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Post by beth on Aug 6, 2014 16:00:52 GMT -5
Thank you, Lin. These are sad but, still, it's wonderful that the poets can use a handful of words and put you right there, even now ... a hundred years later.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 6, 2014 16:42:47 GMT -5
Thanks, Beth. I'm going to post quite a lot of samples this month and I'll try as much as possible to post unfamiliar poems and even unfamiliar poets as well as the famous classics that we all know.
Most of us had family who fought in the war and it touches us with a personal sense that, say, the Napoleonic Wars don't.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:12:01 GMT -5
From ‘Epitaphs of the War’
Rudyard Kipling
THE COWARD I could not look on Death, which being known, Men led me to him, blindfold and alone. ............................................. BATTERIES OUT OF AMMUNITION If any mourn us in the workshop, say We died because the shift kept holiday. COMMON FORM If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied. A DEAD STATESMAN I could not dig: I dared not rob: 65 Therefore I lied to please the mob. Now all my lies are proved untrue And I must face the men I slew. What tale shall serve me here among Mine angry and defrauded young?
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:12:39 GMT -5
The Leveller
Robert Graves
Near Martinpuisch that night of hell Two men were struck by the same shell, Together tumbling in one heap Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep.
One was a pale eighteen-year-old, Blue-eyed and thin and not too bold, Pressed for the war not ten years too soon, The shame and pity of his platoon.
The other came from far-off lands With bristling chin and whiskered hands; He had known death and hell before In Mexico and Ecuador.
Yet in his death this cut-throat wild Groaned 'Mother! Mother!' like a child, While the poor innocent in man's clothes Died cursing God with brutal oaths.
Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, Wrote out two copies there and then Of his accustomed funeral speech To cheer the womenfolk of each
'He died a hero's death: and we His comrades of 'A' Company Deeply regret his death: we shall All deeply miss so true a pal.'
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:13:07 GMT -5
A Dead Boche
Robert Graves
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
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:13:46 GMT -5
“The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still”
Siegfried Sassoon
The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still And I remember things I'd best forget. For now we've marched to a green, trenchless land Twelve miles from battering guns: along the grass Brown lines of tents are hives for snoring men; Wide, radiant water sways the floating sky Below dark, shivering trees. And living-clean Comes back with thoughts of home and hours of sleep. To-night I smell the battle; miles away Gun-thunder leaps and thuds along the ridge; The spouting shells dig pits in fields of death, And wounded men, are moaning in the woods. If any friend be there whom I have loved, God speed him safe to England with a gash. It's sundown in the camp; some youngster laughs, Lifting his mug and drinking health to all That come unscathed from that unpitying waste: (Terror and ruin lurk behind his gaze.) Another sits with tranquil, musing face, Puffing his pipe and dreaming of the girl Whose last scrawled letter lies upon his knee. The sunlight falls, low-ruddy from the west, Upon their heads. Last week they might have died And now they stretch their limbs in tired content. One says 'The bloody Boche has got the knock; 'And soon they'll crumple up and chuck their games. 'We've got the beggars on the run at last!' Then I remembered someone that I'd seen Dead in a squalid, miserable ditch, Heedless of toiling feet that trod him down. He was a Prussian with a decent face, Young, fresh, and pleasant, so 1 dare to say. No doubt he loathed the war and longed for peace, And cursed our souls because we'd killed his friends. One night he yawned along a hair-dug trench Midnight; and then the British guns began With heavy shrapnel bursting low, and 'hows' Whistling to cut the wire with blinding din. He didn't move; the digging still went on; Men stooped and shovelled; someone gave a grunt, And moaned and died with agony in the sludge. Then the long hiss of shells lifted and stopped. He stared into the gloom; a rocket curved, And rifles rattled angrily on the left Down by the wood, and there was noise of bombs. Then the damned English loomed in scrambling haste Out of the dark and struggled through the wire, And there were shouts and curses; someone screamed And men began to blunder down the trench Without their rifles. It was time to go: He grabbed his coat; stood up, gulping some bread; Then clutched his head and fell. I found him there In the gray morning when the place was held. His face was in the mud; one arm flung out As when he crumpled up; his sturdy legs Were bent beneath his trunk; heels to the sky.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:14:10 GMT -5
Suicide in the Trenches
Siegfried Sassoon
I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:14:52 GMT -5
The Dug-out
Siegfried Sassoon
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadowed from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head... You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:15:27 GMT -5
The Death-bed
Siegfried Sassoon
He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep. Silence and safety; and his mortal shore Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.
