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There are many poems on this topic on The War Poetry website. http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/
Eleven(By Garry f Smith, Inverness)
ReplyDeleteThe crash of guns, he flash of light
The soldier stands his head in fright
The officer shouts, the whistle blows
With bayonets fixed the soldier rose
The cry of steady, the sergeant waves
The men stride forward through open graves
The machine gun zips, the rifles crack
The soldier charges no turning back
The bullet comes, he feels the thud
He falls to earth, through grime and mud
As he lies, no fear or fright
Gone his day, come his night
Gallipoli (by Garry f Smith, Inverness)
ReplyDeleteThe men shouting and Yelling
The air stinking and smelling
The smoke rising and clouding
The ground shaking and pounding
The heat burning and draining
The shots scaring and maiming
The wounds hurting and aching
The guns straffing and raking
he swung slowly into action this tall laconic man
ReplyDeletehe seemed to rise up to the setting sun
as if to gasp one more mouthful of daylight
before his day ended and another begun
his tour was nearing it's end but he knew
this was the time when many die ironically
so he kept his self together in a deliberate way
because he did so want to live...
many came because they were sent, he came
because he asked to come... He needed meaning
there are no rites of passage in the normal way
his father was so proud of his courage, but he
knew it was not courage that brought him to this land
it was his own sense of failure within his life
he moved purposefully, he always did, not for him youthful
exuberance that could kill you suddenly, wastefully
the families who would mercifully never know the truth
who would believe what they were told...
"he died a hero"
that was enough for most...
they were sad...
they cried...
but he was a hero they could say, he acquitted himself well,
he died doing what he loved...
the lies like the great lies of the great war... called so
as so many millions died, needlessly, wantonly, deliberately
like the pouring forth of humanity to use as many young men
as we could... They were the lost generation, the best of us
so he decided...after some reflection that he would not die
he would not use up all that he had, and all that he hoped for
Love.... family... meaning and value... He would live... without
Valor, for valor means less and less the longer you live...
he would walk on carpets of moss, and lie under the laburnum tree
he would remember this war, his war, and he would live.
Marguerite Rami 2011
no comment
The naming of words...
ReplyDeleteForgiveness
Forgotten
Fatherless
Believe
Reparation
Carry me home
Lift me up
Revenge
Mercy
Consummate
God
Home
Courage
Epitaph
Cry
War
Comrades
Family
Forever
Imagine
Forget
Sadness
Beauty
Sunlight
Darkness
Grace
Cry
Tears
Laughter
Mortal
Hero
Light
Child
Marguerite Rami 2011
SILENT VALLEY
ReplyDeleteIn the shadow of the peaks on South Arabia’s dusty plain
A roofed gate stands, reminder of a half-forgot campaign,
When once again our servicemen were called upon to fight,
Defending and protecting, (we were told) Great Britain’s might.
But not forgotten, ever, by those who served out there,
Remembering the sweat and stench, the never-ending glare
Of unremitting scorching sun and blessed, welcome relief
As night descended, giving respite from remorseless heat.
Those gates are silent sentinels, through which there is revealed
The graves of those who rest here, in this arid, foreign field.
They lie, not in the green fields of their rightful native land,
Where flowers bloom and gently wave, by gentle breezes fanned.
Instead, the hard, unyielding ground, volcanic, harsh and dry,
Encloses those who, in the end, came here to fight and die.
Surrounded by gaunt, lofty spires, all stark against the light
Brooding guardians of our countrymen by day and night
They are condemned by history to occupy this earth,
Never able to return to the dear country of their birth,
No loved ones to attend them, no tears will ever fall
On the plain, white simple headstones that lie within this wall.
But this is how it was, in all but very recent years,
And there is consolation knowing willing volunteers
Care for and tend these places sacred to the memory
Of those who gave their lives in the pursuit of liberty.
And not just here in Silent Valley, many other lands
Are hosts to British servicemen and women, where there stand
Headstones engraved with names of those whose fate was finally sealed
To stay forever in the corner of some foreign field.
Tony Church
WWI 1914-1918
ReplyDeleteRows and rows of bleached white crosses
Stand in line as if to say,” Here is orderly death”
But we could not have died that way
We were spread across this field
Hanging for days on barbed defences
Rotting in mud filled trenches
Whistles blowing, over we go
Into shell holes filled with vestiges
Of bodies thawing from winter snow
This is hell, with no kindness present
Although the padre blessed us all
But wasn’t their God here as well
Who came back who wasn’t dead?
Who’d been to hell and was still there
Who remembered every life?
And saw them still in his mind
And kept his silence year on year
For fear his life was not enough
© Marguerite Rami
11/10/08
Build your dreams
ReplyDeleteBuild until there’s no room left, build towards the skies
Build to reach your promised land, build your temples high
Leave no step so they can walk upon your holy land
Feel safe within your walls where you believe you are unseen
You speak to own a biblical land where Christ and David walked
The city named for its teaching of peace, but war is practiced here
Keep your fears for they protect you, built on the tears of many...
