Always liked this one. Do not know if it is a poem or a prayer or who wrote it.

*********************************

The Neutral.

" Brethern, how shall it fare with me when the war is laid aside, If it be proven that I am he For whom a world has died? If it be proven that all my good, And the greater good, I will make, Were purchased for me by a multitude Who suffered for my sake? That I was delivered by mere mankind, Vowed to one sacrifice, And not as I hold them, battle-blind, But dying with opened eyes? That they did not ask me to draw the sword When they stood to endure their lot, That they only looked to me for a word, And I answered I knew them not? If it be found, when the battle clears, Their death has set me free, Then how shall I live with myself through the years Which they have bought for me? Brethren, how must it fare with me, Or how am I justified, If it be proven that I am he For whom mankind has died; If it be proven that I am he Who being questioned denied?".

***************************************

It hits hard, no standing to one side with this one.

Liam

The poems of Wilfred Owen
Owen, Wilfred; Editor Stallworthy, Jon
London: Hogarth Press, 1988.

The greatest poets of the First World War. Winner of the MC,
Wilfred Owen fought and died in the Great War,a few days before The Armistice was signed.
46 poems and 11 fragments .Includes "Anthem for Doomed Youth,Dulce et Decorum".
******************************************************
COMPLETE POEMS.
Cotter, Joseph Seamon, Jr. (edited by James Robert Payne.)
Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1990.

The first collected edition of the poems of this young African American writer who died from tuberculosis at the age of 23. A precursor to the Harlem Renaissance, his poems deal with the effects of WWI on his people and on racial injustice. Included are seven recently discovered, and previously unpublished poems. *****************************************************************

Search www.abebooks.com if you are looking for a copy.

Liam

For Frev and Marina,
Have done some research on John Still, He was in the 6th East Yorkshires, dont know what rank, but he was at Suvla Bay when he was captured, given that the lower ranks werent treated too well I presume he must have been an Officer.
Anyway here the poem you asked for frev.

The Little Owl

In the dark when quiet reigns,
Through the night when all is still,
While the silence upon the plains,
I hear you hooting on the hill.
Though the snow lies over all,
Spring is in the note you call.


Weird and wild the song you sing,
Passing by with silent flight,
Calling to the coming spring
Through the darkness of the night.
First are you of birds to know
Love comes swift behind the snow.


Welcome to your hopeful song,
for the message that you bring.
Were old winter twice as strong,
Yield he must before young spring;
As the bitter night of sorrow
Flies before the sun tomorrow.

Written at a place called " Afion Kara Hissar"

The first few verses from The Ballad of Suvla Bay.

The Landing

A bell rang in the engine room,
And with the ceasing of the sound
Small noises sprang to life all around.
Across the water, in the glom,
We saw the coast like a long low mound.


The water babbled along the hull,
The scent of thyme was in the air,
Borne from the shore just over there,
And in that momentary lill
To me the world seemed very fair.


The sweetly-scented starlit hills
Breathed of bees and summer flowers
Dreaming throughthe midnight hours,
While fates slow grinding mills
Rolled their resistless powers.


Suddenly the shots rang out, and flashes
Shattered the dark with stabbing stings,
And bullets borne on whistleing wings
Rang on the hull, or made small splashes
Like living ,eager,evil things.


Then a rally of shots cut the air,
A rattle and then a shout;
And we who looked eagerly out
Heard the roar of a British cheer,
So we knew the Yorkshires were there.


Theres another 36 verses if anyone would like more let me know
it would have to be done a few at a time

Len

I wouldn't mind a few more verses of that, Len, when you have the time. The description of the 'starlit hills' contrasted with the 'living eager evil things' was striking - and I get the feeling he has a whole story to tell.
Marina

BTW, Len - THANKS!
Marina

Liam

It's a poem by Rudyard Kipling, written in 1916, and also known by the title "The Question".

Len

When the crew from the AE2 (Aussie submarine) were captured they were first jailed in Constantinople / Istanbul, and then, along with other Aussie, British & French troops - "ferried across the Bosphorus, then put on a train destined for the prisoner of war camp at Afyonkarahisar, a small town in Anatolia. The camp housed Russian as well as Gallipoli prisoners, but its numbers were never large as neither side took many prisoners on Gallipoli."
[from 'A Turkish View of Gallipoli - Canakkale']

It's good to see that the Owl could bring John hope - in what must have seemed a hopeless situation.