Someone was holding water to his mouth. He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. Water—calm, sliding green above the weir. Water—a sky-lit alley for his boat, Bird- voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers And shaken hues of summer; drifting down, He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.
Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.
Rain—he could hear it rustling through the dark; Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace, Gently and slowly washing life away.
He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. But someone was beside him; soon he lay Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.
Light many lamps and gather round his bed. Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. He's young; he hated War; how should he die When cruel old campaigners win safe through?
But death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:15:55 GMT -5
The General
Siegfried Sassoon
‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead, And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine. ‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
. . . . But he did for them both by his plan of attack
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:16:19 GMT -5
Blighters
Siegfried Sassoon
The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; ‘We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!’
I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls, Lurching to rag-time tunes, or ‘Home, sweet Home’, And there’d be no more jokes in Music-halls To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 7, 2014 8:16:41 GMT -5
Glory of Women
Siegfried Sassoon
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave, Or wounded in a mentionable place. You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. You make us shells. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. You can't believe that British troops 'retire' When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. O German mother dreaming by the fire, While you are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 8, 2014 8:53:06 GMT -5
I'm going to post some poems by non-British poets. The first is by a Polish writer.
She who has not died (1914)
Edward Słoński
1 My brother, we are divided by ill-fate and a guard: behind two hostile ramparts our death is our reward. In groaning trenches we listen to the thunder of guns: I, your enemy, you, my enemy, we face each other once. The forest weeps, the earth weeps, the whole world trembles on high. Behind two hostile ramparts we stand, you and I. 2 As soon as the guns begin to roar in the dawn, through the whistling bullets of death your sign has always shone. You throw at our low ramparts your whole artillery and you call and you speak to me: “Brother, it is I.” The forest weeps, the earth weeps, the whole world trembles on high, and all the time you say to me “Brother, it is I.” 3 Don’t think of me, my brother, as I march to my death: in the fire of my bullets stand bravely and take a deep breath. And when you see me from afar fire at me instead: into a Polish heart aim Russian lead. For I dream of her by day and see her in my dreams: She who has not died will rise where our blood screams.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 8, 2014 8:54:09 GMT -5
This is by a German Jew:
TO MY CHILDREN
Emanuel Saul
When I left home to fight for Fatherland Against the threat of danger and deceit You, children, happily around me ran Rejoicing in your father’s bravery, His uniform and other warlike clothes, And in his newfound worth and bravery. All hid from child-like sight was what it means When now your father leaves for war and death. But later when you are mature and wise, And when perhaps my bones far east may lie Bleaching alone under a wooden cross – Then dread and horror you may start to feel And you will think about that far-off time When we all said farewell for the last time. The certainty will ease your private pain That proud and joyful he did join the ranks Who all fought for our Reich’s security. And do you want to know why I went out, Enthused and happy joining all the rest, My life by sweetest wife and love still crowned, While you in childhood’s blossom sweet and pure Appeared before me in your beauteous youth? I say to you, and listen carefully I left you all because a German I, No other way could I think, feel or act! A German in each fibre of my heart. Strong feelings as a student came to me Of noble, precious German worth and good. My childish heart rejoiced when I did hear Of German victories and greatness told. But when each sudden blow my nation struck, It shattered me deep in my inmost soul; It penetrated me so deep in marrow’s core That it became my life’s experience. So moved was I deep in my heart of hearts Because of tragic destiny that struck And tried to kill the noble dynasty The kingly breed of Hohenstauffens proud, So deeply moved was I that, yet a child, Still tied to school desk and not yet mature It held the grip of written fantasy. Then came a war with German forces strong Not only against German pride and power – But against German peoples, German kind, Consciously evil, devilishly conceived – A war, not fought as knights with weapon bared, But hunger’s ruin forcing us to yield. With bold lies and the basest