John Simkin Posted November 14, 2004 Share Posted November 14, 2004 I thought it might be a good idea to post our favourite poems of the First World War. Here is my first choice. It is by Isaac Rosenberg. It was written three days before he was killed. Isaac Rosenberg, The Immortals (1918) I killed them, but they would not die. Yea! all the day and all the night For them I could not rest or sleep, Nor guard from them nor hide in flight. Then in my agony I turned And made my hands red in their gore. In vain - for faster than I slew They rose more cruel than before. I killed and killed with slaughter mad; I killed till all my strength was gone. And still they rose to torture me, For Devils only die in fun. I used to think the Devil hid In women’s smiles and wine’s carouse. I called him Satan, Balzebub. But now I call him, dirty louse. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
John Simkin Posted November 14, 2004 Author Share Posted November 14, 2004 Siegfried Sassoon, Suicide in the Trenches (1917) 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 The hell where youth and laughter go. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Chris McKie Posted November 14, 2004 Share Posted November 14, 2004 Siegfried Sassoon, Aftermath (1920) HAVE you forgotten yet?... For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways: And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game... Have you forgotten yet?... Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget. Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz-- The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench-- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?' Do you remember that hour of din before the attack-- And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? Have you forgotten yet?... Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Chris McKie Posted November 14, 2004 Share Posted November 14, 2004 William Noel Hodgson, Before Action (1916) By all the glories of the day And the cool evening's benison, By the last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills when day was done, By beauty lavishly outpoured And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived Make me a soldier, Lord. By all of all man's hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of unclouded years, And every sad and lovely thing; By the romantic ages stored With high endeavour that was his By all his mad catastrophes Make me a man, O Lord. I, that on my familiar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of They sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday sword Must say good-bye to all of this;-- By all delights that I shall miss, Help me to die, O Lord. You can read my comments on another post why I find this particular poem so powerful. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
John Simkin Posted November 14, 2004 Author Share Posted November 14, 2004 Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum est (1917) 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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 floundering 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
John Simkin Posted November 14, 2004 Author Share Posted November 14, 2004 Charles Sorley, To Germany (1914) You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
John Simkin Posted November 14, 2004 Author Share Posted November 14, 2004 Humbert Wolfe, Requiem: The Soldier (1916) Down some cold field in a world outspoken the young men are walking together, slim and tall, and though they laugh to one another, silence is not broken; there is no sound however clear they call. They are speaking together of what they loved in vain here, but the air is too thin to carry the things they say. They were young and golden, but they came on pain here, and their youth is age now, their gold is grey. Yet their hearts are not changed, and they cry to one another, 'What have they done with the lives we laid aside? Are they young with our youth, gold with our gold, my brother? Do they smile in the face of death, because we died?' Down some cold field in a world uncharted the young seek each other with questioning eyes. They question each other, the young, the golden hearted, of the world that they were robbed of in their quiet paradise. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
John Simkin Posted November 14, 2004 Author Share Posted November 14, 2004 Two from Germany: Ernst Toller, Spring 1915 (March, 1915) In spring I go to war To sing or to die. What do I care for my own troubles? Today I shatter them, laughing in pieces. Oh, Brothers, know that young spring came In a whirlwind. Quickly throw off tired grief And follow her in a host. I have never felt so strongly How much I love you, Oh, Germany, As the magic of spring surrounds you Amidst the bustle of war. Ernst Toller, Corpses in the Wood (1916) A dung heap of rotting corpses: Glazed eyes, bloodshot, Brains split, guts spewed out The air poisoned by the stink of corpses A single awful cry of madness. Oh, women in France, Women of Germany Regard your menfolk! They fumble with torn hands For the swollen bodies of their enemies, Gestures, stiff in death, become the touch of brotherhood, Yes, they embrace each other, Oh, horrible embrace! I see and see and am struck dumb Am I a beast, a murderous dog? Men violated Murdered. http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/FWWtoller.htm Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Valentina Cuadrado Posted November 15, 2004 Share Posted November 15, 2004 Wilfred Owen Anthem for Doomed Youth What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them: no prayers nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of the boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbies. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, and each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Caterina Gasparini Posted November 15, 2004 Share Posted November 15, 2004 Giuseppe Ungaretti VIGIL A whole night long crouched close to one of our men butchered with his clenched mouth grinning at the full moon with the congestion of his hands thrust right into my silence I've written letters filled with love I have never been so coupled to life ------------------ SAN MARTINO DEL CARSO Of these houses nothing but fragments of memory Of all who would talk with me not one remains But in my heart no one's cross is missing My heart is the most tormented country of all ------------------ I AM A CREATURE Like this stone of San Michele as cold as hard as thoroughly dried as refractory as deprived of spirit Like this stone is my weeping that can't be seen Living discounts death Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ChrisGunn Posted November 15, 2004 Share Posted November 15, 2004 (edited) Rudyard Kipling Common Form (1918) If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied. Rudyard Kipling, the Empire's poet, lost his only son John in WWI and never got over it. This is clearly reflected in these short two lines. It is also reflected in this 1924 work: A Dead Statesman (1924) I could not dig; I dared not rob: 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? Edited November 15, 2004 by ChrisGunn Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jack White Posted November 15, 2004 Share Posted November 15, 2004 None better than.... In Flanders Fields By John McCrae 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Anne Jakins Posted November 15, 2004 Share Posted November 15, 2004 Break of Day in the Trenches by Isaac Rosenberg The darkness crumbles away --- It is the same old Druid Time as ever. Only a live thing leaps my hand - A queer sardonic rat--- As I pull the parapet's poppy To stick behind my ear . Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies. Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German- Soon,no doubt , if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between. It seems you inwardly grin as you pass Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes Less chanced than you for life, Bonds to the whims of murder, Sprawled in the bowels of the earth, Tte torn fields of France. What do you see in our eyes At the shrieking iron and flame Hurled through still heavens? What quaver-what heart aghast? Poppies whose roots are in a man's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe, Just a little white with the dust. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Chris Culpin Posted November 16, 2004 Share Posted November 16, 2004 Ivor Gurney: To His Love He's gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We'll walk no more on Cotswold Where the sheep feed Quietly and take no heed His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through. You would not know him now... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side. Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of memoried flowers - Hide that red wet Thing that somehow I must forget. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Janet Davidson Posted November 18, 2004 Share Posted November 18, 2004 An Irish Airman Foresees His Death -- William Butler 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 man, 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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