Great War Poetry, What's your favorite poem. Options

[DaveBrigg]

Mick
That poem brought a tear to my eye. I was at the Lincs archive this afternoon, reading through 1914 editions of our school magazine for the first time.

There were in-jokes about the boarders, descriptions of stamp collecting, sports days and trips to the cinema. There were also pages of cricket match reports, the first eleven captained by S Goates. He was 'a sound bat, rather unlucky, very useful stumper; excellent fielder, keen hardworking captain'. He was a prefect of the boarders, and captain of the football team. In the speech day of November 1914 he was commended 'for good conduct and good work in school and on the sports field'.

Private Sydney Goates of the London Scottish was killed on 1st July 1916 at Gommecourt Wood and never found -
'Part of him mud, part of him blood,
The rest of him -- not at all.'

[auchonvillerssom...]

My Mate
I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,

And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.

(Look out there, lad! That sniper -- 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;

'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.)

Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,

To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;

And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,

Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot -- but it's blood.



And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.

'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;

And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,

And even there we 'ad no disagree.

For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,

I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid;

I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest,

I even stood god-farther to the kid.



So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?"

"Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im.

'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go,

('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim).

Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell,

But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread.

We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle,

And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.



Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?

I've only got meself, 'e stands for three.

I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook;

'E always WAS a better man than me.

'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark,

And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid;

And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,

When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.



'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.

'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud.

Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky,

And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud.

And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead,

And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand:

The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and ZIP! like that -- 'e's dead,

Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.



There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun,

But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate.

You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done

Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate.

It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim;

Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid,

Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im,

To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.
Robert Service.

Now that gets to me every time

Mick

[Martin Brown]

Service is underrated. There was a series set in Tyneside in the 30s on Radio 4 a few years ago and Service made an appearance, it was only then I realised he was a war poet of rare power.

I ran the Serre dig a couple of years ago looking for Owen's dugout that he describes in "The Sentry". We didn;t find the dugout but the Heidenkopf revealed a lot more stories.

Anyway, last week I was out at Serre with a school group and performed the Sentry for them, there where it happened. Amazing, I got to the end and we were all shaken by the power of Owens words and by being in the place. It may not be his best poem but at that moment in that place there was nothing to touch it.

[Martin Brown]

Service is underrated. There was a series set in Tyneside in the 30s on Radio 4 a few years ago and Service made an appearance, it was only then I realised he was a war poet of rare power.

I ran the Serre dig a couple of years ago looking for Owen's dugout that he describes in "The Sentry". We didn;t find the dugout but the Heidenkopf revealed a lot more stories.

Anyway, last week I was out at Serre with a school group and performed the Sentry for them, there where it happened. Amazing, I got to the end and we were all shaken by the power of Owens words and by being in the place. It may not be his best poem but at that moment in that place there was nothing to touch it.

[auchonvillerssom...]

Service is underrated. There was a series set in Tyneside in the 30s on Radio 4 a few years ago and Service made an appearance, it was only then I realised he was a war poet of rare power.

I ran the Serre dig a couple of years ago looking for Owen's dugout that he describes in "The Sentry". We didn;t find the dugout but the Heidenkopf revealed a lot more stories.

Anyway, last week I was out at Serre with a school group and performed the Sentry for them, there where it happened. Amazing, I got to the end and we were all shaken by the power of Owens words and by being in the place. It may not be his best poem but at that moment in that place there was nothing to touch it.

This a list of Robert Service poems on the web

http://www.artdamage.com/service/redcross/toc.htm

As a matter of interest i found a very nice Rifle Brigade cap badge behind the Heidenkopf in March this year.

Mick

[Ozzie]

Powerful writing creating powerful images.

Kim

[marina]

I enjoyed 'Only A Boche' in particular.

There is also a wonderful recital of 'The Haggis of Private MacPhee' on the cd 'War And Glaur'.
Marina

[geoff501]

Mick, Thanks for introducing me to Robert Service, I agree highly underated. Reading 'My Mate' felt like I was standing next to this Tommy as he told the sad story of his mate.