16/6/2010
© Marguerite Rami
Written in response to the wall built to keep the peoples of Gaza out, I am appalled at the displacement of Palestine families from their homes, which are then given to Israeli families on spurious historical evidence
The Unknown Soldier
ReplyDeleteSlowly, reverently they raised me up, held high like The Epic of Gilgamesh
Given the burial of Kings although mere mortal, I am transfixed
Into the consciousness of a nation, forever, a symbol of suffering
Of waste, of carnage, of courage so long ago, I am not forgotten
I am every man who died, ours, theirs, yours, I am you as they call your name
In shires once dreamed of long ago, in cottages and hamlets I am remembered
My face stares into eternity, behind gilt frames, I am not unknown
©Marguerite Rami September 2011
Honour and Remembrance
ReplyDeleteBy: Jan Howlett
In the distance, a weary-hearted soldier, home on leave,
Stands mourning by a grave, this cold and dark Remembrance Eve.
He cannot help staring at the simple, white, wooden cross,
Realizing, across this yard now marks rows and rows of loss:
Symbols of sacrifice, sorrow, the giving up of life
To preserve their country’s peace from this tired war and strife.
Though night shadows lengthen, grief only deepens and remains;
His cries form voiceless words as he breathes, “Who can heal these pains?”
Suddenly! As if in answer, thunderous lightning hits,
And, in half, an ancient oak tree completely cracks and splits!
But in that same instant, this sad young man falls to his knees
Choked and grieving now for the world’s deep need for peace and ease.
With tear-filled eyes he slowly raised his head, only to see—
Divinely superimposed—there over that wounded tree,
A lonely shadow cast by the grave markers in that yard;
God reminded him of Christ’s hands—for him—were deeply scarred.
There, fixed silently upon that grave, was Calvary’s Cross;
That night he saw his own personal, spiritual loss!
He’s no longer afraid of death’s grave or this war-filled strife,
Because now his name is written in the Lamb’s Book of Life!
Yes, he had true freedom from sin and spiritual death
When he received blood-bought Salvation as his life, his breath!
Yes, at this reflective time, we truly honour our dead,
But first honour the Saviour, for Jesus Died—in your stead!
"Peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." (Romans 5:7,8)
To read the story behind the writing of this poem see our website or the next post on this site.
Excerpt from Jan's book, The Treasure of His Company Pg. 60
Used with permission by Author Jan Howlett
Nov. 11, 2011
A Note from the Author, Jan Howlett....
ReplyDeleteHere is the story behind the writing of my poem "Honour and Remembrance" (Freedom and Redemption) quoted above. It was a very meaningful time as I wrote this passage and then the poem. I hope you enjoy and remember the sacrifice of many in a new light.
"As long as men and women live on this earth, the images and ghosts of war can never be forgotten. The scars of terror and trauma that brave soldiers endured are often seen in photographs neatly arranged on mantles and coffee tables: things that were almost unimaginable to those of us who have never seen war but continue to enjoy blood-bought freedom!
In our day with “real-time war,” raw twenty-four-hour “onair” battlefield reporting, we are brought up short. We realize, as never before, just how the price of freedom from seen and unseen enemies, and those bent on sin and evil, cuts to the heart. War affects every one of us past, present and future.
As a younger generation, generally speaking, world war is something that we have never experienced. We are humbled and compelled to fall to our knees, silenced to all other thought but to pray for our dedicated men and women who are in the thick of battle today. As they serve, they sacrifice all comforts to maintain our privilege of peace and freedom and to protect the world from debauchery. Indeed, we honour our Forces, the living and the dead, whose blood was spilled to give us liberty.
Yet, there is another Liberty that was won for us by One greater than all brave soldiers. That One, as some of those same soldiers would agree, is the Lord Jesus Christ. He, whose Holy Blood was poured out on our behalf, also willingly gave up His own will to restore us to Himself. Jesus did this so that we could be free from sin for all eternity. He demonstrated this sacrificial Love even when we would not acknowledge Him as Saviour.
If Jesus had not stepped in to bridge the gap for sin—to provide us with the opportunity to receive spiritual redemption and reconciliation—we could never know lasting or eternal peace of any kind. The soldiers we honour today could not redeem us from the sin that separates us from God or those sins that cause evil and deadly wars. But they have, with God on their side, won earthly freedoms. Only God offers the Gift of Life, and if we accept that gift, He grafts us into Himself. And when we are grafted in, eternal peace and freedom are ours.
There is yet another host and another great cloud of witnesses, composed of those faithful martyrs who have died on the battlefield for their faith in Christ, martyrs who grace the halls of Heaven and whom we, as the Church, also honour. These were the soldiers for the Kingdom of God, an army whose robes have been washed in the blood of the Lamb. The many who have gone before us we honour by being, in turn, faithful. We are not worthy of these great soldiers of the Cross.
