War Poems thread - please come in and comment!

[Kim Sung]

Du Fu was a genius of war poems. Here is one more famous poem he wrote during the An Lushan's Rebellion.

兵車行(A Song of War-Chariots)

車轔轔馬蕭蕭
行人弓箭各在腰
爺孃妻子走相送
塵埃不見咸陽橋
牽衣頓足欄道哭
哭聲直上干雲宵
道旁過者間行人
行人但云點行頻
或從十五北防河
便至四十西營田
去時里正與裹頭
歸來頭白還戍邊
邊庭流血成海水
武皇開邊意未已
君不聞
漢家山東二百州
千村萬落生荊杞
縱有健婦把鉏犁
禾生隴畝無東西
況復秦兵耐苦戰
被驅不異犬與鷄
長者雖有問
役夫敢申恨
且如今年冬
未休關西卒
縣官急索租
租稅從何出
信知生男惡
反是生女好
生女猶是嫁比隣
生男埋沒隨百草
君不見 靑海頭
古來白骨無人收
新鬼煩寃舊鬼哭
天陰雨濕聲啾啾

The war-chariots rattle,
The war-horses whinny.
Each man of you has a bow and a quiver at his belt.
Father, mother, son, wife, stare at you going,
Till dust shall have buried the bridge beyond Changan.
They run with you, crying, they tug at your sleeves,
And the sound of their sorrow goes up to the clouds;
And every time a bystander asks you a question,
You can only say to him that you have to go.
...We remember others at fifteen sent north to guard the river
And at forty sent west to cultivate the campfarms.
The mayor wound their turbans for them when they started out.
With their turbaned hair white now, they are still at the border,
At the border where the blood of men spills like the sea –
And still the heart of Emperor Wu is beating for war.
...Do you know that, east of China's mountains, in two hundred districts
And in thousands of villages, nothing grows but weeds,
And though strong women have bent to the ploughing,
East and west the furrows all are broken down?
...Men of China are able to face the stiffest battle,
But their officers drive them like chickens and dogs.
Whatever is asked of them,
Dare they complain?
For example, this winter
Held west of the gate,
Challenged for taxes,
How could they pay?
...We have learned that to have a son is bad luck-
It is very much better to have a daughter
Who can marry and live in the house of a neighbour,
While under the sod we bury our boys.
...Go to the Blue Sea, look along the shore
At all the old white bones forsaken –
New ghosts are wailing there now with the old,
Loudest in the dark sky of a stormy day.

[batu]

what a nice thread!
here is a poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky, a futurist poet, one of the best Russian poets ever (in my opinion)
The poem is dedicated to the announcment of the First World War.

ВОЙНА ОБЪЯВЛЕНА

"Вечернюю! Вечернюю! Вечернюю! Италия! Германия! Австрия!" И на площадь, мрачно очерченную чернью, багровой крови пролилась струя!
Морду в кровь разбила кофейня, зверьим криком багрима: "Отравим кровью игры Рейна! Громами ядер на мрамор Рима!"
С неба, изодранного о штыков жала, слезы звезд просеивались, как мука в сите, и подошвами сжатая жалость визжала: "Ах, пустите, пустите, пустите!"
Бронзовые генералы на граненом цоколе молили: "Раскуйте, и мы поедем!" Прощающейся конницы поцелуи цокали, и пехоте хотелось к убийце - победе.
Громоздящемуся городу уродился во сне хохочущий голос пушечного баса, а с запада падает красный снег сочными клочьями человечьего мяса.
Вздувается у площади за ротон рота, у злящейся на лбу вздуваются вены. "Постойте, шашки о шелк кокоток вытрем, вытрем в бульварах Вены!"
Газетчики надрывались: "Купите вечернюю! Италия! Германия! Австрия!" А из ночи, мрачно очерченной чернью, багровой крови лилась и лилась струя.

my ugly translation:

THE WAR ANNOUNCED

The evening news! Evening news! Evenining news! Italy! Germany! Austria!
And on the square gloomely tainted by the crowd the stream of purple blood has flown!
The Coffee-shop crushed its muzzle in blood, purple in the bestial cry: Let's poison with blood the games of Rhine! With thunders of cannon-balls on the marble of Rome!
From the sky, torn with the bayonet stings, the tears of stars were pouring like flouer from the sieve
And the mercy crushed under the heels was screaming: ah, let me go, let me go! Let me go!
The bronze generals on the engraved granite were begging: Uncuff us and we will charge!
The kisses of the leaving cavalry were clattering like horses' hoofs, and infantry yearned the victory-murderer.
The towering city slept and dreamt the laughing voice of the cannon bass
And from the West the snow is tumbling with the juicy bits of the human flesh
The squad after squad are growing on the square
The angry woman's forehead is swelling with veines: Wait, let's wipe our sabres at the silk of ladies on the boulevards of Vienna!
The newspaper boys were crying out: Buy the evening news! Italy! Germany! Austria!
And on the square gloomely tainted by the crowd the stream of purple blood was flowing and flowing.

