What can we say
The night her sable wings has spread
across this city of the dead.
The silver moon light shimmering
upon white gravestones glimmering.
The rows of headstones on parade
recall the sacrifices made.
By those whose bones lie here at rest.
Some old some young who did their best.
Their country called they volunteered
to defend freedom it appeared.
From field and factory they came
but death would treat them all the same.
Young labourers and artisans
were all included in the plans
of generals who seldom knew
that they were asking men to do
tasks which were barely possible.
They proved themselves incapable
of showing flexibility.
Repeating mistakes constantly.
Advance, retreat advance again.
The price was high for little gain.
A hundred yards or perhaps two
of shell pocked mud which stuck like glue.
Behind the lines the big guns roared
adding more bodies to the hoard
too many to enumerate.
Who had already met their fate.
The general staff still held the view
that there was nothing else to do
but bombard with artillery
and then send in the infantry.
Their hide bound minds were tightly closed
to any new tactic proposed
Thanks to the way that they were taught.
The correct way wars should be fought.
It took four years to recognise
it was a futile exercise.
Although we claimed the victory
I’m not too sure that I agree..
Every war grave cemetery
though mute still speaks eloquently.
The price of war is far too high.
What can we answer in reply?
14-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Stupidity.
Stupidity.
We celebrate our dead heroes.
Their white headstones arranged in rows.
To mark where soldiers bodies lie.
They are no longer friends and foes
War cemeteries are tended well
in honour of the men who fell
It is the least that we can do
for men who died by shot and shell.
Each single death a tragedy,
each one recorded carefully.
To satisfy the bureaucrats
who collate deaths statistically.
I wonder why we cannot see.
That death alone claims victory.
Each new war adds to the score
of people dying uselessly.
Though we remember them with pride.
The countless men who sadly died.
Each thinking that their cause was just.
Involuntary suicide.
We celebrate our dead heroes
with white headstones arranged in rows.
Yet we still send young men to die
And always will do I suppose.
We do not learn from history
For no good reason I can see.
That wars prove nothing in the end
Except how stupid we can be.
Wednesday,30 December 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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At The Grave Of The Unknown Soldier
He was a brave soldier he died young and brave
And for more than six decades he lay in his grave
And still at the dawning of each war memorial day
At his grave site a young bugler the last post does play.
Known as the Unknown Soldier one without a name
Still he had a mum and a dad just the same
And when he did not return home when the fighting was done
They grieved at their loss and they wept for their son.
The war to end all wars of all wars 'tis said
But more wars are fought and we have more war dead
And at the grave of the unknown soldier the last post is played
And to honour the war dead another parade.
Old war men do tell us young soldiers fight and die
For freedom and liberty that is a lie
They went to war when young they are now old and gray
Some grow old not wiser some are known to say.
That they were fighting for freedom and justice they believed to be true
And they were quite gallant to give them their due
But many deprived of their human rights in the World of today
And that does seem a very sad thing for to say.
With heads bowed old men showing their years in gray
At the grave of the Unknown Soldier at the dawn of the day
In silence do listen as a young bugler the last post does play
For one who fought and died in a war far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Killers All?
Now bugle boy what do you blow
Your trumpet pressed to your dead lips
I sound recall to let them know
this is the end of their hardships
They came as boys but died like men
From factories farms and mean back streets
They will not see their homes again
The brave young men whom death defeats.
They answered to their country’s call
And donned their Khaki battle dress
And shipped to France where they would fall
by thousands in the wilderness.
Created by the shot and shell
turning the battlefield to mud.
Which drowned young soldiers where they fell
and drenched the earth with their hearts blood.
Now poppies blow in Flanders fields’
The soil enriched by dead men bones
which has increased the harvest yields.
The poppies act as their headstones.
So many died and were not found
their fate unknown, No man could say
Their bodies melded with the ground
but we remember still to day.
The slaughter and the sacrifice
The useless waste of human lives.
They were prepared to pay the price.
