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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Related quotes
Poppies
Poppies they say adieu, goodbye,
men fought, yet did not want to die,
Poppies were tossing, waving free,
as war took lives so poignantly.
Poppies upstanding, boldly grow,
youth enlisted but did not know,
Poppieswould represent such pain,
that they would never forget the slain.
Poppies beautiful, fresh and new,
All one bright colour, flawless hue,
Poppies petals see where they land,
upon a face, an arm or a hand.
Poppies vibrant, stunningly red,
softly surround each silent head,
Poppies fragile, dainty and neat,
guard the space around their feet.
Poppies carpeting the hard ground,
where the marching of boots resound,
Poppies whose wind blown seas of blood,
captured them like a mighty flood.
Poppies tell of their dreams long lost, ,
we hear their names, we count the cost.
Poppies bring tears as we recall,
our loved ones parted from us all.
Poppies they say goodbye, adieu,
men fought for me, they fought for you.
Those tossing poppies, waving free,
mean remembrance to you and me.
Copyright. Ernestine Northover
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Song Of Poppies
I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
They live one little day.
I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!
Ever their strange perfume
Seems like an essence brewed by fairy people
From an immortal bloom.
I love red poppies! Red, silken, swaying poppies!
Deep in their hearts they keep
A magic cure for woe--a draught of Lethe--
A lotus-gift of sleep.
I love red poppies! Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,
That from the rain and sun
Gather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,
When their glad day is done.
poem by Virna Sheard
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Where Poppies Grow
Where poppies grow
There lies your foe
Who seeks a harvest
Of destruction.
The youth, his target,
The snare is set
As nations collapse
From within.
He will not fight
Through weapons of might
But slyly aims
At the core.
Young lives are crushed
By opium's brush
Burdened families
Decaying.
Like towers that fall
Whose foundations are all
Of society's nucleus-
They're dying.
The foe's in their blood
From those poppy pods,
Sprouting a nation's
Addiction.
Where poppies grow
There laughs your foe,
An invisible war is won:
Your MORAL EROSION.
............................. ................................................. ........
August 14,2008
Philippines
'When foundations are being destroyed,
what can the righteous do? '
Psalm 11: 3
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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On The Ledge Under The Sky
You sit up high,
On a ledge under the sky,
Where wings don’t fly,
And humans don’t cry,
Up high on this ledge under the sky,
But why or why,
Do you want to fly?
When you can sit up on the sky,
And hear a voice that doesn’t die,
Or see a drifting tie,
On this ledge in the sky,
And smell a pie,
From miles and miles away a sty,
Under the sky,
Where no one can lie,
‘Cause we see everything from up high,
On this ledge under the sky,
Where you can wonder from your mind’s eye,
And your leg and thigh,
Dangle down from this ledge upon the sky,
Where one never does sigh,
Or look upon the rye,
On this ledge below the sky,
You can be a spy,
You can pry and pry,
And never will people see the tears you cry,
Up upon this ledge in the sky,
Never will you fly,
Or dream why or why,
For you’re already on the ledge under the sky.
To Remember
To remember those people who risked their lives
To show appreciation, to show we care
To save our country, they gave their lives
For their families it was like a dreaded nightmare
To support those soldiers and wear a poppy
To give some money, and not be soppy
To wear a poppy and remember that first day poppies grew, that one day it was sunny
Do you remember why
Why we wear a poppy for a couple of days
To show we remember and to show our gratitude is high
To do that, doesn’t pay
So to remember
To be silent
For a couple of minutes
Doesn’t pay
It just shows gratitude
For that one sad day
Poppies
Seeing poppies growing in the wild,
Takes me back to when I was a child.
We’d often go for walks on a Sunday,
And often spot poppies along the way.
My dad’s hand I would tightly hold,
As I spied the poppies bright and bold.
Because I was young and very small,
The poppies seemed to be so very tall.
There was a field full of them, which I adored.
By their appearance, I never ever grew bored.
The large field where the poppies once grew,
Soon made way for a factory, shiny and new.