[Kim Sung]

"Вечернюю! Вечернюю! Вечернюю! Италия! Германия! Австрия!"

This means that Russians expected Italy would join Germany at the outbreak of the war?

[batu]

"Вечернюю! Вечернюю! Вечернюю! Италия! Германия! Австрия!"

This means that Russians expected Italy would join Germany at the outbreak of the war?

I guess so. The poem was written on 20th of July 1914

[alf]

I have been away from this section a long time (and the forum) its so good to see it still going.

A scottish poet/song writer Eric Bogle emigrated to Australia in the early 1970's and has written 3 classic songs on the First World War. One became an international hit by the Irish Band The Fureys, it was called the Green Fields of France

Well, how'd you do, Private Willie McBride,
D'you mind if I sit down down here by your graveside?
I'll rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
Been walking all day, Lord, and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
I hope you died quick and I hope you died "clean,"
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
CHORUS:
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er ye as they lowered ye down?
Did the bugles sing "The Last Post" in chorus?
Did the pipes play the "Floors1 O' The Forest"?
And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger, without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?
Well, the sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it's still No Man's Land;
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can't help but wonder now, Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "the cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it's all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

For me as an older veteran the last stanza is very powerful

" Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,"

It is better listened to sung http://members.fortunecity.com/folkfred/noman.html has the wav file. Its done uniquely in this version both in English and German

[alf]

The most poignant song by Eric Bogle . Some explanation, to waltz matilda was to live as a drifter , Matilda being your bedroll (or swag). Waltzing Matilda is also probably Australias most famous song. Though to me its merely about a suicidal sheep stealer The Murray is Australia's largest river. the Outback is the desert (about 80% of the country )
Eric explains a little more in the wav file. http://www.fortunecity.com/tinpan/parton/2/matilda.html

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.
And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.
But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.
And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.
For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.
So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.
But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.
And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.
But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

[Ustuf]

The most poignant song by Eric Bogle . Some explanation, to waltz matilda was to live as a drifter , Matilda being your bedroll (or swag). Waltzing Matilda is also probably Australias most famous song. Though to me its merely about a suicidal sheep stealer The Murray is Australia's largest river. the Outback is the desert (about 80% of the country )
Eric explains a little more in the wav file. http://www.fortunecity.com/tinpan/parton/2/matilda.html

There`s a superb cover version of this song by Pogues - much more I`d say "atmospheric" than the original one

[Andy H]

A Plug for a Distinguished Nervuos Cross
Listen, men, I've a tale to tell,
of mighty midgets that sail like - well,
with a word to the wise on larger ships,
to forget those small craft transfer slips,

Men don't live on YMS's -
they just exist under strains and stresses,
tossed around like a bundle of peas,
inside their ship on the calmest seas,

Did you ever eat on a YMS?
It has been done a times I guess,
but the simplest meals can come to grief,
when we hit the wake of a floating leaf.

An order comes to dog the hatches,
for days on end we all wear patches,
what dire calamity caused all this?
A passing school of playful fish.

Then, at "0 two hundred" all's secure,
the anchor is deep and sure,
and even when the seas like granite,
she's taking off for another planet.

The battered life is just one item,
we've many more, just let me cite 'em,
We scrub our whites - they come back black,
our clothes line boys is aft of the stack.

The spacious lockers, I might mention,
are always full and gosh, the tension.
I wish the Navy were more lenient,
four rubber sides would have been convenient.

I'm not through with this little tale,
of little ships and how they sail,
half submarine and aeroplane,
they're a secret weapon gone insane.

Ah yes, my friend, if big ships bore you,
the YMS is waiting for you,
with loving care, from fore to aft,
the Navy designed them and laughed and laughed.

(Courtesy of Robert Noonan - YMS-176, U.S. Navy Minesweeper - World War II - Pacific Area)

[Zebedee]

How lovely to see a Mayakovsky poem

Pasternak said "his work was promulgated compulsarily like potatoes under Catherine the Great", but I think with the fall of Communism more and more are coming to appreciate his work for it's value in the west.

Here's a poem by Grantland Rice:

Two Sides of War (All Wars)

All wars are planned by older men
In council rooms apart,
Who call for greater armament
And map the battle chart.

But out along the shattered field
Where golden dreams turn gray,
How very young the faces were
Where all the dead men lay.

Portly and solemn in their pride,
The elders cast their vote
For this or that, or something else,
That sounds the martial note.