Though a small band of them survives.
Each passing year their numbers fall
Old age more sure than shot and shell.
Soon there will be none at all
who endured that living hell.
The war to end all wars they said
You will be home by Christmas tide
Instead of that most would be dead.
Involuntary suicide.
We honour those who bravely died
a generation of young men.
The best of breed on either side.
But still we go to war again.
The world has never been at peace
since the war to end all wars.
I don’t believe that wars will cease
as long as there are warriors.
Who think they can enforce their will
on other men by force of arms.
It seems that killing is a skill
Which can seduce men with its charms.
16-May-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Will we ever learn?
The scarlet flares illuminate
a scene from Dante’s inferno.
In muddy trenches soldiers wait.
They’ve learnt to fear the rosy glow.
Behind the lines artillery
sing out their litany of hate
to terrify the enemy
In this respect they are too late.
Exhausted men beyond all fear
crouch numb and sleepless in the mud
and should a heavy shell fall near
They do not hear but feel the thud.
They have no hope all hope has died
These broken men their courage gone.
The veterans on either side.
Each one some loving mothers son.
They answered to their country’s call
each swallowing their country’s lies.
They were prepared to give their all
the ultimate in sacrifice.
Two thousand men died in one day.
A day in June nineteen fourteen.
This was the price they had to pay
. A price which could have been forseen.
The General Staff were confident
old fashioned tactics would prevail
and to a man would not relent.
Quite certain that they could not fail.
Both sides bogged down, total stalemate.
The allies claimed the victory.
Each side has realised but far too late
that modern warfare could not be
conducted in the same old way.
The world was forced to recognise.
Some prices were too high to pay
and rarely worth the sacrifice
of brave young men on either side.
The cream of Europes breeding stock.
Although we honour those who died.
There are some memories we block.
We don’t learn lessons from the past
It seems the human race cannot.
Although the painful memories last
the lessons they should teach do not.
8-Jul-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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High Price Of Hate
Got the eyes of a vulture
As you gaze from your meaningless throne
And the pain that youve been selling
Id rather die before Id own
Ill call you a doctor
Or find you a priest
cause no one can save you
And you wont get no peace
Ive felt your displeasure
And girl I used to relate
So dont hand me no anger
Ill be crushed by the weight
Thats the high price of hate
Thats the high price of hate
Lord whats the cost of my fate
Shell lay out wide open
Like a surgical knife
Ive watched it take over
Whats left of your miserable life
Shell live on deception
Your pleasures long dead
Your soul is left bleeding
From the lies that you spread
Dont pull on my collar
I wont rise to debate
Dont ask me for comfort
Youre a lifetime too late
Thats the high price of hate
Thats the high price of hate
Lord whats the cost of my fate
Oooh, theres a storm overhead
Will it ever end baby
Its all inside your head
Is it gonna end
Thats the high price of hate
Thats the high price of hate
Yeah, I hope I aint asking too late
Thats the high price of hate
Thats the high price of hate
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Losers Never Write The War History
The losers never write the war history that's something we already know
Yet for the many wars fought through the ages we do not have the wisdom to show
That victory too comes at a huge cost for war the price is huge to pay
For families who grieve for their dead members their sense of loss with them will stay
Until they themselves go to the reaper the reaper who claims one and all
The loved one war had taken from them with great sadness they will recall
But the dead to life cannot be returned better to live as a coward than die brave
For none has yet come back for to tell us that there is a life beyond the grave,
They died for their God and their Country of dead war heroes some well may brag
Those who place too much worth on the unknowable and the colour of their Nation's flag
I for one find religion and patriotism confusing of god and war heroes hymns and songs are sung
But surely it is a misnomer that only the good do die young
And yet from war we have not learned young lives are lost for wars to be won
And if lasting peace ever does come it won't be through the barrel of a gun
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Vain Spell
THE house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white,
The fields are alight with dew;
'Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night?