I'd also like to hear more (all, if possible) of the Ballad of Suvla Bay - when you've got the time.

Frev.

Thank's Frev, always wondered.
Always thought it had to with the sea war and neutral ships/countries but now I am having to have a rethink.

Liam

If anybody is interested in Wilfred Owen works I can post or email the following poems;

· Strange Meeting
· Greater Love
· Apologia pro Poemate Meo
· The Show
· Mental Cases
· Parable of the Old Men and the Young
· Arms and the Boy
· Anthem for Doomed Youth
· The Send−off
· Insensibility
· Dulce et Decorum est
· The Sentry
· The Dead−Beat
· Exposure
· Spring Offensive
· The Chances
· S. I. W.
· Futility
· Smile, Smile, Smile
· Conscious
· A Terre
· Wild with all Regrets
· Disabled
· The End

Wilfred Owen was born at Oswestry on 18th March 1893. He was educated at the Birkenhead Institute, matriculated at London University in 1910. In 1913 he obtained a private tutorship near Bordeaux, where he remained until 1915. During this period he became acquainted with the eminent French poet, Laurent Tailhade, to whom he showed his early verses, and from whom he received considerable encouragement.
In 1915, in spite of delicate health, he joined the Artists' Rifles O.T.C., was gazetted to the Manchester Regiment, and served with their 2nd Battalion in France from December 1916 to June 1917, when he was invalided home. Fourteen months later he returned to the Western Front and served with the same Battalion, ultimately commanding a Company.
He was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry while taking part in some heavy fighting on 1st October. He was killed on 4th November 1918, while endeavouring to get his men across the Sambre Canal.

Liam

Rudyard Kipling is not normally thought of as a WWI poet, but he did some very moving pieces about the war. His products run the entire range of attitudes discussed above. His first one "For all we have and are" was in the patriotic, anti-German mood of 1914. Later, he showed all of the understanding and compassion for the individual soldier and thier families which his earlier works show so well. In 1915 his works began to show the anti-politician and anti-General Staff attitude of so many poets of that period, exemplified by one called "Mesopotamia". His work became more evocative and sadder after the death of his only son John at the Battle of Loos. Some of his poems are very evocative, but hard to understand, such as "Gethsemene" and "A Death-Bed".

Perhaps my favorite though, is "The Children"

These were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight.
We have only the memory left of their home-treasured sayings and laughter.
The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another's hereafter.
Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it. That is our right.
But who will return us the children?

At the hour the Barbarian chose to disclose his pretences,
And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us,
The first felon-stroke of the sword he had long-prepared for us--
Their bodies were all our defence while we wrought our defences.

They bought us anew with their blood, forbearing to blame us,
Those hours which we had not made good when the Judgement o'ercame us.
They believed us and perished for it. Our statecraft, our learning
Delivered them bound to the Pit and alive to the burning
Wither they mirthfully hastened as jostling for honor--
Not since her birth has our Earth seen such worth loosed upon her.

Nor was their agony brief, or once only imposed on them.
The wounded, the war-spent, the sick received no exemption;
Being cured they returned and endured and achieved our redemption,
Hopeless themselves of relief, till Death, marvelling closed on them.

That Flesh we had nursed from the first in all cleanliness was given
To Corruption unveiled and assailed by the malice of Heaven
By the heart-shaking jests of Decay where it lolled on the wires--
To be blanched or gay-painted by fumes-- to be cindered by fires--
From crater to crater. For this we shall take expiation.

But, who shall return us our children?

Another of his works, "The Mother's Son", depicts the plight of a mental casualty of the war.

I have a dream-- a dreadful dream--
A dream that is never done.
I watch a man go out of his mind,
And he is My Mother's Son.

They pushed him into a Mental Home,
And that is like the grave:
Fort they do not let you sleep upstairs,
And you aren't allowed to shave.

And it was not disease or crime
Which got him landed there,
But because They laid on My Mother's Son,
More than a man could bear.

What with noise, and fear of death,
Waking and wounds and cold,
They filled the Cup for My Mother's Son
Further than it could hold.

They broke his body and his mind
And yet They made him live,
And They asked more of My Mother's Son
Than any man could give.

