Related quotes: Forced to meet an enemy...

Forced to meet an enemy in a rifle's sight (in answer to Keith Douglas)

Forced to meet an enemy in a rifle's sight
a unknown man appears, scratches his head,
he lights a cigarette, draws on it until it glows,
looks at a photo in a way that only his wife knows
his attention moves somewhere up ahead,
to some ibises in their screeching flight

the crosshairs move to his heart bit by bit
while mechanically I test the wind,
thoughts of his family life now means nothing
while on the trigger my finger is pressing,
and no escape can a mortal man find
against full metal jacket bullets that accurately hit.

l'Envoi
Far too familiar is death's smell,
when every soldier is more machine, than man,
far too familiar are the sounds of bullets whining,
the sight of bodies lying lifeless,
as putrid rotting human flesh, heartless,
the horrors of war are undermining
the essence of being human,
as soldiers live afterwards in a daily kind of hell.

[Reference: "Now in my dial of death appears" by Keith Douglas.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes

How To Kill

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears

And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.

The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches

poem by Keith Douglas
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Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Paschendale

In a foreign field he lay
lonely soldier unknown grave
on his dying words he prays
tell the world of Paschendale
Relive all that he's been through
last communion of his soul
rust your bullets with his tears
let me tell you 'bout his years
Laying low in a blood filled trench
killing time 'til my very own death
on my face I can feel the falling rain
never see my friends again
in the smoke, in the mud and lead
smell of fear and feeling of dread
soon be time to go over the wall
rapid fire and the end of us all
Whistles, shouts and more gun fire
lifeless bodies hang on barbwire
battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
be reunited with my dead friends soon
many soldiers eighteen years
drown in mud, no more tears
surely a war no one can win
killing time about to begin
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
The bodies of ours and our foes
the sea of death it overflows
in no man's land God only knows
into jaws of death we go...
Crucified as if on a cross
allied troops, they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
such before has never been seen
swear I heard the angels cry
pray to God no more may die
so that people know the truth
tell the tale of Paschendale
Cruelty has a human heart
everyman does play his part
terror of the men we kill
the human heart is hungry still
I stand my ground for the very last time
gun is ready as I stand in line
nervous wait for the whistle to blow
rush of blood and over we go...
Blood is falling like the rain
its crimson cloak unveils again
the sound of guns can't hide their shame
and so we die in Paschendale
Dodging shrapnel and barbwire
running straight at cannon fire
running blind as I hold my breath
say a prayer symphony of death
as we charge the enemy lines
a burst of fire and we go down
I choke a cry but no one hears
feel the blood go down my throat
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
See my spirit on the wind
across the lines beyond the hill
friend and foe will meet again
those who died at Paschendale

song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paschandale

(SmithHarris)
In a foreign field he lay
Lonely soldier, unknown grave
On his dying words he prays
Tell the world of Paschendale
Relive all that he's been through
Last communion of his soul
Rust your bullets with his tears
Let me tell you 'bout his years
Laying low in a blood filled trench
Kill tim 'til my very own death
On my face I can feel the falling rain
Never see my friends again
In the smoke, in the mud and lead
Smell the fear and the feeling of dread
Soon be time to go over the wall
Rapid fire and the end of us all
Whistles, shouts and more gun fire
Lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
Battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
Be reunited with my dead friends soon
Many soldiers eighteen years
Drown in mud, no more tears
Surely a war no-one can win
Killing time about to begin
Home, far away
From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away
But the war, no chance to live again
The bodies of ours and our foes
The sea of death it overflows
In no man's land, God only knows
Into jaws of death we go
Crucified as if on a cross
Allied troops they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
Such before has never been seen
Swear I heard the angels cry
Pray to god no more may die
So that people know the truth
Tell the tale of Paschendale
Cruelty has a human heart
Every man does play his part
Terror of the men we kill
The human heart is hungry still
I stand my ground for the very last time
Gun is ready as I stand in line
Nervous wait for the whistle to blow
Rush of blood and over we go
Blood is falling like the rain
Its crimso

song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before the storming of the Casinga trenches

The past was going in seconds
while I was being sheltered
behind a small wall, with bullets,
mortars and rockets
whining and exploding, dark was everything,
dark was all

with death spreading its tentacles,
gripping mostly the enemy
bringing them to a fall
but for those barely out of range,
covered by trenches
the change from living to dead
were only minutes away

but the present was catching up with them,
with sniper bullets, mortars homing in
and hand grenades arcing dead on target
and the enemy trench lying straight ahead
to win the battle, the only way to tread
and the future of living or dying
was drawing down on the intersection
of the order: to take the trench.

