4 am,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.
[revisited]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So Quiet In Here
Foghorns blowing in the night
Salt sea air in the morning breeze
Driving cars all along the coastline
This must be what its all about
Oh this must be what its all about
This must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
The warm look of radiance on your face
And your heart beating close to mine
And the evening fading in the candle glow
This must be what its all about
Oh this must be what its all about
This must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here. so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, yeah, so peaceful in here
All my struggling in the world
And so many dreams that dont come true
Step back, put it all away
It dont matter, it dont matter anymore
Oh this must be what paradise is like
This must be what paradise is like
Its so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
Its so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
A glass of wine with some friends
Talking into the wee hours of the dawn
Sit back and relax your mind
This must be, this must be, what its all about
This must be what paradise is like
Oh this must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
Big ships out in the night
And were floating across the waves
Sailing for some other shore
Where we can be what we wanna be
Oh this must be what paradise is like
This must be what paradise is like
Baby its so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, you can hear, its so quiet
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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I saw an enemy soldier smoking
I saw an enemy soldier smoking
a long cigar and the flaming match
lit up the sight
and the glowing red
draw my aim
and the shell soundless fell
under the tree
and stars were in a black night
glowing as if knowing
where the angel of death
would visit next
and I used a branch as a gun rest
took another magazine
from the webbing on my chest
and clipped it on to the rifle.
A soft breeze started blowing
and I adjusted the sight
searching through the dark night
for movement or anything
that gave away the location
of the next enemy soldier.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Corporal
In basics the Corporal was no
Christian parent’s son
since no person
could give birth
to a demon
that liked to press
others with his boots
into the dirt.
Not grown up yet
his two stripes
went straight to his head
and the PT-instructor’s crossed swords
glowed menacing on his arm.
Through ash-holes with broken glass,
gravel roads with piercing stones
he made us leopard crawl
while live bullets
whipped up dirt
and running with truck tyres
on a pole
to him was fun
until some men fell
exhausted to the ground.
Personal letters he ripped open
and read aloud
for everyone to hear
and called unmarried people
with children bastards
and visited prostitutes
during the night
that well-off troops paid for
while his fiancée waited at home.
l’Envoi
One night I saw that Corporal run
when he disturbed me
at three am
in the truck park
where I were on guard
and I cocked the FN-rifle
and it sounded
like feeding live ammunition
into the barrel.
He tripped over
something on the ground
and got to his feet
and started running away,
jumping right over
three barbered wire fences
and hysterically shouted
at me not to shoot
and suddenly life felt really good.
[FN-rifle= Old R1 rifle with wooden butt.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Personality
O differing human heart,
Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes,
Thy human eyes and beautiful human speech,
Draw me, and stir within my soul
That subtle ineradicable longing
For tender comradeship?
It is because I cannot all at once,
Through the half-lights and phantom-haunted mists
That separate and enshroud us life from life,
Discern the nearness or the strangeness of thy paths
Nor plumb thy depths.
I am like one that comes alone at night
To a strange stream, and by an unknown ford
Stands, and for a moment yearns and shrinks,
Being ignorant of the water, though so quiet it is,
So softly murmurous,
So silvered by the familiar moon.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Tribute to the Moon
Moon in your glorious moment
What a nice bright moon tonight,
With the big and round moon torching light on me
Crescent, Half-Moon, Full moon, Blue Moon
Make no difference as thee always the same
The dull night blush as usual
The lunar light streams as usual
Enlighten all the mankind with your light
Steer them away from the greed
Steer them away from the lust
It seem so long ago.
When i am tiny, repeatedly amazed by your splendor
Moon... Moon...
Listen to my plea..
Come to me..
Wash away all my worries.
Wash away all my sadness,
For thee only release me from all the stress
For thee only bring peacefulness to my life.
Absorb me in your luminescence
Light my life with thee.
poem by MyPrince Hong
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Human Wheels
This land today, shall draw its last breath
And take into its ancient depths
This frail reminder of its giant, dreaming self
While i, with human-hindered eyes
Unequal to the sweeping curve of life
Stand on this single print of time
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
That time, today, no triumph gains
At this short success of age
This pale reflection of its brave and
Blundering deed
For i, descend from this vault
Now dreams beyond my earthly fault
Knowledge, sure, from the seed
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
This land, today, my tears shall taste
And take into its dark embrace
This love, who in my beating heart endures
Assured, by every sun that burns
The dust to which this flesh shall return
It is the ancient, dreaming dust of god
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White-Footed Deer
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
'It were a sin,' she said, 'to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
'This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
'The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
'I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell.'
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Moon Eater
At night I writhe
Over the despondent grass;
The moon impoverished,
Its entirety guzzled into a
Harlequin crescent
And I see her past one
Of the night's curtains,
Freezing, devouring
Half of the moon
But this I do not know of
For she is in the expanse.
As I lay on my bed
Corrupted and soliloquized,
Gazing at the crescent moon
Far-flung in the downtrodden azure
Thinking,
Where hath gone
The half of the moon?