For, just because he had not died,
Nor been discharged nor sick.
They dragged it out with My Mother's Son
Longer than he could stick....

And no one knows when he'll get well--
So, there he'll have to be;
And, 'spite of the beard in the looking-glass,
I know that man is me!


If you are looking at WWI poets, Kipling is well worth looking into. Doc2

frev, A few more verses of Suvla Bay


Then at last it was our turn to land
From the slow panting barge, crammed as tight
As a theatre, and all full of fight
We sprang out on the enemy strand,
In the dark of that wonderful night.


Deep in my mind and ever bright
Remains that first impress of war;
The feeling of that foreign shore;
The sounds, the scents, the starry night;
Fresh from that hour for evermore.


The breath of the thyme that we crushed;
The bodies that lay as in sleep,
The noises that made our hearts leap
When we thought we were going to be rushed
As the slow paced columns creep.


The rumbling gunsof Sed-ul-Bahr
Roared and muttered, we heard the crash
Of high explosive, and saw the flash
That lit the hills with magnesium star
To guard from a sudden dash.


But these were all to far away
To claim our wonder very long;
The glow in the east was waxing strong
And we knew that with the dawning day
We should join in the deep-voiced song.

The end of the first stanza of Suvla Bay "The Landing".
The next one is called "SHRAPNELL"

Len

That goes well with 'The Reward' , Doc

Liam - my favourote line in all the war poems is from owen's #Anthem For Doomed Youth' :
'Not in the nands of boys but in their eyes shall shine the holy glimmer of goodbyes'
marina

Len - good to see one that is so obviously a first hand account. He must have sat and recalled every moment in that POW camp.
Marina

The Watchers Edmund Blunden

I heard the challenge "Who goes there?"
Close kept but mine through midnight air
I answered and was recognized
And passed, and kindly thus advised;
"There's someone crawling though the grass
By the red ruin, or there was,
And them machine guns been a firin'
All the time the chaps was wirin',
So Sir if you're goin' out
You'll keep you 'ead well down no doubt."

When will the stern fine "Who goes there?"
Meet me again in midnight air?
And the gruff sentry's kindness, when
Will kindness have such power again?
It seems as, now I wake and brood,
And know my hour's decreptitude,
That on some dewy parapet
the sentry's spirit gazes yet,
Who will not speak with altered tone
When I am last am seem and known.


Butchers and Tombs Ivor Gurney

After so much bettering of fire and steel
It had seemed well to cover them with Cotswold stone-
And shortly praising their courage and quick skill
Leave them buried, hidden till the slow, inevitable
Change should make them service of France alone.
But the time's hurry, the commonness of the tale,
Made it a thing not fitting ceremonial.
And so the disregarders of blister on heel,
Pack on shoulder, barrage and work at the wires,
One wooden cross had for ensign of honour and life
gone-
Save when the Gloucesters turning sudden to tell to one
Some joke, would remember and say-"That joke is done,"
Since he who would understand was so cold he could not feel,
And clay binds hard, and sandbags get rotten and crumble.


In Memoriam Edward Thomas

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts,
Should
Have gathered them and will never do again.



Also Lamplight by May Wedderbern Cannon.

I've lawyas thought that Blunden has been seriously underrated - some of his stuff is very fine indeed.
Marina

1916 seen from 1921


Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day,
I sit in solitude and only hear
Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay,
The lost intensities of hope and fear;
In those old marshes yet the rifles lie,
On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags,
The very books I read are there—and I
Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags

Its wounded length from those sad streets of war
Into green places here, that were my own;
But now what once was mine is mine no more,
I seek such neighbours here and I find none.
With such strong gentleness and tireless will
Those ruined houses seared themselves in me,
Passionate I look for their dumb story still,
And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.

I rise up at the singing of a bird
And scarcely knowing slink along the lane,
I dare not give a soul a look or word
Where all have homes and none’s at home in vain:
Deep red the rose burned in the grim redoubt,
The self-sown wheat around was like a flood,
In the hot path the lizard lolled time out,
The saints in broken shrines were bright as blood.

Sweet Mary’s shrine between the sycamores!
There we would go, my friend of friends and I,
And snatch long moments from the grudging wars,
Whose dark made light intense to see them by.
Shrewd bit the morning fog, the whining shots
Spun from the wrangling wire: then in warm swoon
The sun hushed all but the cool orchard plots,
We crept in the tall grass and slept till noon.