[Terry W]

Each One of the Poems posted here mean so much to the individua and to all of us. It is very difficult to have a favourite. These words though understated seem to bring that sensless waste of life, slaugher to us.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knockneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge.
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep; many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood -shod. All went lame, all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas - shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick boys! - An ectasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,And flound'ring, like a man in fire or lime-Dim through the mist panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In something smothering all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. if some smotherimg dreams 1n you too could pace behind the wagons that we fkung him in. And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lunds,
Bitten as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues-My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie; Dulce et decorumest Pro patria mori.


Wilfred Owen (1803-1918)

Terry W.

[geoff501]

This thread title is Great War Poetry, and there is so much of it. But when did war poetry start? This is actually a 'folk song', probably written by a soldier around 1800 in the Napoleonic wars. (anyone not smoking a pipe, not supping real ale, not wearing a beard and a cable-knit jumper may leave the room now). Not much changes in 200 years. Several versions exist, some politically incorrect. This version recorded by the late great Sandy Denny in 1970.

Banks Of The Nile

Oh hark! The drums do beat, my love, no longer can we stay.
The bugle-horns are sounding clear, and we must march away.
We're ordered down to Portsmouth, and it's many is the weary mile.
To join the British Army on the banks of the Nile.

Oh Willie, dearest Willie, don't leave me here to mourn,
Don't make me curse and rue the day that ever I was born.
For the parting of our love would be like parting with my life.
So stay at home, my dearest love, and I will be your wife.

Oh my Nancy, dearest Nancy, sure that will never do.
The government has ordered, and we are bound to go.
The government has ordered, and the Queen she gives command.
And I am bound on oath, my love, to serve in a foreign land.

Oh, but I'll cut off my yellow hair, and I'll go along with you.
I'll dress myself in uniform, and I'll see Egypt too.
I'll march beneath your banner while fortune it do smile,
And we'll comfort one another on the banks of the Nile.

But your waist it is too slender, and your fingers they are too small.
In the sultry suns of Egypt your rosy cheeks would spoil.
Where the cannons they do rattle, when the bullets they do fly,
And the silver trumpets sound so loud to hide the dismal cries.

Oh, cursed be those cruel wars, that ever they began,
For they have robbed our country of many's the handsome men.
They've robbed us of our sweethearts while their bodies they feed the lions,
On the dry and sandy deserts which are the banks of the Nile.

[Padhraicin]

To My Daughter Betty

by Tom Kettle (1880-9th September, 1916)

In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your mother's prime -
In that desired, delayed incredible time
You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear breast that was your baby's throne
To dice with death, and, oh! They'll give you rhyme
And reason; one will call the thing sublime,
And one decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh, with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for Flag, nor King, nor Emporor,
But for a dream born in a herdsman's shed,
And for the Secret Scripture of the poor.


Tom Kettle was an Irish politician, (elected to the house of Commons at the age of 26), a poet, a teacher and professor at University College Dublin. His wrote this poem for his infant daughter Betty whom he had never seen. Two days after writing it, he was struck by a German bullet and died while taking part in the Irish Brigade's capture of Ginchy.

[marina]

Haven't seen that one before - nice one.
Marina

[bagpuss]

After our visit to the Sheffield Memorial Park Serre our guide tony read us this poem. I found it very moving and sums up our feelings about the Somme.

Take my hand and come with me
to a special place across the sea
a sacred place in hallowed ground
its not a church you'll understand
just a part of home in another land

A place where gravestones stand arrayed
like a phantom army on parade
stand close to me and patience keep
and soon you'll see a brave man weep
he cries for his comrade beneath the stones
and I tell you friend he's not alone

Scenes like this are commonplace
in our special meeting place
so as you stroll down memory lane
think of us who must remain
and now its time to say adieu
but remember friend, we died for you.

ANON.

[Garron]

My Favorite poem would be

Soldier's Dream by Wilfred Owen, Its in my Sig

Garron

[marina]

Anon wrote some good stuff, didn't he/she?
Just about everythng Owen wrote was good too.

