Great War Poems
I.
The same old soldiers walking along the same old skyline
2.
Dead hand through the sandbags reaching out for the creamand white butterfly
3
mud/water under duckboards/mud/rats scamper in starshell darkness/mud/smell of shit and rotting bodies/mud/resting your sweaty forehead on the sandbags OVER THE TOP the first men in the lunar landscape.
4.
What did you do to the Great Whore, Daddy?'
5.
Poppies slightly outoffocus and farmcarts bringing in the peaceful dead.
6.
The ghost of Wilfred Oven selling matches outside the Burlington Arcade.
7.
Seafog. Red flaring lights from the shore batteries. The roar of shells rattle of machineguns. Water running in the bilges. My feet slipping on the damp cobbles of the quayside.
8.
DON'T BE VAGUE BLAME GENERAL HAIG.
9.
four white feathers clutched in a bloodstained envelope
10.
a skull nestling in a bed of wild strawberries/boots mouldering green with fungus/saplings thrusting through rusting helmets/sunken barges drifting full of leaves down autumn rivers.
poem by Adrian Henri
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Dirty Brown Leaves And Windy Dreams by Talile Ali
kick up your feet and smell the air
full of moisture, fungus, and dust
take off your shoes and reflect
as the air washes out the must
pretty women walking in the distance
chatting about this and eating sprat
old people resting in the shadows
children laughing at being rats
sip of water, hint of melon
garbage floating in the stream
remarkable blessings flow around
dirty brown leaves and windy dreams
Copyright © 2009
poem by Talile Ali
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A Song Of The Sandbags
No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh
(The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss).
And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche,
I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us.
I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me;
And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight;
And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree,
We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.
A-standin' up to the sandbags
It's funny the thoughts wot come;
Starin' into the darkness,
'Earin' the bullets 'um;
(Zing! Zip! Ping! Rip!
'ark 'ow the bullets 'um!)
A-leanin' against the sandbags
Wiv me rifle under me ear,
Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go
Than I used to 'ave in a year.
I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me
Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for?
'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree,
If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war.
If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud;
If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell;
If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood:
By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.
Shiverin' up to the sandbags,
With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,
Don't it seem funny the things you think
'Ere in the firin' line:
(Whee! Whut! Ziz! Zut!
Lord! 'ow the bullets whine!)
Hunkerin' down when a star-shell
Cracks in a sputter of light,
You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags
Most any old time o' night.
They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade,
Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed;
But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made,
Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned!
There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight:
That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name;
And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . .
But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same.
Starin' over the sandbags,
Sick of the 'ole damn thing;
Firin' to keep meself awake,
'Earin' the bullets sing.
(Hiss! Twang! Tsing! Pang!
Saucy the bullets sing.)
Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags
Of a day when war will cease,
When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me
Will clink our mugs in fraternity,
And the Brotherhood of Labour will be
The Brotherhood of Peace.
poem by Robert William Service
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In the Trenches
I snatched two poppies
From the parapet’s ledge,
Two bright red poppies
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear
I stuck one through,
One blood red poppy
I gave to you.
The sandbags narrowed
And screwed out our jest,
And tore the poppy
You had on your breast ...
Down - a shell - O! Christ,
I am choked ... safe ... dust blind, I
See trench floor poppies
Strewn. Smashed you lie.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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At Houtbay beach
A young girl and an old man
walk down steps
to the stretch
that the beach at Houtbay
throws against the sea.
There are some small fishing boats
in colours of blue,
orange and white
that sails into the sea,
but big white cabin cruisers
bobs up and down
next to the quay
some distance away
as if they are ownerless
while their bosses
play somewhere else.
The smell of sea-pike
roasting on coals
lies on the light wind
and their stomachs growl
of sudden hunger
and here and there
the girl stoops
to pick up shells.
His sturdy boots leaves flat tracts
on the firm sand
and there’s a brown wood walking stick
with a lion head in his hand
and the girl’s
bare foot tracts
run in advance.
The sea swishes in and out
and the wet sand
reflects a bright open day
and the blue water
stretches out
as far as you can see
and it’s as if he gets new power
next to the foaming water.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Boots
When I got out of bed this morning
a pair of boots stood on the stairs.
I don’t know to whom they belonged
or how they happened to be there.
The black boots looked large and heavy,
slightly worn, so not new or old.
The laces were long and tucked inside
and the tongue had a forward fold.
They looked really soft and comfortable,
and I couldn’t resist trying them on.
They slipped onto my feet oh so easily,
and in an instant I was up and gone.
I couldn’t do anything to stop them,
they had taken control of me.
I ran all through the day and night,
with no breakfast, dinner or tea.
I was totally exhausted and tired,
and was running in my sleep.
I awoke running along a forest path
and then up a hill so steep.
