mother, all around me

My freezing comrades lie,

And though to each I speak his name

No one makes reply.

All around me, mother,

Their coats of sleep they wear

As if for a long journey

They must now prepare.

I put my hand in my flannel,

The air was black, was red,

And when I pulled it out again

I knew that I was dead.

They took me down to London,

They launched me up the nave,

They sank me in a wooden boat

Into a poor man's grave.

They pinned a medal on my chest,

And though my pillow was deep

They took the pennies off my eyes

And lifted me from my sleep.

They gave me a second funeral,

I heard the rifles plain

And up in the wild air went the birds

As I went down again.

The great Sir Edward Carson,

First Lord of the Admiralty,

Asked men and women who grumbled

If ever they heard of me.

It was the second year of the war;

Thiepval, the Somme, Verdun.

The people were encouraged,

And the Great War went on.

The Ballad of Jack Cornwell

by Charles Causley.

John Travers Cornwell, 1st Class Boy, RN, sight-setter of

the forecastle gun in HMS 'Chester', was mortally wounded at the

Battle of Jutland, 31 May 1916. He was posthumously

awarded the Victoria Cross.

His age was under 16 1/2 years.

[auchonvillerssomme]

My favourite is Robert Service.

"But it isn't playing the game," he said,

And he slammed his books away;

"The Latin and Greek I've got in my head

Will do for a duller day."

"Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call

Isn't for lads from school."

D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all:

So I called him a fool, a fool.

Now there's his dog by his empty bed,

And the flute he used to play,

And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead,

Somewhere in France, they say:

Dick with his rapture of song and sun,

Dick of the yellow hair,

Dicky whose life had but begun,

Carrion-cold out there.

Look at his prizes all in a row:

Surely a hint of fame.

Now he's finished with, -- nothing to show:

Doesn't it seem a shame?

Look from the window! All you see

Was to be his one day:

Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,

And he goes and chucks it away.

Chucks it away to die in the dark:

Somebody saw him fall,

Part of him mud, part of him blood,

The rest of him -- not at all.

And yet I'll bet he was never afraid,

And he went as the best of 'em go,

For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,

And his face was turned to the foe.

And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I!

And the cup of my grief's abrim.

Will Glory o' England ever die

So long as we've lads like him?

So long as we've fond and fearless fools,

Who, spurning fortune and fame,

Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,

Just bent on playing the game.

A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.

His was the proudest part.

He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,

And the glory of love in his heart.

And though there's never a grave to tell,

Nor a cross to mark his fall,

Thank God! we know that he "batted well"

In the last great Game of all.

[marina]

Thanks very much, Geoff. Strong stuff and strangely beautiful. The lines about the dead looking down on themselves on the sea bed are chilling!

And then comes Auchonvillers Service making the best of it in his poem. There myust have been a hundred ways of squaring things with the dead. Shiver!

Marina

[auchonvillerssomme]

Thanks very much, Geoff. Strong stuff and strangely beautiful. The lines about the dead looking down on themselves on the sea bed are chilling!

And then comes Auchonvillers Service making the best of it in his poem. There myust have been a hundred ways of squaring things with the dead. Shiver!

Marina

I think Service is quite underated in this country.

Mick

[marina]

Hi, Mick - I can remember a teacher t school who was fond of his ballads. he used to read us them - ones about western saloons and Mcgrew and stuff. Great fun!

Marina