treachery With despicable and immoral acts They wanted to destroy our long-sought peace Achieved by German peoples’ work and toil. The blooming of our scientists’ research Creations of our keen artistic Volk The blessings of our culture most refined The glorious and proud acts of German spirits The sound of German poetry and bloom Of happy lives created by hard work The blessings of our work with brother’s hands In company with values strong and good. Yes, snuffed out and destroyed, removed from life A world without our art they wished to see! It is a war, heart beating strong in breast With mindful thoughts and blood strong in the veins, Proclaimed against a hellish evil beast. And to what end? The merchants to enrich And thieves hungry for gold to make more rich. And then our holy anger was enflamed: How else could I have thought and felt right then When German nation’s brave and brightest youth, When I too loved our holy German art? Could outrage not then fill my deepest soul When German essence is now so defiled When we are blamed for all outrageous acts When slanderous doubts of our nobility Drag us all down in mud and dirt and filth. Relief and not complaint rose in my soul When fate chose me for battle’s severe test, Vengeance to take on malice, lies, deceit Defending German richness and fair bloom, To fight for wife and child for my land’s sake, Protecting them from Asiatic hordes, That breed of tigers at our eastern gate Who heinously with us in past has dealt. What noble joy! Thus did I leave with hope, A German, German borders to protect – And yet another thing drove me to war. I am a Jew, and faithful, true and proud Of the tribe from whose blood I take my source. In time of peace we oft are spoken of With calumny about our Jewish faith. We are called base cowards unfit to fight And turned away from lofty goals of life, Mean, low and selfish, gain-obsessed, They curse us cruelly – and this is the worst The hard blow that strikes like the whip’s lash – As foreign on the soil for which our fathers Have paid both with their sweat and with their blood. – My heart is now gripped with time’s urgency One will have I, one single holy wish That Jew and German bind themselves as one. That we are German needs no outside proof, The truth thereof shines clearly as the sun, We Jews all leave for war of our own wish, Joyful to throng around our country’s flag To gain for ourselves – even if fate wills That we pay with our blood – our Fatherland. For Jewish kin have sadly called the land In which we live Stepfatherland: This was my last but well-considered wish.. . That I and all of us will prove our strength: Our Fatherland for which we have such love That placed us at the back unjustly, wrong And that we fight bravely when duty calls To strike the foe like, once in days of yore, The Maccabees, proud scions of our tribe - Who are our enemies in this just war, The Judas, old notorious foe of yore The cruel old oppressor of our race, The enemies of culture, freedom, right, Who are our enemies now? – One hate Unites us, finally, with freedom’s joy Warriors for culture, German, Jew unite And then will bloom one common destiny: Defeat may lead to our destruction, sure, But victory frees, ennobles, gives us joy. For what can we expect from our cruel foe, That now spills Jewish blood in their own lands, Flowing in streams, and causes grief and woe To Jewish children, women without fault? Therefore I left for battle, as I am. A German Jew to fight in holy war.
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 8, 2014 8:54:53 GMT -5
Another one by a German poet:
TRENCH POST AND FIELD WATCH
Walter Heymann
Rise and awake, it is the hour! The patrol makes the rounds And examines each man on watch Standing on the loamy mud-wall Peering through the night, Listening for every echo, Rifle cocked. Up and awake for your comrades!
Hear, they snore without restful sleep Buried into their gloomy lairs In which the foe lives in their dreams, But no-one budges. So, when each man creeps out with the patrol Only the full moon And the waking stars Silently greet the far-away Homeland.
So, now you are standing in the little forest of field guards Where the enemy, from every fold in the earth Squints out of the trees, Squat, all of you, properly hid. If you are discovered Then – good shot! How the turnip-leaves wave like humans, As if they are rushing en mass – against us!
No, from there – is the swarm of fire from there?
Now pay attention and sound the alarm at once. The singing from telegraph poles And nothing else. – but a whiplash sound Strikes near your ear. It was but a sound And the bullet flew past. But ahead, where the enemy watches in the forest You can hear the crashing of their rifles.
Quiet then, restless cool emptiness, Close your tired lids, heavy with sleep, Shake yourself and do not give in, Do not go to sleep, But think: you are all alone On watch here; Sleepers that only have eyes like your own Sleep around you in the trenches.
And –halt, who goes there! – they come running Dark men, deeply rooted in the earth, They call the well-known password; Your ear also knows the brave voices, Friend: shoot your rifle. They are there! Soon you will be relieved! Whomever then is on watch – for me—I bless him May nothing worse befall him.
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