I could hear the sound of water
and ran down the riverbank.
The water wasn’t going to give way,
so I very quickly sank.
As I continued along the pebbly bottom
I very quickly ran out of breath.
My feet came out of the sodden boots
and I swam from the water’s depth.
I suppose those boots are still running
and they’re probably now out at sea.
I know that I’ll never again try on boots
that don’t belong to me.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Big Boots
(words & music by wayne - edwards)
They call your daddy big boots
And big boots is his name
It takes a big man to wear big boots
Thats your daddys claim to fame
They know your daddy big boots
Wherever soldiers are
cause he can handle an armored tank
Just like a kiddy can
So sleep little soldier
Dont you cry
Loo loo loo loo
Loo loo loo
General sandmans soon coming by
Loo loo loo loo
Loo loo loo
Im gonna tell you a little secret
You wont believe its true
Did you know your
Daddy big boots
Once wore little boots like you
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Water is threatening to rejoice
Water is threatening to rejoice
At the sight of man’s complicteres laughter.
Water untouchable is stabled in the shoulder
Is watching the sub nose rain that fall in the falling light.
Water is the rudimentary beautiful
Musicality of white.
But water in its dead beauty torn a spilling
Is a common prowler drunk by the landscape.
Man is the beast that coward against the rain,
He revolt hard against its tone.
Water is the sudden strength of its circulating power
Water rusted in the veins surgically cut the
Putrefying strength of the leap of an eyeball.
The wreckage of water is nostalgia for the
Way it cut kindly in kindly out, nostalgia
With its stigmata knotted around the antipode
With the speed of a rain dropp primal water
The color of cinnamon moving with the speed
Of cloves cigarettes smoke committing the
Remembrances of suicide where the entrails of
Animal are crossroad of reading the future
With casted bones, shells and stones.
The voodoo of the who do is moist with its germination
That blackens the water with its green.
The reprehensible rain today murdered
Sixteen thousands, sixteen thousand taken by surprised
By the innocence of water,
By the bodies of sudden floats.
poem by David E. Patton
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Dead......Insides
Dead......insides
Dead, no mores alives
insides
One day the water
will wash the dead away
on the inside
The dead feelings, memories, and all
The names dead inside me
Leaving a white hot desert
Burning to the core
Where the bones are bleached
dead white. White hot heat and nothing more
poem by Midnights Voice
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A Lake And Its Magic Grace
I open my eyes this morning,
In front of me a marvelous landscape open up,
I am so amazed and happy,
And so astonished i become and contemplate.
A lake enriched with white water lilies,
Is developing to my eyes delight,
Its blue peaceful water vibrates,
When a white swan is touching it with grace.
Sun is rising up and warm this greatness,
When its beams are caressing the lake in shinning lights,
All it's coming to life and i can feel the joy,
Of the nature around that makes me smile.
A butterfly is flying to the water lilies,
And stopped for a few moments to enjoy their great perfume,
A fish is jumping restless for a breathe of air,
The birds are happily singing and fly to deep blue sky.
Nature shared with me all its greatness,
And i am humble pleased for what i seen,
I am happy to be the pasionate admirer,
Of this lake and its magic grace.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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The Rainbow
Watch the white dawn gleam,
To the thunder of hidden guns.
I hear the hot shells scream
Through skies as sweet as a dream
Where the silver dawn-break runs.
And stabbing of light
Scorches the virginal white.
But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill,
And I thank the gods that the dawn is beautiful still.
From death that hurtles by
I crouch in the trench day-long,
But up to a cloudless sky
From the ground where our dead men lie
A brown lark soars in song.
Through the tortured air,
Rent by the shrapnel's flare,
Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill,
And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still.
Where the parapet is low
And level with the eye
Poppies and cornflowers glow
And the corn sways to and fro
In a pattern against the sky.
The gold stalks hide
Bodies of men who died
Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill.
I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still.
When night falls dark we creep
In silence to our dead.
We dig a few feet deep
And leave them there to sleep -
But blood at night is red,
Yea, even at night,
And a dead man's face is white.
And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill,
And I look at the stars - for the stars are beautiful still.
poem by Leslie Coulson
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Three Men Walking
Three men walking
Along the roadside
One after another
Wearing weird caps
In the dark
The town asleep
Some traffic
Street lights
And cold
Silhouettes
Trees
Roots whirling
Some visible others hiding
Some past events
The three men
Talking to themselves
And to each other too
Smell of hey
Some old friends
The three men
Still walking
One after another
A young boy
Runs past
All covered up
Without socks
A cat with long tail
And a dog
Waiting for something to eat
Common cause
The boy
Collects rotten fruit
In a bag
Whose cause?