[Reference: Full Moon At Tierz: Before The Storming Of Huesca by John Cornford.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Somewhere Near The Lomba River

The guns of enemy tanks are flashing
like bolts of thunder while I am glancing,
the night air is full of the smell of cordite
and luckily those shots are passing

while the armoured car draws to a sudden halt
for its gun to take aim and on my lips I taste salt
before the armour piercing shell is fired
and at a direct hit around me the crew exalt

before at speed we move on
and some more enemy Cuban soldiers are gone,
are burnt in the fiery hell
while my heart, my brain feels like stone.

An enemy shell strikes another armoured car
like a exploding flaming star
and I can smell torched human flesh,
while I wish to be away very far,

to be away from killing
and this chilling
kind of machination of machines and men
who at each other are firing

but to survive we battle on right through the night,
are still trying to find some more enemies in the broad daylight,
find two abounded stationary pristine enemy battle tanks
from which the enemy had run in fright.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Of Haiti and Other Wars

Dark soldier at attention near the sea
A tear, like sudden blood,
Down sweat and flesh and the teeth of strangers
Through bullets and the barrels of loaded guns

Blood, like a frightened lizard
Through his window in the night,
A sky the colour of corbeaux
And tears that flow to a fretful, reckless sea

Dark soldier came here, a stranger, when the moon was low and
Mocking distance from this dry and shattered land
Lying beautiful and broken like first sex
Her smile the shape of an unfinished dream

He came here when the day was night and the night was blind
Planes the shape of vultures over scalded hills
Smoke the smell of scabs greets them as they arrive
He stands at attention near the sea and in his tears

Strangers presenting alms of food and cameras
Strangers from across the way
Strangers through his window in the night
Strangers from familiar lands

Dark soldier at attention near the sea
A castaway on broken ground
Bullets, blood and breakfast
She smiles at him, turns away and goes to sleep

poem by Wesley Gibbings
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Soldier, Soldier

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Why don't you march with my true love?"
"We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip,
An' you'd best go look for a new love."
New love! True love!
Best go look for a new love,
The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes,
An' you'd best go look for a new love.

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
What did you see o' my true love?"
"I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green,
An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Did ye see no more o' my true love?"
"I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly --
But you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Did aught take 'arm to my true love?"
"I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white --
An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
I'll up an' tend to my true love!"
"'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead,
An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
I'll down an' die with my true love!"
"The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im --
An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Do you bring no sign from my true love?"
"I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear,
An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!"
"An' I tell you truth again -- when you've lost the feel o' pain
You'd best take me for your true love."
True love! New love!
Best take 'im for a new love,
The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes,
An' you'd best take 'im for your true love.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Poetry Reading At West Point

I read to the entire plebe class,
in two batches. Twice the hall filled
with bodies dressed alike, each toting
a copy of my book. What would my
shrink say, if I had one, about
such a dream, if it were a dream?

Question and answer time.
"Sir," a cadet yelled from the balcony,
and gave his name and rank, and then,
closing his parentheses, yelled
"Sir" again. "Why do your poems give
me a headache when I try

to understand them?" he asked. "Do
you want that?" I have a gift for
gentle jokes to defuse tension,
but this was not the time to use it.
"I try to write as well as I can
what it feels like to be human,"

I started, picking my way care-
fully, for he and I were, after
all, pained by the same dumb longings.
"I try to say what I don't know
how to say, but of course I can't
get much of it down at all."

By now I was sweating bullets.
"I don't want my poems to be hard,
unless the truth is, if there is
a truth." Silence hung in the hall
like a heavy fabric. My own
head ached. "Sir," he yelled. "Thank you. Sir."

Anonymous submission.

poem by William Matthews
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Dark Trinity

Said I to Pain: "You would not dare
Do ill to me."
Said Pain: "Poor fool! Why should I care
Whom you may be?
To clown and king alike I bring
My meed of bane;
Why should you shirk my chastening?"
Said Pain.

Said I to Grief: "No tears have I,
Go on your way."
Said Grief: "Why should I pass you by,
While others pay?
All men must know the way of woe,
From saint to thief,
And tears were meant to overflow,"
Said Grief.

Said I to Death: "From ail and fret
Grant me relief."
Said Death: "I know you are beset
By Pain and Grief.
But my good will you must await
Since human breath
To suffering is consecrate,"
Said Death.

Said I to God: "Pale Sister Grief,
Bleak Brother Pain,
Bedevil me beyond belief,
And Death's unfain . . ."
Said God: "Curse not that blessed Three,
Poor human clod!
Have faith! Believe the One with Me,"
Said God.

poem by Robert William Service
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Experiences During War

When this evening comes between us
and outside the rainstorm fall pattering,
with thunder reporting like cannon shot
let tranquillity find us then

and let us go away from the world in this holy hour
with joy and peace and endless longing
and let the suffering and pain disappear,
let us then take the best out of this short time

and let our lives come past the turning-point
while the war for others goes on
and even if we are wordless
let our bodies meet in flesh and blood,
let we find some internal joy
before we have to greet each other again.