But where their sightless eyes stare out
Beyond life's vanished toys,
I've noticed nearly all the dead
Were hardly more than boys.


edit: oh I missed someone quoting Hedd Wyn. If I get chance this weekend I'll do a rough translation.

When I went to lay flowers on the grave of Hedd Wyn and those of my relatives who had died at Ypres, I met an Irishman who was there to lay flowers at the grave of Francis Ledwidge. Both men died on the same day and are buried just a few yards from each other. The Celtic world lost a lot on 31 July, 1917 at Ypres.

[Annelie]

Great thread.

Thankyou all for the contributions.

[Desdichado]

"There`s a superb cover version of this song by Pogues - much more I`d say "atmospheric" than the original one."

Mike Harding does a very good version on his album "Bomber's Moon." The title song dedicated to his late father who was killed on the way home from the 1000 bomber raid on Köln. Another great and tear-jerking track is the "Accrington Pals." Accrington was the only Lancashire town to raise a battalion for the "pals" recruitment drive. They were slaughtered on the Somme on July 1st, 1916. God rest their souls. The end of the track concludes with a haunting brass rendition of the "Battle of the Somme," originally scored for the bagpipes. Well worth buying.

[Desdichado]

Great thread.

Thankyou all for the contributions.

Thank you too Annelie. Ready for one more?

BREAKFAST
By Hannah Hunt, 1940

His place was laid,
The messroom clock struck eight,
The sun shone through the window
On his chair.
No one commented on his fate,
Save for a headshake here and there;
Only old George, who'd seen him die
Spinning against the autumn sky
Leaned forward and turned down his plate.
And as he did, the sunlight fled,
As though the sky he'd loved so
Mourned her dead.

[Desdichado]

Now you've got me on a roll, as the Americans say. This one is dedicated to the Lancaster that stands in the RAF museum at Hendon. My own father flew on Lancs with 625 Squadron, based at Kelstern.

SHOWPIECE - LANCASTER
Walt Scott - 630 Sqn. RAF

I dream now of another time,
Of soaring wings, and slipstream whine,
Of airscrew arcs, and engine drone,
And cloudy canyons I have known.

Once we were many and we knew,
The love of thousands, our aircrew,
So many lovers past recall
Yet we were faithful to them all.

When towering columns split the night,
With brilliant beams of searching light,
There in just moments we became,
Small insects, round a naked flame.

And with us then, our young men knew,
An eighth, unwanted crewman flew,
He whispered, taunted, often near,
Unseen, but known, for he was Fear.

Time after time, we saw the cost,
To all who fought so well and lost,
For them, a fiery plunge through space
In another time, another place.

For you old lovers, youth has gone,
Relentless, time is moving on,
With arms outstretched, with measured pace,
To take you all in cold embrace.

Time has not marred my grim old frame,
To your fading eyes, I am the same,
Look well, all strangers standing there,
For I am the mighty Lancaster.

[Desdichado]

When I went to lay flowers on the grave of Hedd Wyn and those of my relatives who had died at Ypres, I met an Irishman who was there to lay flowers at the grave of Francis Ledwidge. Both men died on the same day and are buried just a few yards from each other. The Celtic world lost a lot on 31 July, 1917 at Ypres.

The entire world lost a lot on that day and all the other days of battle between August 1914 and November 1918. What would Europe be like today had those boys, for many were just boys, been allowed to live. My Grandfather went over the top on July 1st, 1916 as a private in the Manchester Regiment aged 16 years and three months. By nightfall on that day, he told me that he had aged 20 years. I remember him marching each armistice day until death took him as it did all his comrades. May their souls rest in peace.

[Desdichado]

Here's a piece entitled "The Revel." If you've ever seen the film "Dawn Patrol" starring Errol Flynn, David Niven and Basil Rathbone, you might remember the scene where a few verses were sung in the mess. I believe that this was based on fact. There is a mention of it being sung in the officers mess on several WWII bomber airfields. The poem/song was supposedly written in India at a time when the plague was killing many of the British residents.

The Revel

by Bartholomew Dowling

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls all around are bare;
As they shout back our peals of laughter
It seems that the dead are there.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink in our comrades eyes:
One cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
'Tis cold as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
And soon shall our pulses rise:
A cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's many a hand that's shaking,
And many a cheek that's sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!
'Tis here the revival lies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies.

Time was when we laughed at others;
We thought we were wiser then;
Ha! Ha! Let them think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses, steady!
The thoughtless is here the wise:
One cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink-,
We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
Come, stand to your glasses, steadyl!
'Tis this that the respite buys:
A cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's a mist on the glass congealing,
'Tis the hurricane's sultry breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of Death.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
For a moment the vapor flies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul can sting no more?
No, stand to your glasses, steady!
The world is a world of lies:
A cup to the dead already-
And hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind-
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!
'Tis all we have left to prize:
One cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!