I have waited the whole night through,
For I knew,
O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart,
That the night of all nights is this,
When elm shall crack and lead shall part,
When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts start
To let you through to my kiss.'
So spake she alone in the lonely house.
She had wrapped her round with the spell,
She called the call, she vowed the vow,
And the heart she had pledged knew well
That this was the night, the only night,
When the moulds might be wrenched apart,
When the living and dead, in the dead of the night,
Might clasp once more, in the grave's despite,
For the price of a living heart.
But out in the grave the corpse lay white
And the grave clothes were wet with dew;
'Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night,
I have waited the whole night through,
For I knew
That I dared not leave my grave for an hour
Since the hour of all hours is near,
When you shall come to the hollow bower,
In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power,
To the heart that to-night beats here!'
The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still
Ah, God! do the dead forget?
The grave is white and the bed is chill,
But a guest may be coming yet.
But the hour has come and the hour has gone
That never will come again;
Love's only chance is over and done,
And the quick and the dead are twain, not one,
And the price has been paid in vain.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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At what cost?
It speaks of some danger when aligned with red color
it has to do with laying down of life for dignity and honor
it speaks of high volume for a person
as he has sacrificed for some well known reasons
When wars are fought on battle ground
the bodies are scattered all over and found
the vultures are ready to pound the flash and remain
Nation mourns the death with grief and pain
How much sacrifice and bloodshed is still needed?
are we not peace loving people and committed?
to whom are we going to feed the lies?
are the steps taken necessary or wise?
Is it not enough to remain for centuries under slavery?
is it sign of weariness when we call it bravery?
Was the freedom totally uncalled for?
we never knew there will be so much pain in store
Are wet worthy creatures to ask?
for freedom without any aim or task?
Don't we think it as sheer madness?
when we go to war with prejudice and sickness
We have all the rights and search for light
we may also grow with strength and have mite
it is reasonable to have deterrence
no one may ever dare or make the reference
Our children are dying each day
there is no peaceful solution or honorable way
How much more bloodshed or price we have to pay?
Why not resolutely unite and stay away?
We shall defend and bleed to last drop
No amount of assaults can make us to stop
people run for safety and bodies rush
We are not used to witness daily clashes
The almighty did not create slavery
We have brought it with exceptional bravery
How many were crushed under the feet of cavalry?
the misrule of the forces blinded by the rivalry
How much we have yet to undergo with misery?
Why can't they take decision and form advisory?
What will be ultimate price for its realization?
Is it not the shame or blot on civilization?
Our forefathers dealt it with wisdom
They knew what will be the price for freedom
Who were all responsible for our miserable plight?
No one can deny us rights even with mite
We may have to live and witness
some orgy of violence to face
it is still a critical phase
we are made to worry and subjected to chase
It may not end in nightmare
we have to live here and find the place somewhere
it is to live and let others live
tolerance and faith sincerely to believe
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A War To End All Wars, But Wasn’t
They not only fought the enemy,
but fought the elements as well.
They fought for their country
in lands far from home.
They fought rain, mud and the enemy
in trenches stained with blood
from those who had fallen there before.
They fought on and on
while the Generals watched
the slaughter from far away.
For their mistakes men died
by the score across the battlefield.
Their blood would stained the land
then and forever more.
Then came the gas
like a creeping mist across the battlefield
that silenced all in its wake.
It made no distinction to young or old,
just poisoned all it touched.
Their contorted bodies rotted where they fell.
They said this was a war to end all wars, but it wasn’t.
Almost twenty years later
men from different countries gathered to fight another war
and again in the trenches men fell.
The mechanics had changed;
machines became more prevalent across the battlefield,
still men died for small victories in the tide of war.
3 July 2008
poem by David Harris
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Generally speaking
The guns fall silent and the dead
lie quietly they’ve played their part.
The night hour’s pass heavy with dread
at first light the big guns will start.
The sound of the artillery
will fill the silent skies again.
Eroding further bravery
of the war weary fighting men.