Edmund Blunden

Any chance of posting it, Len?
Marina

Len,

Thanks for the last installment of Suvla - only 31 verses to go!!
Looking forward to "Shrapnell".

Cheers, Frev.

Note to Larneman: "The Question", by Kipling, was not about the neutral ships at sea, but was his attack on President Wilson's refusal to get America into the war early on.... Doc2

extracted fromhttp://www.thenortheast.com/archives/UserGuides/20_WW1.html

North Tyneside

Wor Contemptible British Army and The Big Push, two poems printed in aid of the Nurse Cavell Memorial Fund for Disabled Nurses DBC 1845/362

Poem about Kaiser Wilhelm, Is There Anyone I've Forgot DF/WF/22/1

Tyne & Wear Archives Service
Blandford House
Blandford Square
Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 4JA
United Kingdom

Who wrote these poems?

Liam

Do you have copies of the poems, Liam?
Marina

No Marina,

I am thinking of ordering some other WW1 stuff from them and if these are special poems I was thinking of ordering copies of these documents as well.

Liam

Nice site with poems from "Lost Poets" :

Rupert Brooke
John McCrae
Wilfred Owen
Isaac Rosenberg
Alan Seeger
Edward Thomas


click here==> Lost Poets

Liam

John Buchan is one of my favourite writers.

This is his poem "On Leave"


I had auchteen months o' the war,
Steel and pouther and reek,
Fitsore, weary and wauf, -
Syne I got hame for a week.

Daft-like I entered the toun,
I scarcely kenned for my ain.
I sleepit twae days in my bed,
The third I buried my wean.

The wife sat greetin' at hame,
While I wandered oot to the hill,
My hert as cauld as a stane,
But my heid gaun roond like a mill.

I wasna the man I had been, -
Juist a gangrel dozin' in fits; -
The pin had faun oot o' the warld,
And I doddered amang the bits.

I clamb to the Lammerlaw
And sat me doun on the cairn; -
The best o' my freends were deid,
And noo I had buried my bairn; -

The stink o' the gas in my nose,
The colour o' bluid in my ee,
And the biddin' o' Hell in my lug
To curse my Maker and dee.

But up in that gloamin' hour,
On the heather and thymy sod,
Wi' the sun gaun down in the Wast
I made my peace wi' God...

I saw a thoosand hills,
Green and gowd i' the licht,
Roond and backit like sheep,
Huddle into the nicht.

But I kenned they werena hills,
But the same as the mounds ye see
Doun by the back o' the line
Whaur they bury oor lads that dee.

They were juist the same as at Loos
Whaur we happit Andra and Dave. -
There was naething in life but death,
And a' the warld was a grave.

A' the hills were graves,
The graves o' the deid langsyne,
And somewhere oot in the Wast
Was the grummlin' battle-line.

But up frae the howe o' the glen
Came the waft o' the simmer een.
The stink gaed oot o' my nose,
And I sniffed it, caller and clean.

The smell o' the simmer hills,
Thyme and hinny and heather,
Jeniper, birk and fern,
Rose in the lown June weather.

It minded me o' auld days,
When I wandered barefit there,
Guddlin' troot in the burns,
Howkin' the tod frae his lair.

If a' the hills were graves
There was peace for the folk aneath
And peace for the folk abune,
And life in the hert o' death . ..

Up frae the howe o' the glen
Cam the murmur o' wells that creep
To swell the heids o' the burns,
And the kindly voices o' sheep.

And the cry o' a whaup on the wing,
And a plover seekin' its bield. -
And oot o' my crazy lugs
Went the din o' the battlefield.

I flang me doun on my knees
And I prayed as my hert wad break,
And I got my answer sune,
For oot o' the nicht God spake.

As a man that wauks frae a stound
And kens but a single thocht,
Oot o' the wind and the nicht
I got the peace that I socht.

Loos and the Lammerlaw,
The battle was feucht in baith,
Death was roond and abune,
But life in the hert o' death.

A' the warld was a grave,
But the grass on the graves was green,
And the stanes were bields for hames,
And the laddies played atween.

Kneelin' aside the cairn
On the heather and thymy sod,
The place I had kenned as a bairn,
I made my peace wi' God.