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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O death, rock me on sleep
O death! rock me on sleep,
Bring me on quiet rest;
Yet pass my guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast:
Toll on the passing bell,
Ring out the doleful knell,
Let the sound of my death tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy,
For now I die.
My pains who can express?
Alas! they are so strong,
My dolor will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.
Alone, in prison strong,
I wail my destiny,
Wo worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.
Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcome my present pain;
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now the passing bell,
Rung is my doleful knell,
For the sound my death doth tell,
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound my end dolefully,
For now I die.
poem by Anne Boleyn (1536)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Passing Moon
I'm all here and now I sit before the future reader's of this
meaningless text, for all it says is that I am here
no stronger than you, no weaker or finer or smaller
but just here, as a human, as a mind who cannot
sleep through the thoughts, sleep through the day
that has occurred, for a day that has occurred is already gone
not passing me through this moment, but gone
for good.
Passed us all in a span of eternity
was it worth it to think of a passing day, when today is the
day passing us all when yesterday is now passing our minds
wasting away I say, however, more and more I feel it's useless
However honesty is taken, i know now that it is here, it is
capable of doing torturous and amazing things but in the end
honesty is the best because nothing gets left out
and here I am, honestly saying, that today will soon be gone
and for once I can see through the glass and the flesh and the light
to say what I feel because the night will soon be gone and we must
not ever waste this away, I Love You my darling.
poem by Christopher Michael McGarry
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A Working Party
Three hours ago he blundered up the trench,
Sliding and poising, groping with his boots;
Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls
With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk.
He couldn't see the man who walked in front;
Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet
Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing
Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.
Voices would grunt `Keep to your right -- make way!'
When squeezing past some men from the front-line:
White faces peered, puffing a point of red;
Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks
And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom
Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore
Because a sagging wire had caught his neck.
A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread
And flickered upward, showing nimble rats
And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain;
Then the slow silver moment died in dark.
The wind came posting by with chilly gusts
And buffeting at the corners, piping thin.
And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots
Would split and crack and sing along the night,
And shells came calmly through the drizzling air
To burst with hollow bang below the hill.
Three hours ago, he stumbled up the trench;
Now he will never walk that road again:
He must be carried back, a jolting lump
Beyond all needs of tenderness and care.
He was a young man with a meagre wife
And two small children in a Midland town,
He showed their photographs to all his mates,
And they considered him a decent chap
Who did his work and hadn't much to say,
And always laughed at other people's jokes
Because he hadn't any of his own.
That night when he was busy at his job
Of piling bags along the parapet,
He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet
And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold.
He thought of getting back by half-past twelve,
And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep
In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes
Of coke, and full of snoring weary men.
He pushed another bag along the top,
Craning his body outward; then a flare
Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire;
And as he dropped his head the instant split
His startled life with lead, and all went out.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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The Working Party
Three hours ago he blundered up the trench,
Sliding and poising, groping with his boots;
Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls
With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk.
He couldn't see the man who walked in front;
Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet
Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing
Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.
Voices would grunt `Keep to your right -- make way!'
When squeezing past some men from the front-line:
White faces peered, puffing a point of red;
Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks
And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom
Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore
Because a sagging wire had caught his neck.
A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread
And flickered upward, showing nimble rats
And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain;
Then the slow silver moment died in dark.
The wind came posting by with chilly gusts
And buffeting at the corners, piping thin.
And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots
Would split and crack and sing along the night,
And shells came calmly through the drizzling air
To burst with hollow bang below the hill.
Three hours ago, he stumbled up the trench;
Now he will never walk that road again:
He must be carried back, a jolting lump
Beyond all needs of tenderness and care.
He was a young man with a meagre wife
And two small children in a Midland town,
He showed their photographs to all his mates,
And they considered him a decent chap
Who did his work and hadn't much to say,
And always laughed at other people's jokes
Because he hadn't any of his own.
That night when he was busy at his job
Of piling bags along the parapet,
He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet
And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold.
He thought of getting back by half-past twelve,
And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep
In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes
Of coke, and full of snoring weary men.
He pushed another bag along the top,
Craning his body outward; then a flare
Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire;
And as he dropped his head the instant split
His startled life with lead, and all went out.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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You Lie...And Yo Breath Stank
You lie and yo breath stank you lie and yo breath stank
Save your time don't give me that speech
And use that time to go brush your teeth
A good mouthwash would be a start
Cause your breath done smell like your mouth done a fart
You lie and yo breath stank
So bad it makes it hard to think
You lie and yo breath stank
Smells just like it's a septic tank
You lie and yo breath stank you lie and yo breath stank
Damn homeboy won't you chew on some gum
You smell like a mixture of chili dogs and rum
Don't be cheap and juts chew on a stick
Throw in the whole pack and chew on it quick
You lie and yo breath stank
So bad it makes it hard to think
You lie and yo breath stank
Rolls me over like a Sherman tank
You lie and yo breath stank you lie and yo breath stank
Open your mouth the whole room stunk
You need a chisel to hammer off the funk
Your breath would turn a shirt into lint
So do us all a favor and suck on a mint
You lie and yo breath stank you lie and yo breath stank
Open your mouth just another lie
What's that smell did somethin' die
A funky kind of stank that makes you go phew
Took a wiff straight out it was coming from you
You lie and yo breath stank
So bad it makes it hard to thank
You lie and yo breath stank
So bad damn your breath is rank
Damn yo breath stank
song performed by by Infectious Grooves
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sentry
Starry sky.