The brave young men on either side
are doomed to die face down in mud.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Their dug outs do but little good.
A shell burst may not kill just maim
The lucky ones are those who die,
they are the winners in this game
when thick and fast the bullets fly.
Opposing sides move to and fro
to capture trenches they’ve just left.
For no good reason that they know
obeying orders quite bereft
of any sign of sanity.
The generals are safe behind the lines
Unlike the vast majority
who fight to fulfil their designs.
Lions by donkeys badly led
Young men by the thousand died.
A foreign field their final bed
because good sense was not applied.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow.
The soil enriched by their hearts blood
What have we learnt we did not know?
Nobody won Nobody could.
There are no winners none at all
except perhaps the carrion crows
They dine well when the soldiers fall
as mighty nations come to blows.
Survivors return home broken men
with small support and little praise.
Until they’re needed once again
when countries their new armies raise.
Another war to end all wars.
We do not learn from history
For men can always find a cause.
Why this should be a mystery.
18-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If This Is What Freedom Is About
If this is what freedom is about who would wish to be free
When only of war dead we read and hear about and pictures of death we see
Mothers grieving for their dead children in Iraq their heartbreak with them will stay
Until the Reaper claim them though for them 'twill be a happy day.
Is this what freedom is about when some talk of liberty
For the suffering of others they cannot show empathy
They say to rid you of your tyrant some of your children had to die
But that's the price you pay for democracy so your freedom now enjoy.
If this is what freedom is about then tyranny sounds sweet
A young woman murdered by a suicide bomber bits of her scattered around the Street
For how many years must this go on how many more must die in this way
If this is what freedom is about the price is too much too pay.
Is this what freedom is about a young man without feet
And some even say he is lucky that the Reaper he did cheat
The victim of a roadside bomb now in his mother's care
Do not talk of freedom to the one who sits in his wheelchair.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Are Told
We are told that we have got freedom yet not freedom to do as we like
There are places we are not allowed to walk in or where we cannot ride a push bike
Which means that our freedom is so called since we cannot even walk where we please
Ours is such a limited freedom we are not as free as a breeze.
Without a passport we cannot travel to another Country and that is for a limited time
And if we overstay our visa that is a deportable crime
By the Immigration Department of Government by a Government not blessed with a soul
There is a name for such a practice 'tis known as population control.
Young men in wars fought and died for freedom but was it for freedom they died?
When their Government leader told them they were fighting for freedom to the young and naive troops he lied
They fought for the glory of their leader and risked their lives on a foreign shore
They were used as pawns in a deadly power game just that sad to say nothing more.
We are told that we have got freedom though we have to be careful with the words we say
And if our speech on it has got restrictions then what is freedom anyway?
Young men fought and even died for freedom at least that's what we are made to believe
By so called patriotic politicians people who are known to deceive.
poem by Francis Duggan
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What Price So High Should One Agree To Pay
What price so high should one agree to pay,
That comes to sacrifice one's life away.
What degree of devotion is determined fits,
The giving one does...
With no return to replace any of it.
But remaining one does,
Attached to prove it to exist.
What price so high should one agree to pay,
To satisfy those judgemental.
As if it is known,
What a loyalty takes by those ready to critique.
Those without a discipline,
Or an intgerity instilled within one to keep...
Faithful.
What price so high should one agree to pay,
If the price one continues paying,
Is not to others valued.
Or observed to them to have worth,
With a benefit that visually impresses...
To measure up to the ever changing presence,
Of a quality of life fading from precious standards.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Red-Tressed Maiden
RED she is in a robe of sable,
Rosy with pictures and tales to tell:
She is a fairy, and yet no fable,
Weaving the dreams that we love so well.
Out in the dark where the night-winds hurry
And dead leaves carpet the silent bush,
She has a charm for minds that worry,
For the worn white face a fresh young blush.
Tell her a story of some love laid in
The grave long since with a maiden white —
She will not taunt you, the Red-Tressed Maiden
Dressed in her mantle of starless night.
