War poems

[Tale]

Heard a powerful BBC radio documentary today as I was driving (streaming available). Please don't post anything that belongs in the Politics forum. These two poems by Brian Turner were read by him and I thought they were great.


What Every Soldier Should Know
          To yield to force is an act of necessity, not of will;
                                         it is at best an act of prudence.
                                                 -- Jean-Jacques Rousseau

If you hear gunfire on a Thursday afternoon,
it could be for a wedding, or it could be for you.

Always enter a home with your right foot;
the left is for cemeteries and unclean places.

O-guf! Tera armeek is rarely useful.
It means Stop! Or I'll shoot.

Sabah el khair is effective.
It means Good Morning.

Inshallah means Allah be willing.
Listen well when it is spoken.

You will hear the RPG coming for you.
Not so the roadside bomb.

There are bombs under the overpasses,
in trashpiles, in bricks, in cars.

There are shopping carts with clothes soaked
in foogas, a sticky gel of homemade napalm.

Parachute bombs and artillery shells
sewn into the carcasses of dead farm animals.

Graffiti sprayed onto the overpasses:
I will kell you, American.

Men wearing vests rigged with explosives
walk up, raise their arms and say Inshallah.

There are men who earn eighty dollars
to attack you, five thousand to kill.

Small children who will play with you,
old men with their talk, women who offer chai --

and any one of them
may dance over your body tomorrow.


AB Negative (The Surgeon’s Poem)

Thalia Fields lies under a grey ceiling of clouds,
just under the turbulence, with anesthetics
dripping from an IV into her arm,
and the flight surgeon says The shrapnel
cauterized as it traveled through her
here, breaking this rib as it entered,
burning a hole through the left lung
to finish in her back, and all of this
she doesn’t hear, except perhaps as music—
that faraway music of people’s voices
when they speak gently and with care,
a comfort to her on a stretcher
in a flying hospital en route to Landstuhl,
just under the rain at midnight, and Thalia
drifts in and out of consciousness
as a nurse dabs her lips with a moist towel,
her palm on Thalia’s forehead, her vitals
slipping some, as burned flesh gives way
to the heat of the blood, the tunnels within
opening to fill her, just enough blood
to cough up and drown in; Thalia
sees the shadows of people working
to save her, but she cannot feel their hands,
cannot hear them any longer,
and when she closes her eyes
the most beautiful colors rise in darkness,
tangerine washing into Russian blue,
with the droning engine humming on
in a dragonfly’s wings, island palms
painting the sky an impossible hue
with their thick brushes dripping green…
a way of dealing with the fact
that Thalia Fields is gone, long gone,
about as far from Mississippi
as she can get, ten thousand feet above Iraq
with a blanket draped over her body
and an exhausted surgeon in tears,
his bloodied hands on her chest, his head
sunk down, the nurse guiding him
to a nearby seat and holding him as he cries,
though no one hears it, because nothing can be heard
where pilots fly in blackout, the plane
like a shadow guiding the rain, here
in the droning engines of midnight.

[lamaros]

Please don't post anything that belongs in the Politics forum.

 

[Trippy]

Yeah.

[Fordel]

The only war poem I've ever known:


    In Flanders fields the poppies blow
    Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
    Scarce heard amid the guns below.

    We are the dead. Short days ago
    We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
    In Flanders fields.

    Take up our quarrel with the foe:
    To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
    In Flanders fields.
    — Lt.-Col. John McCrae(1872 - 1918)

[Sheepherder]

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
      He was "Din! Din! Din!
  You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
      Hi! Slippy hitherao!
      Water, get it!  Panee lao!                   [Bring water swiftly.]
  You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."
 
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"           [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for "O brother."]
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
      It was "Din! Din! Din!
  You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
      You put some juldee in it                               [Be quick.]
      Or I'll marrow you this minute                           [Hit you.]
  If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
 
'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,                               [Water-skin.]
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
      It was "Din! Din! Din!"
  With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
      When the cartridges ran out,
      You could hear the front-ranks shout,
  "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
 
I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
      It was "Din! Din! Din!
  'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
      'E's chawin' up the ground,
      An' 'e's kickin' all around:
  For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"
 
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen.
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
      Yes, Din! Din! Din!
  You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
      Though I've belted you and flayed you,
      By the livin' Gawd that made you,
  You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


That's Kipling.  He also wrote an allegorical book about the jungle, forget that it's called.

[Engels]

Archilochus (Greek: Ἀρχίλοχος) (c. 680 BC – c. 645 BC) was a Greek poet and supposed mercenary

Some barbarian is waving my shield,
since I was obliged to
leave that perfectly good piece of equipment behind
under a bush.
But I got away, so what does it matter?
Life seemed somehow more precious.
Let the shield go; I can buy another one equally good.

[Kovacs]

For the two people who don't have it memorized.

1.
Half a league, half a league,
 Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
 Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
 Rode the six hundred.

2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
 Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
 Rode the six hundred.

3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
 Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
 Rode the six hundred.

4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
 All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
 Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
 Not the six hundred.

5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
 Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
 Left of six hundred.

6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
 All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
 Noble six hundred.
 


Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,
J. E. Tilton and Company, Boston, 1870




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Stormwaltz]

DULCE ET DECORUM EST by WILFRED OWEN (1893-1918)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,---
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[Righ]

'At the Cenotaph' by Hugh MacDairmid

Are the living so much use
That we need to mourn the dead?
Or would it yield better results
To reverse their roles instead?
The millions slain in the War —
Untimely, the best of our seed? —
Would the world be any the better
If they were still living indeed?
The achievements of such as are
To the notion lend no support;
The whole history of life and death
Yields no scrap of evidence for't. —
Keep going to your wars, you fools, as of yore;
I'm the civilisation you're fighting for.


'Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries' by A.E. Houseman

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
the hour when earth's foundation fled,
followed their mercenary calling
and took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
they stood, and earth's foundation stay;
what God abandoned, these defended,
and saved the sum of things for pay.


'Another Epitaph On An Army Of Mercenaries' by Hugh McDiarmid

(In reply to A. E. Housman)

It is a God-damned lie to say that these
Saved, or knew, anything worth any man's pride.
They were professional murderers and they took
Their blood money and their imperious risks and died.
In spite of all their kind some elements of worth
With difficulty persist here and there on earth.


'Cha Till Maccruimein:(Departure of the 4th Camerons)' by Ewart Alan Mackintosh

The pipes in the streets were playing bravely,
The marching lads went by
With merry hearts and voices singing
My friends marched out to die;
But I was hearing a lonely pibroch
Out of an older war,
Farewell, farewell, farewell, MacCrimmon,
MacCrimmon comes no more.'

And every lad in his heart was dreaming
Of honour and wealth to come,
And honour and noble pride were calling
To the tune of the pipes and drum;
But I was hearing a woman singing
On dark Dunvegan shore,
In battle or peace, with wealth or honour,
MacCrimmon comes no more.'

And there in front of the men were marching
With feet that made no mark,
The grey old ghosts of the ancient fighters
Come back again from the dark;
And in front of them all MacCrimmon piping
A weary tune and sore,
On gathering day, for ever and ever,
MacCrimmon comes no more.'


'All the Hills and Vales Along' by Charles Hamilton Sorley

      All the hills and vales along
      Earth is bursting into song,
      And the singers are the chaps
      Who are going to die perhaps.
          O sing, marching men,
          Till the valleys ring again,
          Give your gladness to earth's keeping,
          So be glad, when you are sleeping.

      Cast away regret and rue,
      Think what you are marching to.
      Little live, great pass.
      Jesus Christ and Barabbas
      Were found the same day.
      This died, that went his way.
          So sing with joyful breath,
          For why, you are gong to death.
          Teeming earth will surely store
          All the gladness that you pour.

      Earth that never doubts nor fears,
      Earth that knows of death, not tears,
      Earth that bore with joyful ease
      Hemlock for Socrates,
      Earth that blossomed and was glad
      'Neath the cross that Christ had,
      Shall rejoice and blossom too
      When the bullet reaches you.
          Wherefore, men marching
          On the road to death, sing!
          Pour gladness on earth's head,
          So be merry, so be dead.

      From the hills and valleys earth
      Shouts back the sound of mirth,
      Tramp of feet and lilt of song
      Ringing all the road along.
      All the music of their going,
      Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,
      Earth will echo still, when foot
      Lies numb and voice mute.
          On marching men, on
          To the gates of death with song.
          Sow your gladness for earth's reaping,
          So you may be glad though sleeping.
          Strew your gladness on earth's bed,
          So be merry, so be dead.


and my favourite post-apocalyptic poem:

'The Horses' by Edwin Muir

Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listen, we would not let it bring
The bad old world that swallowed its children quick
At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.

The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust:
“They’ll moulder away and be like other loam.”
We make our oxen drag our rusty ploughs,
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers’ land.

And then, that evening
Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought
That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half-a-dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads,
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.

[pxib]

Not a poem and barely a paragraph. The note that begins Erich Maria Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front:

This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war.

[Phildo]

I used to read Siegfried Sassoon's poetry about World War 1.  Long time ago, though.

[nurtsi]

This is the only poem about war that I remember. I don't really know why it sticks into my head.

War by Georg Heym (translated by Peter Viereck)
===============================

Risen is the sleeper from the vaulted past,
Risen from deep under and returned at last.
Huge and strange he looms there, in the twilight mist,
And he snuffs the moon out with a coal-black fist.

Cities teem with hubbub of the thickening dusk,
Frost and shadow swaddled in an alien husk;
Street-sounds of the markets halt their rounds and freeze.
Silence now. And no man knows, yet each man sees.

People in the alleys feel him on their trail.
Questions. And no answers. Faces turning pale.
Swinging in the distance, bells are whining thin.
Every beard is trembling on its pointed chin.

He’s begun his danse macabre where the hilltops arch,
And he’s screaming: “All you soldiers, forward march.”
Listen to the pounding of his swart brow’s pulse;
That jangling is his necklace of a thousand skulls.

Tower-tall he lumbers from the sun’s last ray;
Bloody torrents follow on the heels of day.
Countless are the corpses that the swamp has spilt;
Droppings of the death-bird are their last white quilt.

Forest after forest feeds the flaming jaws;
Yellow bats of arson flex their zigzag claws.
Like a furnace helot, he hacks his poker deep,
Stoking up the embers to their wildest leap.

Hurtling without outcry into nightmare’s gut,
Metropolis is choking on its own pale soot.
Over glowing rubble he gives a giant lurch;
Through frantic skies he three times waves his torch, –

Mirrored in the hurricane of mangled clouds,
In the dead cold desert of the midnight shrouds.
Night itself dries up beneath his farflung fire;
Sodom has collapsed upon its funeral pyre.

[Aez]

If pop culture is allowed :

Lo, there do I see my father.
Lo, there do I see my mother.
And my sister and my brother
Lo, there do I see the line of my people
Back to the beginning.
Lo, they do call to me.
They bid me take my place among them
In the halls of Valhalla
Where the brave may live forever.

[IainC]

An Irish Airman Foresees his Death - W.B. Yeats

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 waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.