War Poetry Thread

[Machjo]

Seeing Nov 11 is coming up, I've decided to dedicate a thread to share poetry written by soldiers past and present.
I guess I'll start:

First World War.com - Prose & Poetry

By Robert Service (Canadian)(1874-1958)

Decorations

My only medals are the scars
I've won in weary, peacetime wars,
A-fighting for my little brood,
To win them shelter, shoon and food;
But most of all to give them faith
In God's good mercy unto death.

My sons have medals gleaming bright,
Proud trophies won in foreign fight;
But though their crosses bravely shine,
My boys can show no wounds like mine -
Grim gashes dolorously healed,
And inner ailings unrevealed.

Life-lasting has my battle been,
My enemy a fierce machine;
And I am marked by many a blow
In conflict with a tireless foe,
Till warped and bent beneath the beat
Of life's unruth I own defeat.

Yet strip me bare and you will see
A worthy warrior I be;
Although no uniform I've worn,
By wounds of labour I am torn;
Leave the their ribbands and their stars...
Behold! I proudly prize my scars.

 

[Machjo]

And a famous one:

First World War Poems - In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915


n 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.

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

ake 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.

 

[Spade]

The Young British Soldier


When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

Rudyard Kipling

 

[Machjo]

The smiley in the first post was unintentional, caused automatically by a combination. Just to avoid any misunderstandings.

 

[Spade]

YouTube - And the band played Waltzing Mathilda

 

[lone wolf]

Lest We Forget

Every apprehensive breath
That’s sobbed its gasp of fear
Reminds me of the battlefield
Which still exists in here.
The dreams come much less often, now though …
…blanket-twisting yet,
With one or two too much like truth,
Lest We Forget.

Every self-defensive smack,
This poor ol’ wall’s absorbed,
Resounds on every battlefield,
In each too-crazy war.
The Chill comes much less often, but still …
…shaking, wakes me, yet.
As time goes by, each teardrop’s dried,
Lest We Forget…

…a little kid in some wasted land …. God, I …
…failed both of us that day, as I …
…hid behind dark sunglasses,
Under the Blue Beret.
Now … it never goes away.

Every self-defacing scar,
Carved in great escapes
From out-of-body battlefields,
In moments of no wait
Are tears. They fall less often though still …
…pillow-drenchers, yet.
As dreams come by, less make me cry
Lest We Forget

 

[TenPenny]

June 27th, 1916
At 4:00 a.m. Fritz commences a hellish bombardment along our front. My dugout is blown to pieces when I am but 4 feet from it. E. H. Clark, D. MacDonald, King and Stephens are wounded from No 10 platoon and 3 from No 9. No. 12 platoon has 6 killed, No 11 has 1 killed. After bombardment Fritz makes an attack but is driven back by our bombers in front. His losses are considerable. Among the killed are Major Smith and Lieutenant Roche, the latter was buried by a shell with Lt Browne, Browne was dug out alive but Roche was suffocated. A sergeant who was buried on top of Browne probably saved his life.

 

[TenPenny]

Sept 4th
About 4 o'clock in the morning Bryson took 9 and 10 platoons up to the front to dig in across the open. He gets 9 to work all right. But it is breaking day when 10 gets up, and they have to go out in shell holes in front in the daylight, and have a large number of casualties. Cpl Rodgers is wounded. Cpl Miller and Mathews killed. Before this Sgt Fraser had been wounded. A shell burst in the midst of the platoon when going thru the quarry. Fowlie, [Paul?], and Collier are missing and I feel sure they were killed here. I remain in Park [Lane?] all day. Sergeant Marriott is killed and I'll have about eleven other casualties. In the afternoon I got orders from Major Peterman to have both platoons ready to march off at dusk. Later I get further orders to take No. 11 up to join [Mr B....] at dusk. Do so. Find where No. 9 platoon is without a guide and start No. 11 digging in line with them, as directed by Sergeant Finch with whom Bryson had left instructions. Then Mr. Bryson comes along and we collect the remnants of No. 10 out of the shell holes and start them digging on the left of No. 11, thus getting a complete line across. Unfortunately Fritz begins shelling us and we have part of the line cleared out. Sergeant Crowe is killed, also Pte. Hooper. Cpl MacLeod is wounded. And the two Hill boys both go out with shell shock. However, we get holes dug for most of the men and get them partly connected. I discover four more men of No. 10 under Cpl. Bentley between 11 and 9.
Sergeant - Major Spencer brings No. 12 up on the left of No. 10, extending over almost to machine gun position at end of trench 77.
Sept 5th
Everything fairly quiet all day except for the continual shelling. I rest a little in the quarry but there are so many stretcher cases there that it is impossible to sleep. See the German stretcher bearers out gathering in their wounded under a red cross flag. One takes his stand on a very high position where he can look over all our lines. He did this every morning. I have since been very sorry that I did not shoot him down. About 10 o'clock I hear someone calling for stretcher bearers out in front. Send out three men with a red cross flag and they bring in Australian who had been out there wounded for four days. Have changed my opinion of the Australians. Individually the men are splendid and if given a job to do they carry it out. Much better than a great many of the Canadians do. In fact we had brought in several Australians under the same conditions. Also two Germans. At night we continue digging trench but the work is very hard and it is slow work. Lose a few more men during the night.