To restrain the beast
my rifle glows,
to fix the black barrel
to the milky moon.
The cry of the Snowy Owl.
A baby whimpers in the village.
The bullet,
treacherous wolf,
bursts into the sleeping house.
The night smells of lime-tree blossoms.
poem by Ernst Toller
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Vapors of Yesterday
Yesterday we were enemies
Today we are friends
Yesterday you said you loved me
Today marks the end
Of two souls which were once intertwined
Like a ball of yarn unrolled now lies undefined
Yesterday we were children
Today we are growing old
Yesterday we were warm
Today we are as cold
As the many dreams that we left frozen in time
Of all the frightful nightmares, some were benign
Yesterday was a blessing
Today is a curse
Yesterday was forever
Today is the first
Moment that we have to read the guiding signs
Through vapors of tomorrow, breathe in and unwind
poem by P.R. Prosper
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Breather
Back in the time when you breathed
I would say breath to you and you
would answer back,
I would say breathe to you and you would do it:
I could have filled a community of breathers
with what you had,
it was free, a birthright,
day and night, black and white,
it was yours, given,
the acceptable inevitable companionship of opposites,
in and out, breath or death, breathe or die,
the human situation.
Birds talk about it
from one tree to another,
conversing across a small valley,
they know what they talk about,
they know something is wrong —
your breathing, or dying,
they know and talk about it,
while inside this room with big picture windows
we whisper about it.
We whisper
and they discuss it through trees
and across a small valley,
in their secret language,
they chatter it all out, gossip,
how we lost our power:
what we couldn’t imagine, couldn’t control,
happened.
poem by Ioanna Carlsen
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I, The Soldier
I killed a man today, did not know his name
I did not know his history, I am the one to blame
I searched his pocket for grenades and guns
Found a photo of his three little children having fun
His body is lying there still and cold, no breath of air
I look in his eyes, I am not allowed to ask if it's fair
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt
I am glad I am alive and I am longing to meet my wife
My child who must be waiting for me, they are my life
I wish I could hug them, cuddle them for eternity
Till I could feel the distance no more sneaking inside of me
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt
I have not seen my home for months and it is eating me inside
I have forgotten the taste of food and the looks of a butter knife
I am loaded with weapons and ammunitions push my shoulders down
But I have to walk, for my country, for my state, for my town
We don't sleep sound at night with the fears of confrontation
Now my rifle is my body part and bullets are my bourbon
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt
I don't want to kill anybody, it haunts me
At night I can feel their spirit, hallucinations I see
I look in the mirror and see only blood and corpses around
The cries of widows and orphans is the only sound
The nights are scary with in my sleep deprived eyes
The days are frightening trying to save what's left of my life
But I have to be strong because I am a soldier at front
And I fight for my countrymen and I am a part of this man hunt
I do this for my country but when I will be back
No one thanks me, there is no one to pat my back
They don't realize the nights I have lost so they could sleep
The wounds I have endured so that they could have treats
They don't see the picture, they are just happy for a movie
When hundred lost lives so that they can be free
I begin to wonder, if it is really overrated to be a soldier
The picture must be worth a thousand words and much bigger
I wonder who am I, what am I doing away from home, my home
But I fight, because I am a soldier, a protector of the prone
I am the righteous protecting what is right and worthy of dying for
I live for my family, I die for my country, my men, my corps.
poem by Kumar Parashar
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Big Talk
Street fighting is looking for trouble
If you open your mouth
Your bound to rumble
Johnny looks tought
He's foze in the eyes
He keeps his mouth shut
He don't tell no lies
Johnny went out last night
Got in a bar room fight
Embarassed a jealous man
In front if his cheating wife
The man said "Tonight you won
But I'll tell you son,
This one's far from over"
Johnny said
CHORUS
Big talk is just talk
Unless, unless your backing it up
Big talk is cheap talk is
Only words unless you're backing it up
(We're backin' it up)
I dont know why
Some men lay down and die
Don't they believe in what they're saying
You should get on your feet
Beleive you can't be beat
Remember talk is only playing
CHORUS
I remember what my old man used to say
(We're backin' it up)
Never give up and run
(We're backin' it up)
Don't let the talkin' breeze blow you away
Always remember, stick to your guns
Big talk is looking for trouble
If you open your mouth
You better be ready to rumble
CHORUS (2x's)
We all say
CHORUS
We're backing it up, yeah
song performed by by Warrant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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