The three men walking
A young girl
Beaten
Cries
Selling flowers
A man with a gun
A watchman
Destroys her flowers
Water
Red colored
And black too
Going down a small stream
Blood is red
And water black
The three men
Further, into the darkness of the streets
Their caps
Water enters the shoes
Cold water
And black water
And then into the restaurant
The three men
With weird caps
Some people in the restaurant
Long faced small faced
Tired and worried
The three men
Looking from above a cabin
Some boys
And burgers
Water and tea
A common cause
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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The dancing whirling leaves
I will befall into my tomb
As a waning river falls to the sea
I embrace death the existence of ‘not to be’
As a child welcomes his calm night dream
I walked in the shadows of darkness and sorrow
Unfriendly and cold and alone
As dismally gurgle besides me
The bleak river desolate moan
The rise of the volleying thunder
The mountain’s lone echoes repeat
The roar whirl wind around me
The galling autumn leaves at my feet
I stooped in shadows of darkness and sorrow
Uncheered by the moon’s spangled ray
Not a friend that I love but is dead
Not a hope I have but have faded away
Oh Shall I rest in the tomb
Wrapped about with the chill winding white sheet
For the roar of the wind is around me
And the waving yellow leaves above my head
I heed not the blasts that sweep over me
I mind not the hail the storm and the raging sea
I blame not the tempest of night
They are not the foes who have banished
The visions of youthful delight
I hail the wild sound of their raving
Their merciless presence I greet
Oh let it be! Let me join these eternal elements
And roam the land and rove the vexed sea
Yet my fate is the roar of the wind engulfing me
And the piling reddened leaves at my feet
In this waste of existence and solitude, for solace
On whom shall my lone spiral call?
Shall I seek shall I fly to the friends of my bosom
My God I have buried them all
They are dead they are gone they are cold
My embrace no longer they meet or feel
Fall to the roar of the wind around me
The yellow leaves hissing in a macabre music at my feet
Those eyes that glanced love into mine
With motionless and cold slumber are pressed
Those hearts which once throbbed are no more in line
They are chill as the earth where they rest
Then around me my wan withered form
Let the pestilent gale beat
Submit to the howling wind around me
While the mocking leaves dance at my feet
Like the voice of the owl in the hall
Where the song of choir and the banquet ceased
Where the green weeds have mantled the hearth
Where raise the proud flame of feast
So I cry to the storm whose dark wings
Scatter on my eyes the wild driving sleet
Let the roar of the wind around me
And the dancing whirling clan leaves at my feet
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I'm Not Sorry
On returning
I can't believe this world is still turning
the pressure's on
because the pleasure hasn't gone
and I'm not sorry for
for the things I've done
and I'm not looking for
just anyone
On competing
when will this tired heart stop beating?
it's all agame
existence is only a game
and I'm not sorry for
for the the things I've done
and I'm not looking for
just anyone
I'm slipping below the water-line
I'm slipping below the water-line
reach for my hand and
the race is won
reject my hand and
the damange is done
I'm slipping below the water-line
I'm slipping below the water-line
the woman of my dreams she
never came along
the woman of my dreams well
there never was one
and I'm not sorry for
for the things I've said
there's a wild man
in my head
there's a wild man
in my head
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Autumn Leaves
I still hearken a little deep
from the rolled out time
the last song of cuckoo
humming through the hot winds.
The scents of last spring-flower
still drift through
my dried up nasal lanes.
Today walking silently
over the crackling autumn leaves
I rue for the withered
bed of roses that once paved my way
towards a breathing heaven of verve.
The parched earth and naked trees
stand before me
like fossils
of the deceased last spring.
The desiccated bed
of my garden-pond
it seems,
has no tears to shed
at her robbed off
once brimming water wealth.
Where are those bunnies
and little squirrels that sprinted,
rollicked and rocked
over my grassy lawn?
Where's grass?
Where's lawn?
Under the searing Sun
where are smiles, glee, bliss and prank?
The dead autumn leaves
under my feet
whispered in husky, crackling tones
the secret of seasons:
"We're dead...interred we reach soon
our mother roots' bed.
We'll sprout again
as leaves tender, sleek and charming...
no death to us...
no dearth
for green-green wealth.
Every autumn is followed
by a new spring.
poem by Sathya Narayana
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The Great Defender
Down at the arcade the defender is there
Down off of broadway he's there playing his games
It's very dangerous
Putting money down on robotron
Oh, i'm the great defender
And i really know just how to get along
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Oh, i'm the great defender
And i really think i've got it made
A fistful of quarters, a fifty dollar stake
Life is a gamble on video tape
I called a disc jockey
To dedicate a song to blair
It's the temps. singing "i'll be there"
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Oh, i'm the great defender
And i really think i've got it made
The president called to give me the news
I've been awarded the nobel price in rhythm and blues
And stevie wonder
Wants to record one of my songs
Oh, i'm the great defender
And i really know just how to get along
Oh, i'm the great defender, listen to my song
I really hope you like it, it isn't very long
It's rooted in the 50s
But its heart's in 1984
And if you really like it
Then i sing it for you once more
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Oh, i'm the great defender
And i really think i've got it made
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade, down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
Down at the arcade
...