[JGM]

I find this poem one of the most moving Great War poems;
Before Action
By all the glories of the day,
And the cool evening's benison,
By the last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done,
By beauty lavishly outpoured
And blessing's carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of man's hopes and fears,
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavour that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this;-
By all delights I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.

W N Hodgson (Killed in action 01/07/16)

JGM

[marina]

It;s the last line that gets me
Marina

[Jon Miller]

[quote name='auchonvillerssomme' date='May 31 2006, 04:12 PM' post='459273']
My favourite is Robert Service.


Mine too.

[marina]

here's a little more Robert Service:

The Haggis of Private McPhee


"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?
It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.
"And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,
As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
"A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;
"The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns
Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns.
We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest
O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."


"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;
"I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."
Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
"I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."
Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
"I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."
But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
"Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',
We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."


My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,
And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.
And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.
There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,
And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole
Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.
For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.


Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer
Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.
And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine
The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.
And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,
The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.
Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom,
A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.


"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.
"Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.
It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee;
Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.
"Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;
"And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,
It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see:
I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."
Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
"If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid.
And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content
If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."
"That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.
Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind;
And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot --
It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got."
For a while they were silent; then up once again
Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:
"And why should we miss it? Between you and me
We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see.
You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht,
And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."


Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,
When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.
Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun',
When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
"Keep clear o' them corpses -- they're maybe no deid!
Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid.
Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.
A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:
Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."


There wis death and destruction on every hand;
There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land.
And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare,
And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.
Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun
When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.
And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,
And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.
"On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;
I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."


But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'.
Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:
"Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.
It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air;
It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist -- aboot -- there."
Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!
For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."
And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain,
And onward he staggers in passion and pain.
And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.
And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight,
And someone is shoutin' away on their right;
And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear
A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;
And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,
The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.


"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.
When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,
And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.
And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,
And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot,
When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,
And it -- DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL."


And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,
And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,
And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before!
On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!
And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:
And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,
For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.

I am available if any translations are necessary!
Marina

[Jan Nix]

JGM
Very moving words indeed. Thanks for posting Hodson's poem.

[mruk]

GLORY

I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye
For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid
Yon licht that haps ye an' the Hosts that's wi' ye,
Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid

They went frae mill an' mart, frae wind-blawn places,
An' grey toon-closes; i' the empty street
Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,
Nor stand to listen to the trampin' feet.

Beside the broom and soughin' through the rashes
Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,
Across the brae and whaur the water washes
The arn-tree,* wi' its feet amangst the burn.

Whiles, ye come ben the hoose when day is fleein'
And a' the the road oot-by is still at nicht,
But weary een like mine is no for seein',
An', gin they saw, they wad be blind wi' licht.

Deith canna kill. The mools o' France lie o'er ye,
An' let ye live, O sodger o' the Lord!
For him that focht wi' sin an' death afore ye,
He gie'd the life; t'was Him that gie'd the sword.

Tho', gin ye see my face, or gin ye hear me
I daurna' ask, I dinna seek to ken--------
E'en tho' I dee o' sic a glory near me,
By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!

*Alder tree

[Violet Jacob: Country Life, Saturday December 9th, Vol. XL, No. 1040, p. 694]


For Marina,
Dave

[marina]

Cheers, Dave! This is a wonderful piece by a very fine but somewhat neglected poet! So glad you came across it!
Marina

[marina]

Just did a quick google on Jacobs- she lost a son on the Somme, thus the poem i suppose. Makes it even more moving.

http://www.slainte.org.uk/scotauth/jacobdsw.htm

There's another poem mourning her son here:

http://www.litencyc.com/php/speople.php?re...ue&UID=5845

Marina

[mruk]

Thanks Marina,
This is an interesting thread, and who knows, I may become a convert. It does mean, though, that I will have to change all my previously-held beliefs about most poets and artists. [I'm sure there's still room for a little cynicism]

Cheers,
Dave

[Jan Nix]

Marina

Thanks for the link to Violet Jacob's poem, "The Field by the Lirk o' the Hill" Enjoyed it very much - would like it even more if you could help with a couple of words: what is a lirk, and what is the meaning of whaups?

Kind regards
Jan