ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 25, 2014 12:28:45 GMT -5
The dancers
Edith Sitwell
The floors are slippery with blood: The world gyrates too. God is good That while His wind blows out the light For those who hourly die for us – We still can dance, each night. The music has grown numb with death – But we will suck their dying breath, The whispered name they breathed to chance, To swell our music, make it loud That we may dance, – may dance. We are the dull blind carrion-fly That dance and batten. Though God die Mad from the horror of the light – The light is mad, too, flecked with blood, – We dance, we dance, each night.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 25, 2014 12:29:04 GMT -5
The night patrol
Arthur Graeme West
Over the top! The wire’s thin here, unbarbed Plain rusty coils, not staked, and low enough: Full of old tins, though — “When you’re through, all three, Aim quarter left for fifty yards or so, Then straight for that new piece of German wire; See if it’s thick, and listen for a while For sounds of working; don’t run any risks; About an hour; now, over!” And we placed Our hands on the topmost sand-bags, leapt, and stood A second with curved backs, then crept to the wire, Wormed ourselves tinkling through, glanced back, and dropped. The sodden ground was splashed with shallow pools, And tufts of crackling cornstalks, two years old, No man had reaped, and patches of spring grass. Half-seen, as rose and sank the flares, were strewn With the wrecks of our attack: the bandoliers, Packs, rifles, bayonets, belts, and haversacks, Shell fragments, and the huge whole forms of shells Shot fruitlessly — and everywhere the dead. Only the dead were always present — present As a vile sickly smell of rottenness; The rustling stubble and the early grass, The slimy pools — the dead men stank through all, Pungent and sharp; as bodies loomed before, And as we passed, they stank: then dulled away To that vague fœtor, all encompassing, Infecting earth and air. They lay, all clothed, Each in some new and piteous attitude That we well marked to guide us back: as he, Outside our wire, that lay on his back and crossed His legs Crusader-wise: I smiled at that, And thought on Elia and his Temple Church. From him, at quarter left, lay a small corpse, Down in a hollow, huddled as in bed, That one of us put his hand on unawares. Next was a bunch of half a dozen men All blown to bits, an archipelago Of corrupt fragments, vexing to us three, Who had no light to see by, save the flares. On such a trail, so lit, for ninety yards We crawled on belly and elbows, till we saw, Instead of lumpish dead before our eyes, The stakes and crosslines of the German wire. We lay in shelter of the last dead man, Ourselves as dead, and heard their shovels ring Turning the earth, then talk and cough at times. A sentry fired and a machine-gun spat; They shot a glare above us, when it fell And spluttered out in the pools of No Man’s Land, We turned and crawled past the remembered dead: Past him and him, and them and him, until, For he lay some way apart, we caught the scent Of the Crusader and slide past his legs, And through the wire and home, and got our rum
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 25, 2014 12:29:32 GMT -5
How to Die
Siegfried Sassoon
Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns; He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name.
You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 27, 2014 6:41:26 GMT -5
Advent, 1916
Eva Dobell
I dreamt last night Christ came to earth again To bless His own. My soul from place to place On her dream-quest sped, seeking for His face Through temple and town and lovely land, in vain. Then came I to a place where death and pain Had made of God's sweet world a waste forlorn, With shattered trees and meadows gashed and torn, Where the grim trenches scarred the shell-sheared plain. And through that Golgotha of blood and clay, Where watchers cursed the sick dawn, heavy-eyed, There (in my dream) Christ passed upon His way, Where His cross marks their nameless graves who died Slain for the world's salvation where all day For others' sake strong men are crucified.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 27, 2014 6:41:56 GMT -5
Hardness of Heart
Edward Shillito
In the first watch no death but made us mourn; Now tearless eyes run down the daily roll, Whose names are written in the book of death; For sealed are now the springs of tears, as when The tropic sun makes dry the torrent's course After the rains. They are too many now For mortal eyes to weep, and none can see But God alone the Thing itself and live. We look to seaward, and behold a cry! To skyward, and they fall as stricken birds On autumn fields; and earth cries out its toll, From the Great River to the world's end--toll Of dead, and maimed and lost; we dare not stay; Tears are not endless and we have no more.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 27, 2014 6:42:20 GMT -5
Dreamers
Siegfried Sassoon
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, Drawing no dividend from time's tomorrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 29, 2014 10:40:01 GMT -5
Over The Parapet
Robert W Service All day long when the shells sail over I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, And over the parapet gleams Romance. Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing Dreary old records of money and mart, Me with my head chuckful of fighting And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart.
But little I thought that my time was coming, Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; And here I am with the bullets humming As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. Out alone, for adventure thirsting, Out in mysterious No Man's Land; Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, Flares on the horrors on every hand.
There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, That spill in a pool of pearly flame, Pretty as gems in their silver brightness, And etching a man for a bullet's aim.
Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! What was that? Was it just the shiver Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land?
It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, And gibber and whisper horrible things; For to every foot of this God-forsaken Zone of jeopard some horror clings. Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, That flattish mound in the noisome grass; You three big rats running free of its belly, Out of my way and let me pass!