 

[Cannuck]

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fir o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever 19?
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?

The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and 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 that'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, no 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 all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.


Eric Bogle

 

[lone wolf]

Stories My Grand-dad Told / The Tales that Heroes Tell

Their legacies live forever
in pages of history.
Though we weren’t here to know their Call,
we can’t forget: we’re free.
I proudly wear the bright red token as a....
...salute to men whose Hell
lives in those stories Grand-dad told:
The Tales that Heroes Tell.

I’ve never lived the horrors
of freedoms lost in war.
The stories that my Grand-dad told
were Truths that he fought for.
The fact I’m free to write these thoughts
salutes a job done well.
I remember stories Grand-dad told
as Tales that Heroes Tell.

I proudly wear this poppy.
Just a token. Says I’m free.
A salute to they who paid the price
like Grand-dad did for me.
Their legacies live on and on
though words don’t do them well.
The silent stories Grand-dad told
are the Tales that Heroes Tell.

 

[Josephia]

Pharsalia, Book VII, The Battle

by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, 61 AD

Whose heart beats high, who burns to join the fray
(Though men fight hard in terror of defeat),
The shock of onset need no longer fear.
Bravest is he who promptly meets the ill
When fate commands it and the moment comes,
Yet brooks delay, in prudence; and shall we,
Our happy state enjoying, risk it all?
Trust to the sword the fortunes of the world?
Not victory, but battle, ye demand.

Do thou, O Fortune, of the Roman state
Who mad'st Pompeius guardian, from his hands
Take back the charge grown weightier, and thyself
Commit its safety to the chance of war.
Nor blame nor glory shall be mine to-day.
Thy prayers unjustly, Caesar, have prevailed:
We fight! What wickedness, what woes on men,
Destruction on what realms this dawn shall bring!
Crimson with Roman blood yon stream shall run.
Would that (without the ruin of our cause)

The first fell bolt hurled on this cursed day
Might strike me lifeless! Else, this battle brings
A name of pity or a name of hate.
The loser bears the burden of defeat;
The victor wins, but conquest is a crime."



Propertius IV.xi

Paullus, desist from plying my grave with tears:
No prayers will open the gates of darkness.
Once corpses have entered the juristiction of Hades,
Inexorable adamant blocks all routes.
Though the god of the darkling court may hear your plea,
It is certain the heedless shores will drink your tears.
Offerings move heaven: when the ferryman takes his fee,
The pallid gate bolts out the grassy tombs.
This the sad trumpets told, when a pitiless torch
Was put beneath my bier and sapped my person.

The Road to Croton

by Petronius Arbiter Elegantiae

Fortune produced three captains.
Enyo, murderous goddess of War,
Crushed each on different battlefields.
Parthia kept Crassus,
In the Libyan Sea lay Pompey (surnamed Magnus)
And Julius -
his blood incarnadined ungrateful Rome.
The earth,
Intolerant of so many tombs together
Divided their ashes.
Such are fame's privileges.
The scene:
Deep in a hollow cleft
Between Neapolis and Puteoli,
A cleft awash with water from Cocytus,
Hot with external exhalations,
Damp with a deadly dew.
No autumn green here,
No green fields of pleasant turf,
No echoing thickets
Or sweet discords of spring song.
But CHAOS,
foul, black, pumice rock,
In triumphant isolation,
And a ring of depressed cypress above.
Father Dis, appearing from below,
Head powdered with white ash
And flames from funeral pyres,
Sardonically to Fortune, winged goddess:
"Divine and human-things-commanding Power,
Hater of all security of power,
Lover of the new, forsaker of Triumphs,
Art thou not crushed
By the weight of Rome?"