Before we have to greet each other again,
when the alarm clock reaches eleven o’clock,
I know that this might be the last time together
while I have got to go to Waterkloof military airfield.

In the distance lightning bolts come down exploding,
when you dropp me at the gates to parachute into enemy territory,
to go back to Angola,
in a region where the enemy swarms about like a nest of wasps.

Scouts have to do target acquisition for howitzer guns,
for the heavy artillery that shoot over many miles,
in the distance the aircraft waits with its bat shape
and some fear is in my stomach while the gate guard calls an officer.

Later I breathe through a mask, with equipment strapped to me,
here one feels rather like a machine than a human being.

III

Here one feels rather like a machine than a human being
when day after day you are with the same people,
have to do the same duties,
cursing your live

on the border at times,
while you receive parcels that you do not expect or deserve,
while the relationship with your girlfriend changes to a big maybe
and then you want to be somewhere, just somewhere different

from here, when everything fades to nothing,
with life dragging past day by day
and even when we go into action,
it’s as if I am especially daring my life
and every day I pull a line through the calendar,
every day I count off the days to go back home.

Every day I count off the days to go back home,
while with Casspirs and Ratels the border is protected
and days just go on and on,
while resistance is changed to submissiveness

and somewhere at a ovambo village
where farm goats walk around loose,
I see sparks spatter out of a campfire
while our armoured vehicles drive nearer

with machineguns and cannons aimed threatening,
we are searching for enemies that plant landmines,
while the lives of people are disrupted
and somewhere chickens are crowing at the back of the huts

while tired and stiff we climb down,
when a soldier is killed and drifts in a nearby stream.

When a soldier is killed and drifts in a nearby stream,
his eyes could see no butterflies,
not even look up to God, whom he tried to serve,
he couldn’t stretch a hand out of his powerless body,

he will never write another word to his darling
and this killing he did not deserve,
was maybe at the wrong place,
a target to enemy soldiers,

he is not aware about things around him,
or where righteousness, truth and the search for light lies,
he was forced to be a soldier by laws,
forced to make an offering without any meaning to it,
he would have wanted things differently,
in the darkness he had lost his way far too early.

In the darkness he had lost his way far too early,
although he is already a man and still unfulfilled,
he is waiting on the helicopter to come and pick them up
and he is now full of impatience.

In front of him soldiers string out on patrol,
through the dry country-side where the bushes leave scratches,
as they are going to where the sidetrack joins the main road,
while sweat flows in tracks over his face,

when he suddenly and unexpectedly triggers a landmine,
his life disappears in moments on a spot of blood,
when the explosion full of shrapnel goes off without mercy,
there are sand and the smell of blood everywhere around him

and all his hope, his future and life disappears beneath a cloud of thunder;
when the hammer and sickle appears with a big red star.

VII

When the hammer and sickle appears with a big red star,
and from the east the bear growls with great power,
when fingers of enemy terrorists and soldiers are twisted
around the triggers of rifles, some did experienced pain

others were happy as if a new sun were shining on them,
the armoured wagon beneath me had filled the enemy with fear,
where I was forced to fight for survival,
in walls of steel before civilization did disappear

but although we had won the war,
the hell later came to its full maturity,
for others an earthly heaven waited, while calamity was with us
and the blood and sacrifices
now count nothing and I am astonished,
when this evening comes between us.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Train To Heaven

(4/10/12)

It was a long wait - but soon they would
Be at that gate.
The train that would take him to heaven
To join all his family and friends
Where a new life would begin and never end.

A life where there is nothing but beauty and peace
And the heart would find relief.
The conductor showing you everything in your past life
Some bad - a lot nice.

Of people you touched along the way
And of things they had to say.
everybody when they pass away
Boards this train on a given day.

This train makes three stops
As strange as it may seem
Heaven, hell, and purgatory
"Sounds like a familiar story"!

Purgatory being the place of things
In your past life - you must face.

But you are on the "7th ave. express."
Cause you passed all the tests.
You had a heart which was pure as gold
And all the angels have been told.

All these other passengers that are on this train with you
Have gone through the same things too.
All of you had came to this "times square station"
Because you had found your salvation.