With fingers potent as rich wine chosen
From dusty cellars where years lie dead,
She melts the ice in the veins long frozen,
The blood runs chainless, and young and red.
Her ears have hearkened the joyous laughter,
Man-made, maid-lifted through years and years
To frescoed dome and to smoky rafter,
And tears and tears and ceaseless tears.
Old as the world, and some say older,
Is she, and yet she is young and sweet:
She heard the story the Cave-man told her,
When hearts were bolder and ruder their beat.
No tale so trifling but she will listen,
The long day ended, the day's toil done;
Then wheresoever her great eyes glisten
An ancient battle is fought and won.
She is ready to hearken to some chance roamer,
A lyre on his shoulder, a lilt on his tongue,
As she was of old to the blind-eyed Homer
Who sang high strains when the world was young.
On winter nights, when the roads are cheerless
And west winds under a frosty moon,
She paints us Summer in colours peerless
And the broad gold charm of a tropic noon.
On summer evenings, in sylvan places
(The picnic over and stars in the skies),
She heightens the blush on sun-kissed faces
And deepens the dream in dear young eyes.
And who is the Maiden? When Night is about you,
Pile high dry leaves and dead wood, and so
Make a light for the darkness within and without you . . .
And now do you see her — and now do you know?
poem by Roderic Quinn
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A War Flower
They took all the flowers
and taught them how to shoot guns;
the tulips learned to emit poison gas
and the roses, my god the roses
were used to hide the blood stains
on the carpeting.
It was war;
all out war they said
and everything had to be used
because all was to be used
to ensure ultimate victory.
Dead trees were gnawed at the center
and taught to toppled themselves on unwary Geraniums marching.
The Lialics laid down hand grenades
in front and in the back of enemy Orchid buds.
The outcry against: 'flower power' was immense
'an atrocity' said many
but it did not stop.
Pigeons and dolphins learned to carry bombs;
dogs became spotters for sniper's guns;
elephants trampled the flower beds
and marched with; the infantry.
All of nature bent to war's intent
and paid the ultimate price on bloodied battlefields-
the flowers going straight to funerals-
no need to send remembrances
since
their fresh flower carcasses were already present
bullet ridden and bleeding.
So every tree, animal and plant
was used to disembowel the ecology-
misshapened and bent to Foul Intent
in the grey dawn
cracking-
artillery shells smoking and spent
bullet casings strewn about;
dead flora
dead fauna;
haphazardly arranged dying flowers
their petals weeping.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Babe's Requiem
Wars are fought by babes with a gun,
fought by them but never won.
Taught to think that war is just,
to preserve freedom is a must.
So off they march to foreign lands
and soon they're mired with bloody hands,
praying that what they're doing is right,
shooting and killing both day and night.
While back at home we continue to buy
and let the flags continue to fly.
Reading the news, watching the scenes
not understanding, it only demeans
What human life is all about.
Why babes were born and how they've turned out.
Pointing the finger at imaginary foes,
forgetting to point at the white shirts of those
who plan these wars way in advance.
How do our babes even stand a chance?
They play with guns from the age of three.
Can't their parents wake up and see?
In foreign lands the parents do weep
watching in horror as their babes go to sleep,
never to awaken and breathe in again
the air in Iraq or Afghanistan.
How is it the babes of those in power
are not involved? In fact they do cower,
hiding behind the white shirts that lead,
never having to fear they might bleed.
Wars are not games that big people play.
The guns are given to the babes everyday.
No lullabies will be sung for them.
The song for these babes is a requiem.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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For To Celebrate War
For to celebrate war there's always one more parade
And out of war warriors heroes are made
Only the good die young some are known to say
But I know good people who are old and gray.
The praises of war leaders many may sing
But those who declare war on others do it as a power thing
Though many with my thinking may not agree
Those who declare war on terror are major terrorists to me.
Millions of human beings through the centuries in wars have suffered and died
And wars through the ages have been fought Worldwide
And still we have wars and talks of more wars today
Of our human capacity to learn from past mistakes of us what does this say?