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rats Of Bikaner
Rats of black and grey
Were scurrying across
the floors of Karni Matha Temple.
Rats are not a scourge there
and people scatter minute eatables.
Munching the grains strewn around,
the fearless rats scamper about
the inner sanctorum of the Goddess.
Where had scuttled off that white rat?
People searched to ferret it out,
but it eludes watch or catch.
The sight of it would bring luck and wealth!
But I saw one in white marble
lying before the idol of Matha.
A strange sanctuary for rats
in that semi-desert land!
Even the dead ones are not given
a quick decent burial with rites.
The Rajputs don’t celebrate the wedding of rats
as we do for asses for abundant rains.
Cats scenting rats don’t enter
and I am sure there is no rat- fever.
People are given preferential visas
as they eat meat, chicken, beaf and fork
and alas, the flesh of rats ignored!
News hadn’t reached Ghazni Mohammed
or else he would have marched to Bikaner
to rob the white rat instead of raiding
again and again that Somnathpur
passing through the desert and marsh.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Business Of War
The Business of War.
In this clearing in the woods so full of butter coloured flowers
I know there is a mass grave underneath, a forgotten war,
bones of the nameless that died for a cause that was not theirs,
but they were loyal and when told to fight and they often died,
many never knowing why. At the edge, of the yellow field,
there are pale poppies the dead have no more blood to offer.
I think of Afghanistan, poppies there are more deadly, I wonder
if western soldiers who lost their life in a cause that is unclear,
will get their own graveyard and have their crosses there,
in a Moslem country, tended to with fresh flowers, but go easy
on the poppies. The skeletons under my feet, died because of
salt that, once upon a time- before oil- was big business, but I’m
sure the soldiers were told lies about nationality and freedom.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Elegy In A Botanic Gardens
THE smell of birds' nests faintly burning
Is autumn. In the autumn I came
Where spring had used me better,
To the clear red pebbles and the men of stone
And foundered beetles, to the broken Meleager
And thousands of white circles drifting past,
Cold suns in water; even to the dead grove
Where we had kissed, to the Tristania tree
Where we had kissed so awkwardly,
Noted by swans with damp, accusing eyes,
All gone to-day; only the leaves remain,
Gaunt paddles ribbed with herringbones
Of watermelon-pink. Never before
Had I assented to the hateful name
Meryta Macrophylla, on a tin tag.
That was no time for botany. But now the schools,
The horticulturists, come forth
Triumphantly with Latin. So be it now,
Meryta Macrophylla, and the old house,
Ringed with black stone, no Georgian Headlong Hall
With glass-eye windows winking candles forth,
Stuffed with French horns, globes, air-pumps, telescopes
And Cupid in a wig, playing the flute,
But truly, and without escape,
THE NATIONAL HERBARIUM,
Repeated dryly in Roman capitals,
THE NATIONAL HERBARIUM.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Drifting Too Far
Out on the perilous deep,
Where danger silently creeps,
And storm's so violently sweeping,
You're drifting too far from shore.
Chorus:
Drifting too far from shore,
You're drifting too far from shore,
Come to Jesus today,
Let Him show you the way
You're drifting too far from shore.
Today, the Tempest rose high,
And clouds o'er shadow the sky.
Sure death is hovering neigh,
You're drifting too far from shore.
Drifting too far from shore,
You're drifting too far from shore,
Come to Jesus today,
Let Him show you the way
You're drifting too far from shore.
Why meet a terrible fate?
Mercies abundantly wait.
Turn back before it's too late
You're drifting too far from shore.
Drifting too far from shore
You're drifting too far from shore (peaceful shore)
Come to Jesus today. Let him show you the way
You're drifting too far from shore...
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Statement We Make!
the statement we make,
be not written on paper...
it is written,
in the tired eyes of the workers,
underpaid, and struggling.
in the hunger of the unemployed,
in the rage of the homeless.
in the walking of the broken,
in the families of dead soldiers.
in the anger of the young,
with no place to turn.
in the seething of the prisons,
and the tomb infested colleges.
in the smoke filled air,
and the rivers full of waste.
in the haunted mines,
behind the wheel of the big trucks.
in the pot standing empty,
in the fury of the poets.
black and white,
male and female,
old and young,
Christian, Muslim, and atheist...
straight and gay,
all standing equal,
feet set with respect.
an army of one becoming many...
demanding freedom!
the statement we make,
with our bodies and souls,
with our very lives...
written in human blood!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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