They gathered together like fallen needles from a pine tree
Multitudes of souls that were finally free.
At the gate you will be greeted by SAINT PETER
Who will show you the way to all your family and friends
And this joy will never end.

poem by Louis Rams
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0121 4 a.m.11 November 1918

A still night; crescent moon; the faintest breeze.
Some wit might say, 'Peaceful, innit, Tommy? '
Two hours before the usual time for attack.
I wonder what they've got up their sleeve for today.
A bit too quiet right now, I'd say

Careful how you breathe or talk
this chilly night, out there in the open trench;
frozen breath will draw the sniper's rifle sight

The sharp nose of some human terrier
passing over the familiar smells -
cordite, rifle oil, linseed for the wooden butt, the stench of death,
yesterday's corpses half submerged -
may detect, just over there, the unmistakeable smell
of fierce French 'Caporal' cigarettes;
there in front, strong German 'Zeppelins';
round here, cheap Woodbines linger in the air

hardly a human difference
worth fighting over.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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I am a soldier

(explanation - This about a soldier who has gone through all walks of life, faced it all..carried burdens...its left him so shallow that he likes d feeling of it..being emotionless....considering himself a machine...people respect him....everyone likes it.its what he wants us to be like 'a soldier'....carry on with life as if nothing has happened....u cannot say that u have suffered d most when u cont even compare your hardships with others, ....
its the total feeling of overcoming it..like u won a battle)

I love the pain of a wound
I love the pain of a bullet in me
I live with an anger in me
I am a soldier and I love this feeling in me

I walk on streets with respect
with a motive to make it perfect
perfect for any threat
perfect for any kind of death
I can face death million times
so tat families can safely dine
I am a soldier and I love this feeling in me

lost a leg because I stepped on a landmine
just to see kids smiling across the borderline
I have no regrets being a soldier
can take much more on my shoulder
can face bullets being brave n bolder
I am a soldier and I love this feeling in me

I am emotionless, I am fearless
I see blood all day and I am merciless
I am not a killing machine, I am just a living machine
there is no mercy in my eyes, there is no love in my cries
I am a soldier and I love this feeling in me

I can write no more soldier
I can fight no more soldier
this is all I could do for you
this how far I could go for you
you r a soldier, you r a soldier
I am a soldier and I love this feeling in me! ! !

poem by Shashank Shekhar Roy
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Fool Faith

Said I: "See yon vast heaven shine,--
What earthly sight diviner?
Before such radiant Design
Why doubt Designer?"

Said he: "Design is just a thought
In human cerebration,
And meaningless if Man is not
Part of creation.

"But grant Design,--we may imply
The job took toil aplenty;
Then why one sole designer, why
Not ten or twenty.

"But should there be one Source supreme
Of matter and of motion,
Why mould it like our man-machine
For daft devotion?"

Said I: "You may be right or wrong,
I'll seek not to discover . . .
I listen to yon starry song,--
Still, still God's lover."

poem by Robert William Service
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4 am,11 November 1918

Careful how you breathe or talk
this chilly night, out there in the open trench;
frozen breath will draw the sniper's rifle sight

hardly a human difference
worth fighting over.

[revisited]

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Gardener XXVI: What Comes From Your Willing Hands

"What comes from your willing
hands I take. I beg for nothing
more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If there be a stray flower for me
I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If but once you should raise your
loving eyes to my face it would make
my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there be only cruel
glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my
heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Psalm 63 part 2

v.6-10
C. M.
Midnight thoughts recollected.

'Twas in the watches of the night
I thought upon thy power,
I kept thy lovely face in sight
Amidst the darkest hour.

My flesh lay resting on my bed,
My soul arose on high:
"My God, my life, my hope," I said,
"Bring thy salvation nigh."

My spirit labors up thine hill,
And climbs the heav'nly road;
But thy right hand upholds me still,
While I pursue my God.

Thy mercy stretches o'er my head
The shadow of thy wings;
My heart rejoices in thine aid,
My tongue awakes and sings.

But the destroyers of my peace
Shall fret and rage in vain;
The tempter shall for ever cease,
And all my sins be slain.

Thy sword shall give my foes to death,
And send them down to dwell
In the dark caverns of the earth,
Or to the deeps of hell.

poem by Isaac Watts
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The Day I Got My Finger Stuck Up My Nose

When I got my finger stuck up my nose
I went to a doctor, who said,
"Nothing like this has happened before,
We will have to chop off your head."

"It's only my finger stuck up my nose,
It's only my finger!" I said.
"I see what it is," the doctor replied,
"But we'll still have to chop off your head."

He went to the cabinet and took out an axe.
I watched with considerable dread.
"But it's only my finger stuck up my nose.
It's only a finger!" I said.

"Perhaps we can yank it out with a hook
Tied to some surgical thread.
Maybe we can try that," he replied
"Rather than chop off your head."

"I'm never going to pick it again.
I've now learned my lesson," I said.
"I won't stick my finger up my nose -
I'll stick it in my ear instead."

poem by Brian Patten
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