True to say, it was only empty waste ground,
But it was our little haven, which we found.
I think they should have left the field alone,
So as, through it, other people could still roam.
I know everyone nowadays talks about progress,
But there are times, when it’s not always for the best.
When they cleared that large patch of waste land,
That stunning view became something very bland.
To me, they are a flower which brings much cheer,
As they remind me of times, which I hold so dear.
Now, when I spot poppies growing here and there,
They remind me of the days, when I had little care.
That riot of colour. That sea of red:
That vision is still there in my head.
I can still picture it in my mind’s eye,
And recall those days of times gone by.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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I Wonder.
In Flanders Fields red poppies grow.
But long dead warriors lie below.
Their rotted bodies nourishing
The scarlet poppies flourishing..
As if to draw attention to.
The graves of men who never knew.
That they would not see their homes more
But here they lie for evermore.
In Flanders Fields lost heroes lie.
In unmarked graves beneath the sky.
Far from the which gave them birth
They add their substance to the earth.
Which Belgian farmers cultivate.
Selected randomly by fate.
There can be few survivors left
But those of us who choose to go
To Flanders where the poppies grow.
All make the trip to show respect
Numbers dwindling as you'd expect.
There's very few now left to go.
To see the scarlet poppies glow
The numbers grow less day by day.
When they are called they must obey.
Rejoining those who went before.
The men who fell in the Great War.
I wonder will poppies still grow
When there's no one left to go.
Monday,25 June 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poppies
Some scarlet poppies lay upon our right.
He watched them through his periscope all day.
He watched then all the day; but in the night
They seemed to pass away.
They came again much redder with the morn’
And still he gazed, and strangely longed to roam
Among their savage splendour in the corn,
And ponder on his home.
But when the charge was done, they found him
there
Deep in the redness, where he’d made his stand,
With withered poppies in his twisted hair,
And poppies in his hand.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Bullets and Poppies
Bullets were flying
and soldiers were dying
as crimson poppies
swayed in the breeze,
beyond the trenches
beyond the green leas
in the fourteen-eighteen war
'the war to end all wars'
but these words sadly
failed to please.
The poppy's the emblem
and sorrowful hearts in sympathy
wander back to Flanders Fields
where thousands of comrades
were shamefully killed.
Golden the archives,
with names of the heroes...
and the poppy still sways
in the breeze, because
wars will never cease.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Break of Day in the Trenches
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,
The 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 men's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe,
Just a little white with the dust.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Poppy Brown and I
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Sitting by the window-ledge
Staring at the sky;
Keeping silent vigil watching
Up and down the street,
Passing many moments, Listening for her feet.
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Playing out the hours
Passing slowly by;
Keeping silent company,
Quiet as the moon,
Waiting for our loved one,
Hoping she'll come soon.
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Loving at the window-ledge
Waiting by and by;
Keeping silent vigil,
Playing out the night,
Looking to each other,
A kiss and then a fight.
We've spent a lot of time together
Poppy Brown and I,
Waiting out the hours
Willing them to fly;
Keeping silent company,
Our mutual request:
The imminent arrival of
The one we love the best.
(Written 28th March 2006)
poem by John Carter Brown
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I Dreamt, I Dreamt Of Poppies
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
Growing wild in yonder field
They were blooming red and wonderful
Like a dancer, laced and frilled
Fluttering in the sunshine
Like waves of autumn grain
Or a rolling sea…majestic
As a queen in summer reign
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
What a glorious display
In a blaze that flamed the skyline
Of a desert far away
I couldn't see the reason
Yet, they flourished in the sand
When all around was barren
In this brutal foreign land
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
Like a ribbon drawn in blood
A slash on the horizon
In a soulless evil flood
The sky was dark and eerie
And smoke had filled the air
The atmosphere, chaotic
With shouting everywhere
I dreamt, I dreamt of poppies
In a garden by a stream
The blooms were bold, were beautiful
More vibrant than a dream
Aside a marble stone
Where hand to heart I wept
For the soul that lay in slumber
Beneath the sod he slept
poem by Leria Hawkins
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In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.
