War Poems thread - please come in and comment!

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Tony Gee
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Favourite Sassoon

#106

Post by Tony Gee » 21 Feb 2005, 21:20

Memorial Tablet
Siegfried Sassoon-November 1918.


Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby's Scheme) I died in hell
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
and I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while the Squire is in his pew,
He gives my guilded name a thoughtful stare;
For, though low down upon the list, I'm there;
'In proud and glorious memory' ... that's my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he's never guessed.
Once I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?


Sassoon is so gritty?

Regards
TG

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Blenheim
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War Poems

#107

Post by Blenheim » 28 Feb 2005, 02:59

A simple poem by a chap called Carl Sandburg, a poem I have always liked if only for its strangeness. It is called "Grass".

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
Shovel them under and let me work -
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor;

What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work.


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Blenheim
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War Poems

#108

Post by Blenheim » 12 Mar 2005, 14:54

Has this thread died? I hope not as there are many more poems to show here and many more views that a poem can express. For instance, the following poem leaps whole-heartedly into a sort of enthusiastic participation in battle with the concomitant memorialising of the men involved.

I first read this poem at school many years ago and was impressed (being at an even more impressionable age than I am now) but reading it today I am still struck by the enthusiasm the poet shows, not for war itself, but for the bravery and steadfastness of the men he is speaking about. Anyway, here it is:

The Cricketers of Flanders

By James Norman Hall


THE FIRST to climb the parapet
With “cricket balls” in either hand;
The first to vanish in the smoke
Of God-forsaken No Man’s Land;
First at the wire and soonest through,
First at those red-mouthed hounds of hell,
The Maxims, and the first to fall,—
They do their bit and do it well.

Full sixty yards I’ve seen them throw
With all that nicety of aim
They learned on British cricket-fields,
Ah, bombing is a Briton’s game!
Shell-hole to shell-hole, trench to trench,
“Lobbing them over” with an eye
As true as though it were a game
And friends were having tea close by.

Pull down some art-offending thing
Of carven stone, and in its stead
Let splendid bronze commemorate
These men, the living and the dead.
No figure of heroic size,
Towering skyward like a god;
But just a lad who might have stepped
From any British bombing squad.

His shrapnel helmet set atilt,
His bombing waistcoat sagging low,
His rifle slung across his back:
Poised in the very act to throw.
And let some graven legend tell
Of those weird battles in the West
Wherein he put old skill to use,
And played old games with sterner zest.

Thus should he stand, reminding those
In less-believing days, perchance,
How Britain’s fighting cricketers
Helped bomb the Germans out of France.
And other eyes than ours would see;
And other hearts than ours would thrill;
And others say, as we have said:
“A sportsman and a soldier still!”

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red devil
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#109

Post by red devil » 12 Mar 2005, 15:01

I think like most threads, they wax and wane with the tides.

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Ronzzr11
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Location: England.

#110

Post by Ronzzr11 » 07 Apr 2005, 21:37

Hello Everyone
This is my first post here,on this forum, I,ve been lurking for a while now, and I thought it was high time I added something.
This poem is one I saw on a wall of the control tower of the aircraft museum at Elvington, Yorkshire, England.

The Old Airfield

I lie here still beside the hill
abandoned long to Nature,s will
my buildings down, my people gone
my only sounds, the wild bird songs

But my mighty birds will rise no more
no more will I hear the Merlins roar
and never now,my bosom feels
the pounding of their giant wheels

From the ageless hill their voices cast
thunderous echoes of the past
and still in lonely reverie
their great dark wings sweep down to me.

Laughter, sorrow, hope and pain
I shall never know these things again
emotions that I came to know
of strange young men of long ago.

Who knows as evening shadows meet
are they here still, a phantom fleet
do my ghosts still stride unseen
across my face, so wide and green

And in the future should structures tall
bury me beyond recall
I shall remember them
my metal birds and long dead men

Now weeds grow high,obscure the sky
O remember me as you pass by,
for beneath this tangled leafy green
I was your home, your friends silksheen.

Ronzzr11
Last edited by Ronzzr11 on 22 Jul 2005, 13:38, edited 1 time in total.

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Klaus Yurk
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#111

Post by Klaus Yurk » 10 Apr 2005, 01:58

Nice poem, Ronzzr11. Do you know who wrote it? Or did you write it?

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Ronzzr11
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Location: England.