It can lead to acts of aggression patriotic pride
And religion, nationalism, patriotism and racism are the things that divide
People of all Nations who live everywhere
And over them more wars are fought in the big World out there.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Broken Heart
I fought for King and country
On the battlefields in France
I’d volunteered for active service
For I saw this as a chance
To earn respect from those around me
And stare death full in the face
Being brave was nothing strange to me
And fear is no disgrace
I saw the clouds of chlorine rising
As we put those gas masks on
I saw men torn from their bodies
I’ve been deafened by the guns
There was mustard gas and shrapnel
And more barbed wire than in the bush
There was dysentery and typhus
And bodies oozing pus
That mud clung to your belly
And the rats they seemed to thrive
On bodies out in no-man’s land
Of soldiers not alive
My mates - some of them blinded
Some of them blown apart
And others they just disappeared
When the barrages did start
Some days, it would fall silent
And you could hear the German side
I’d guess they would be blokes like us
Just trying to survive
You’d put your head up in the trenches
And the odds were pretty high
That a sniper that you couldn’t see
Would send you to the sky.
Some of us were lucky
But so many badly died
It didn’t seem like murder
More like wilful suicide
It was hell there in those trenches
There was no glory in that war
No victory in battle
Just stripped naked and red raw
I didn’t go alone you know
I’d gone off there with some mates
We’d gone to show our bravery
And then were told to wait.
There was so much bloody paperwork
Before we could go to fight
They didn’t make it easy
Because we were not white
I’m back now in Australia
Sometimes at night I wake in fear
I can hear the guns and all y’know
And they still seem very near
In the army I was Billy
I had a real name
Now, once again, I’m just an Abo
And my life is much the same
The white men, they look down on us
Then give our women rum
They often take advantage
Then threaten us with guns.
Man! If I just had my life again
And all my mates were here
I don’t think I’d fight in that war
Nor lose myself in beer.
For I thought I’d be respected
By the whitefellas and such
But now I simply realise
We don’t matter very much
For the war, they’d made us citizens
So we could play our part
Now it’s over that’s been taken back
And I have a broken heart.
poem by David Keig
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One More Parade
Hup, two, three, four, marching down the street
Rollin of the drums and the tramping of the feet
General salutes and the mothers wave and weep
Here comes the big parade
Dont be afraid, prices paid
One more parade
So young, so strong, so ready for the war
So willing to go and die upon a foreign shore
All march together, everybody looks the same
So there is no one you can blame
Dont be ashamed, light the flame
One more parade
Listen for the sound and listen for the noise
Listen for the thunder of the marching boys
A few years ago their guns were only toys
Here comes the big parade
Dont be afraid, prices paid
One more parade
So young, so strong, so ready for the war
So willing to go and die upon a foreign shore
All march together, everybody looks the same
So there is no one you can blame
Dont be ashamed, light the flame
One more parade
Medals on their coats and guns in their hands
Trained to kill as theyre trained to stand
Ten thousand ears need only one command
Here comes the big parade
Dont be afraid, prices paid
Dont be ashamed, wars a game
Worlds in flames, so start the parade
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thousand Bullets
There are a thousand details pulled in scenes of borders,
Countries have various posts to deliver their protection.
One clicked and the other sang a tune offered by the clergy,
Troopers triumph in splendour for the creation of the nation.
They recollect the generals for their courage,
Their guns go off, and they send the barrage,
For the swarm of bullets defends the strong from the weak,
And force them to eternal death by hanging at least.
Perspiration claimed abundant pressure for the lot,
The generals themselves gain the upper hand
From the mistakes of the enemy, the opposition is mad,
For the opposition is the proud evil of this community.
It requires endless repetition and pacing to strike a scrum
Of attack on the passionate betrayers in our vicinity.
The real stammer is in the old and also the young,
For both ends of the spectrum deserve an equal measure.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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