A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him - he disagreed;
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
by garth and barrow everywhere:
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.
And then he stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun:
He kicked his legs and roared for joy
Because the sun was shining down:
He said he was a little boy
And would not work for any clown:
He ran and laughed behind a bee,
And danced for very ecstasy.
poem by James Stephens
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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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A War to End War.................
Where poppies used to grow
Now a theatre of muddy war.
Hear England’s best did bleed
To seed the earth with death,
Upon the killing fields;
And shell shocked men did quake
With each blaze of cannonades that
Shook the already savaged ground.
Here sad corpses lay unburied;
Never to see homeward shores
But to lie discomfited, lost;
In the cold discolured earth.
A war to end war?
No, so here we are again,
Our soldiers bravely die.
Lost in another foreign field
Where opium poppies grow.
poem by Paul Brookes
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Childrens Crusade
Young men, soldiers, nineteen fourteen
Marching through countries theyd never seen
Virgins with rifles, a game of charades
All for a childrens crusade
Pawns in the game are not victims of chance
Strewn on the fields of belgium and france
Poppies for young men, deaths bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
The children of england would never be slaves
Theyre trapped on the wire and dying in waves
The flower of england face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
Corpulent generals safe behind lines
Historys lessons drowned in red wine
Poppies for young men, deaths bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
All for a childrens crusade
The children of england would never be slaves
Theyre trapped on the wire and dying in waves
The flower of england face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
Midnight in soho, nineteen eighty-four
Fixing in doorways, opium slaves
Poppies for young men, such bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
All for a childrens crusade
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0272 Somme Day
Looks like being a fine day; how red
the poppies in the sunlight.
The whistles blow.
From the now almost home of the slit trench
Over the Top, boys! This is it!
Soon back. The slit trench
is blessedly quieter now
in its six feet.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Gipsy
The poppies that in Spring I sow,
In rings of radiance gleam and glow,
Like lords and ladies gay.
A joy are they to dream beside,
As in the air of eventide
They flutter, dip and sway.
For some are scarlet, some are gold,
While some in fairy flame unfold,
And some are rose and white.
There's pride of breeding in their glance,
And pride of beauty as they dance
Cotillions of delight.
Yet as I lift my eyes I see
Their swarthy kindred wild and free.
Who flaunt it in the field.
"Begone, you Romanies!" I say,
"Lest you defile this bright array
Whose loveliness I shield."
My poppies are a sheen of light;
They take with ecstasy the sight,
And hold the heart elate . . . .
Yet why do I so often turn
To where their outcast brothers burn
With passion at my gate?
My poppies are my joy and pride;
Yet wistfully I gaze outside
To where their sisters yearn;
Their blowzy crimson cups afire,
Their lips aflutter with desire
To give without return.
My poppies dance a minuet;
Like courtiers in silk they set
My garden all aglow . . . .
Yet O the vagrants at my gate!
The gipsy trulls who peer and wait! . . .
Calling the heart they know.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Queen in Black
Remembrance Day, London,1973
How many thousands watched her lay
the wreath of poppies while they prayed…
Or held their breath and stood still in silence
two minutes for the sacrifice, in remembrance.
As each petal falls from above so a page in the book
of memories ~ thoughts of someone they loved and lost.
They say each petal represents the life of one who gave.
Poppies seen growing amongst a country-side of graves…
Frances Macaulay Forde © 1973
poem by Frances Macaulay Forde
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Different
We were born from poppies. Our skins breathed like the stalks
of our birth givers. Our hairs grew and intertwined.
We were born from poppies. Our skins breathed always
differently, our eye blinked always differently and
we differently counted steps
childlike and pebbles
in little shoes, differently
burned our vocal fires and the letters
we folded differently in different colours
with different post stamps, floral oral tongues
we spoke, the children watched us, we counted,
the river knew, we counted memories and images.
How many images and memories?
We were born by our river in the fragrance of earth and grass
sweated out of the warm womb of cloying red poppies.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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