#112

Post by Ronzzr11 » 10 Apr 2005, 22:15

I,ve no idea who the author of the poem was, it was just typed out,on a sheet of paper,that was framed along with several pictures of the airfield.

Ronzzr11

szopen
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Location: poznan, poland

#113

Post by szopen » 21 Apr 2005, 14:37

I see the poppies are returning theme in many poems..

The melody, to which none can dance:

Red Poppies on Monte Cassino

D`you see those ruins on the hill-top?
There your foe hides like a rat!
You must, you must, you must
Grab his neck and cast him from the clouds!
And they went, heedless of danger
And they went, to kill and avenge
And they went stubborn as ever,
As always - for honour - to fight.


Refrain:


Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.


They charged through fire like madmen,
Countless were hit and fell,
Like the cavalry at Samosierra,
Like the men at Rokitno years ago.
They attacked with fury and fire,
And they got there. They climbed to the top,
And their white and scarlet standard
They placed on the ruins `midst clouds.


Refrain:
Red poppies on Monte Cassino ....


D`you see this row of white crosses?
Polish soldiers did honour there wed.
The further you go, the higher,
The more of such crosses youłl meet.
This soil was won for Poland,
Though Poland is far away,
For Freedom is measured in crosses
When history from justice does stray.


Refrain:
Red Poppies on Monte Cassino...

szopen
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#114

Post by szopen » 21 Apr 2005, 15:01

Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski, my favourite WWII poet. 22.01.1921 - 04.08.1944, died somewhere in sewers of Warsaw, during Warsaw uprising. His young wife died as well;
Elegia o ... [chłopcu polskim]

Oddzielili cie, syneczku, od snów, co jak motyl drżą,
haftowali ci, syneczku, smutne oczy rudą krwią,
malowali krajobrazy w żółte ściegi pożóg,
wyszywali wisielcami drzew płynące morze.
Wyuczyli cię, syneczku, ziemi twej na pamięć,
gdyś jej ścieżki powycinał żelaznymi łzami.
Odchowali cię w ciemności, odkarmili bochnem trwóg,
przemierzyłeś po omacku najwstydliwsze z ludzkich dróg.
I wyszedłeś, jasny synku, z czarną bronią w noc,
i poczułeś, jak się jeży w dźwięku minut - zło.
Zanim padłeś, jeszcze ziemię przeżegnałeś ręką.
Czy to była kula, synku, czy to serce pekło?
The elegy for .. [Polish boy]

They have separated you. my little son, from the dreams, which are trembling like butterflies
The were weaving you, my little son, your sad eyes wth red blood
They painted you landscapes with yellow stitches of fires
They were weaving with hanging men sea flowing with trees
They teached you, my little son, your lend to remember
when you have cut her tracks with steel tears
They raised you in darkness, they feed you with bread of fear
you have crossed groping yours way through most shameful of men's ways
and you left, my little light son, with dark gun into the night
and you felt how the evil is bristling in sounds of minutes
before you fell, you crossed the land with you hand
was it a bullet, my little son, or it was your heart which broke?
Z głową na karabinie

Nocą słyszę, jak coraz bliżej
drżąc i grając krąg się zaciska.
A mnie przecież zdrój rzeźbił chyży,
wyhuśtała mnie chmur kołyska.
A mnie przecież wody szerokie
na dźwigarach swych niosły ptaki
bzu dzikiego; bujne obłoki
były dla mnie jak uśmiech matki.
Krąg powolny dzień czy noc krąży,
ostrzem świszcząc tnie już przy ustach,
a mnie przecież tak jak innym
ziemia rosła tęga - nie pusta.
I mnie przecież jak dymu laska
wytryskała gołębia młodość;
teraz na dnie śmierci wyrastam
ja - syn dziki mego narodu.
Krąg jak nożem z wolna rozcina,
przetnie światło, zanim dzień minie,
a ja prześpię czas wielkiej rzeźby
z głową ciężką na karabinie.
Obskoczony przez zdarzeń zamęt,
kręgiem ostrym rozdarty na pół,
głowę rzucę pod wiatr jak granat,
piersi zgniecie czas czarną łapą;
bo to była życia nieśmiałość,
a odwaga - gdy śmiercią niosło.
Umrzeć przyjdzie, gdy się kochało
wielkie sprawy głupią miłością.
4 XII 43r.
"Droga" 1944, 2
Śpiew z pożogi, 1947
I hear at nights, as it getting closer
trembling and playing, the ring is closing
And i was sculputred by fast stream
I was swinged in clouds cradle
And to me it were wide waters
carried by birds
of wild elder; the fertile clouds
were to me as mother's smiler
The slow ring day and night is rounding
with blade cutting close to my lips,
and to me, as to others,
land was rising full, not empty
And to me after all, like pile of smoke
dove-like youthness springed out;