But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. That flood of magnificent orange yonder Is a battery blazing miles away. With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, And look and listen and love it all.
God! What a life! But I must make haste now, Before the shadow of night be spent. It's little the time there is to waste now, If I'd do the job for which I was sent. My bombs are right and my clippers ready, And I wriggle out to the chosen place, When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! Who am I staring slap in the face?
There in the dark I can hear him breathing, A foot away, and as still as death; And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. "English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. "Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I.
So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle There in the gutter of No Man's Land; And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: "Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein."
Nine! Well, I cannot kill such a father, So I tie his hands and I leave him there. Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; And I get home safe with some light to spare. Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, Doing the same old song and dance; But oh! with the night — joy, glory, beauty: Over the parapet — Life, Romance!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 29, 2014 10:42:36 GMT -5
Rhyfel
Hedd Wyn
Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng, A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell; O'i ôl mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng, Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.
Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd; Mae sŵn yr ymladd ar ein clyw, A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.
Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw, A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt, A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw.
(English translation)
War
Alas, this is an age so mean That everyman is made a Lord, For all authority's absurd When God himself fades from the scene.
As quick as God is shown the door Out come the cannons and the sword: Hate on hate on brother poured And scored the deepest on the poor.
The harps that once could help our pain Hang silent, to the willows pinned. The cry of battle fills the wind And blood of lads--it falls like rain.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 29, 2014 10:43:04 GMT -5
Hero
Siegfried 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.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 29, 2014 10:43:44 GMT -5
Gone, Gone Again
Edward Thomas
Gone, gone again, May, June, July, And August gone, Again gone by,
Not memorable Save that I saw them go, As past the empty quays The rivers flow.
And now again, In the harvest rain, The Blenheim oranges Fall grubby from the trees
As when I was young And when the lost one was here And when the war began To turn young men to dung.
Look at the old house, Outmoded, dignified, Dark and untenanted, With grass growing instead
Of the footsteps of life, The friendliness, the strife; In its beds have lain Youth. love, age, and pain:
I am something like that; Only I am not dead, Still breathing and interested In the house that is not dark:--
I am something like that: Not one pane to reflect the sun, For the schoolboys to throw at-- They have broken every one.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Sept 1, 2014 6:13:05 GMT -5
I'm delighted to say that at the very last minute I found some First World War poems by Russian, Turkish and American writers.
Here's the first one by the Russian writer Nikolai Gumilev
Shame
Nikolai Gumilev
May be, in my previous a-being, I’ve cut the throats of my Mom and Dad, If in this one – Lord of all the living! -- I have been doomed to suffering like that.
If I call for dogs of mine, aloud, Or just try my own horse to see, Not obeying all my signs and shouts, They would promptly run away from me.
If I come to the enchanting foam Of my native and well-known sea, Then the sea would blacken from the woe And fast go back, away from me.
My day looks like looks a man extinguished, And my work – like somebody’s else strife, Mine – is only pine of undistinguished, Non-platonic and unworthy love.
Let the deathly languor be in action, I’ll not stop to wait the time, when In my future version of creation, I’ll become a gallant knight again.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Sept 1, 2014 6:14:06 GMT -5
One by a Turkish poet:
Soldier's Prayer
Ziya Gökalp
Tüfenk in my hand, believe in my heart, I wish two: religion and the homeland ... Jan. army major Sultan, Sultana gracious to sep rescue! Müzdâd life in sep gracious!
Our way to the gas, the end of the testimony, Want our religious services with truthfulness, Home Our country, our father nation, Ma'mur homeland in sep gracious! Nation is legitimate to sep gracious!
My banner of monotheism, I crescent flag, One green, the other receives, Islam pain, take revenge from the enemy, Islam Abad eyle gracious! Berbâd enemy of sep gracious!
Commander, officers, our fathers. Sergeant, Corporal our network. Rank and respect our laws. Army to properly sep gracious! Ensign of superior sep gracious!
Cenk coach yiğid nice square, Religion and were martyred for Emitter, January of incense, you flash ÜMiD, Martyr to grieve gracious! Do not zebu lineage gracious!
(My apologies for the poor translation; I couldn't find the original Turkish poem and the Google translator is variable!)
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Sept 1, 2014 6:14:39 GMT -5
One by an American poet:
Prayer of a Soldier in France
Alfred Joyce Kilmer My shoulders ache beneath my pack (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).
I march with feet that burn and smart (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart).
Men shout at me who may not speak (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).
I may not lift a hand to clear My eyes of salty drops that sear.
(Then shall my fickle soul forget Thy agony of Bloody Sweat?)
My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come).
Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me Than all the hosts of land and sea.
So let me render back again This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Sept 1, 2014 6:15:06 GMT -5
And one by Wilfred Owen:
Arms and the Boy
Wilfred Owen Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood; Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads. Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth, Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple. There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple; And God will grow no talons at his heels, Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls
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