Yes, a great debt has been paid. When it comes to the model of sacrifice, you and I must first honour the Saviour, for He gave His all when He died in our place. When we honour Him first, we can honestly and respectfully stand and honour our brave men and women as we ought. We can do it with a deeper understanding of what they won on our behalf, for, in a sense, whether realized or not, they tried to follow His great example."
Remembering
ReplyDeletePrayers and Promises are come again
A national remembrance of collective pain
Never again will be said once more, but softer still
As we count the score, we do remember them
Yet still there's war...
Remembering is not enough
Remembrance is also trust
Not just to mark their sacrifice
But to be judged against the price they paid
Which was all a nation could ask
By dying an eternal flame was lit
A beacon to guide us through the dark
A covenant of promise, a national reckoning
Won for us by our nations best, now demands
The peace for all, that's what was said...
Marguerite Rami
November 2011
“For such a stupid reason too…”
ReplyDeleteThe faded print, the lock of hair,
The maiden aunt, the empty chair,
A journey out to where
The serried ranks of polished stone,
Scream silently “NOT COMING HOME”.
No slur on men so brave and bold,
Who rest in peace and grow not old,
To understand, if truth be told
That Somme, and Mons and Marne and Loos,
Were all “for such a stupid reason too…”
C I Cox
Remembrance Sunday
ReplyDeleteBy Maria Cassee
Remembrance.
On a cold November Sunday morn, an old man sits a while
Looking though old photographs, he can’t help but smile
They’re all there, all the boys, with hair cut short and neat
Uniforms of khaki, strong black boots upon their feet.
They met as strangers but soon became like brothers to the end
Smiling at the camera, there could be no truer friends.
They all took the Queen’s shilling, went off to fight the hun,
Soon learnt the pain of loss once the fighting had begun.
So many never made it home, lost on foreign shores
Many more were injured and would be the same no more.
The old man’s eyes mist with tears as he remembers every face
Each of his fallen brothers and the killing which took place
He proudly dons his beret, his blazer and his tie
For today he will remember the ones who fell and died.
On his chest there is a poppy, a blaze of scarlet on the blue
He steps out into the cold, he has a duty he must do
Once at the cenotaph he stands amongst the ranks
Of those who marched to war and those who manned the tanks,
He bows his head in reverence, as the last post begins to play
And he wonders what will happen at the ending of his days
Will anyone remember? Will anybody care?
About the lads so far from home whose life was ended there?
I wish that I could tell him, that he should fear not
For this soldier and his brothers will NEVER be forgot
We owe a debt of gratitude that we can never pay
And this country WILL remember them, on each Remembrance day.
BRITISH PATROL
ReplyDeleteThe reassuring stroke from a friendly hand
as the dog wags his tail at the camouflaged band
where the moths dance under a flickering light
the patrol passes by in the menacing night
The soft footfall of rubber soles caress
(where fatigue and cold cause unwanted stress)
leaving imprints in dusty sand
so many strangers in a far off land
Pressed in by shadows an' tan clay walls
narrow alleyways hide deadly falls
as the local populace lie in slumber
each soldier anticipates lighting an' thunder
Radio silence, whispered commands.
instructions given by waves of the hand
understood nods and zeroed in sights
the creak of a hinge an' sudden lights
A frail old man tired and scared
with a young child looking out have dared
to get ready for work in the market quarter
and to glimpse for a moment where death may loiter
Small arms fire heard a distance away
some bloke with an AK having his say
venting his spleen on a 'Poachers' squad
believing it right in the name of his God.
Dawn is breaking and light is ascending
a sight for sore eyes but the flash is frightening
cries of pain and orders given, a radio crackles
incoming rounds rid of their shackles
I.E.D.s placed in recc'ed trails
jagged metal and tightly packed nails
reminders of a homeland sore
where armalite an' bomb caused a bloody war
Hell is on fire as blood is stemmed, the medic is calm
The voice to the soldier, a soothing balm
a point of a needle, under covering fire
unconcerned face and a bloody good liar
Evacuated; up and gone, grateful for a U.S. Medivac crew
fire fight over, an experience unveiled, hands up, who's on for a brew ?
calmness an' training, have soughted this role
when you walk out one night with a British patrol.
Jem Allaway
Northern Roses
ReplyDeleteSix Northern roses, five white and one red,
Came home on an aircraft, in pine for a bed.
Their country they served, their life-blood they bled,
Just like the heroes in whose footsteps they tread.
Against them arrayed the enemy ranks,
Six Northern men, five Yorks and one Lancs,
All trained to fight from their Warrior tanks,
Heroes, all six; to them we give thanks.
Six Northern comrades, no longer grow older,
Like millions before them they stand shoulder to shoulder,
With ones gone before; sailors, airmen, soldiers,
Our country’s best youths, they couldn’t have been bolder.
Six Northern Heroes make four-hundred and four,
Whose families and friends forever will mourn.
No comfort except knowing their names live in lore,
We’ll always remember, now and forevermore.
By Russell Makinson, England
Written in memory of the 6 soldiers killed in Afghanistan this week.