Now, on the ground of death i raise
me - wild son of my nation
The ring as with knife slowly cuts,
it will cut the light, before the day will pss
And I will sleep through the time of great sculpturing
with heavy head on my rifle;
Surrounded by chaos of events;
with sharp ring tore into two parts
I will throw my head against the wind as grenade
My torso will be crushed by time with heavy paw

Because it was shyness of life
And courage, when death was carried
You will have to die, when you loved
Great Things with Stupid Love

szopen
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Location: poznan, poland

#115

Post by szopen » 21 Apr 2005, 15:03

Not exactly war poem, but still veyr moving one. Tadeusz Rozewicz.

The Survivor (translation: Adam Czerniawski)

I am twenty-four
led to slaughter
I survived.

The following are empty synonyms:
man and beast
love and hate
friend and foe
darkness and light.

The way of killing men and beasts is the same
I've seen it:
truckfuls of chopped-up men
who will not be saved.

Ideas are mere words:
virtue and crime
truth and lies
beauty and ugliness
courage and cowardice.

Virtue and crime weigh the same
I've seen it:
in a man who was both
criminal and virtuous.

I seek a teacher and a master
may he restore my sight hearing and speech
may he again name objects and ideas
may he separate darkness from light.

I am twenty-four
led to slaughter
I survived.

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Vikki
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Location: Amerika

#116

Post by Vikki » 24 Apr 2005, 06:07

szopen,

Very nice poems, all of them, although I especially like the first one by Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski. I don't know that I've ever read any poems by Polish poets, and they're an appropriate addition here.

~FV

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Lupo Solitario
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#117

Post by Lupo Solitario » 24 Apr 2005, 23:40

about poems in speech different from english? are admitted?

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Lupo Solitario
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#118

Post by Lupo Solitario » 26 Apr 2005, 17:55

Ok, got no answers….anyway that’s my favorite one:

Giuseppe Ungaretti, written July 15, 1916

“Fratelli”

Di che reggimento siete
fratelli?
Parola tremante
nella notte
Foglia appena nata
Nell'aria spasimante
involontaria rivolta
dell'uomo presente alla sua
fragilità
Fratelli

But if you’re interested, here’s translation:

“Brothers”

What regiment d'you belong to
brothers?
Word shaking
in the night
Leaf barely born
In the simmering air
involuntary revolt
of the man present at his
brittleness
Brothers

And this one, too. Written December 23, 1915

“Veglia”

Un'intera nottata
buttato vicino
a un compagno
massacrato
con la sua bocca
digrignata
volta al plenilunio
con la congestione
delle sue mani
penetrata
nel mio silenzio
ho scritto
lettere piene d'amore.
Non sono mai stato
tanto
attaccato alla vita.

And, translation:

“Vigil”

A whole night long
crouched close
to one of our men
butchered
with his clenched
mouth
grinning at the full moon
with the congestion
of his hands
thrust right
into my silence
I've written
letters filled with love
I have never been
so
coupled to life

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Vikki
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#119

Post by Vikki » 27 Apr 2005, 04:00

Although most people don't think of them under the topic of "War Poems," dogs have been humans' companions in battle even before Cicero wrote "...let slip the dogs of war."
This short poem, by an unknown author, is used as a motto by many military dog handlers. Although it is variously titled I Am A Working Dog or K-9 Promise, I think it speaks of the loyalty and valour of these animals without requiring a title.



My eyes are your eyes, to watch you and to protect you and yours.
My ears are your ears, to hear and detect evil minds in the dark.
My nose is your nose, to scent the invader of your domain.
And so you may live,
My life is also yours.



http://www.uswardogs.org/index.html
http://community-2.webtv.net/Hahn-50thAP-K9/K9History/

~FV

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Lupo Solitario
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#120

Post by Lupo Solitario » 27 Apr 2005, 13:54

Fraulein Valkyrie wrote:Although most people don't think of them under the topic of "War Poems," dogs have been humans' companions in battle even before Cicero wrote "...let slip the dogs of war."
Cicero? Which is the exact citation?

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