John Buchan (1916)

Excellent , Derek - I've never seen that one before. All the more powerful somehow for being written in Scots.
'A' the world's a grave' -

shudder!
Marina

Dear all.This says it all for me.

KILLED IN ACTION.
Rupert is dead,and Rupert was my friend;
"Only surviving son of"-and so it ran-
"Beloved husband" and the rest of it.
But six months back I saw him full of life,
Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease
In some obscure but splendid field of France
His strivings over and his conflicts done.
He was a fellow of most joyous moods
And quaint contrivings,ever on the point
Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand.
But always baulked at meeting them at last.
He could not brook- and always so declared
The weak pomposities of little men,
Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world,
And plunged headlong into imprudences,
And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal,
Holding his luck and not himself to blame
For aught that might betide when reckoning came.
But he was true as steel and staunch as oak.
And if he pledged his word he bore it out
Unswerving to the finish and he gave
Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.

When the great summons came he rushed to arms.
Counting no cost and all intent to serve
His country to prove himself a man.
Yet he could laugh at all his ardour too
And find some fun in glory as a child
Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well.
Now he is fall'n and on his shining brow
Glory has set her everlasting seal.

I like to think how cheerily he talked
Amid the ceasless tumult of the guns,
How, when the word was given, he stood erect,
Sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men,
Led them forthright to where the sullen foe
Waited their coming: and his brain took fire,
And all was exultation and a high
Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy.
"Forward!" his cry rang out and all his men
Thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze.
"Forward for England! Clear the beggars out!
Remember-" and death found him, and he fell
Fronting the Germans, and the rush swept on.

Thrice blessed fate! We linger here and droop
Beneath the heavy burden of our years,
And may not, though we envy,give our lives
For England and for honour and for right:
But still must wear our weary hours away,
While he, that happy fighter, in one leap,
From imperfection to perfection borne,
Breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth.
Now of his failures is a triumph made:
His very faults are into virtues turned:
And, rest for ever from the haunts of men,
He wears immortal honour and is joined
With those who fought for England and are dead.



This was written by Rudolph Chambers Lehmann circa 1915.

Regards Steve.

Marina,

There is to be a professionaly performed and recorded version of some Buchan war poetry available on cd this year. Watch this space.

Thanks, Derek - don't forget to post details. I really would be interested in hearing that cd. I've read Buchan's books but has no idea he wrote such powerful poetry.

This is my favourite Buchan poem:


Home Thoughts From Abroad

Aifter the war, says the papers, they’ll no be content at hame,
The lads that hae feucht wi’ death twae ‘ear I’ the mud and the rain and the snaw:
For aifter a sodger’s life the shop will be unco tame:
They’ll ettle at fortune and freedom in the new lands far awa’.

No me!
By God! No me!
Aince we hae lickit oor faes
And aince I get oot o’ this hell
For the rest o’ my leevin’ days
I’ll mak a pet o’ mysel’.
I’ll haste me back wi’ an Eident fit
And settle again in the same auld bit.
And oh! The comfort to snowk again
The reek o’ my mither’s but-and-ben,
The wee box-bed and the ingle neuk
And the kail-pat hung frae the chimley-heuk!
I’ll gang back to the shop like a laddie to play,
Tak doun the shutters at skreigh o’ day,
And weigh oot floor wi’ a carefu’ pride,
And hear the clash o’ the contraside.
I’ll wear for ordinar’ a roond hard hat,
A collar and dicky and black cravat.
If the weather’s wat I’ll no stir ootbye
Wi’oot an umbrella to keep me dry.
I think I’d better no tak a wife –
I’ve had a’ the adventure I want in life. –
But a nicht, when the doors are steeked, I’ll sit,
While the bleeze loups high frae the aiken ruit,
And smoke my pipe aside the crook.
And read in some douce auld-farrant book;
Or crack wi’ Davie and mix a rummer,
While the auld wife’s pow nid-nods in slum’er;
And hark to the winds gaun tearin’ bye
And thank the Lord I’m sae warm and dry.

When simmer brings the lang bricht e’en,
I’ll dauner doun to the bowling-green,
Or delve my yaird and my roses tend
For the big floo’er-show in the next back-end.
Whiles, when the sun blinks aifter rain,
I’ll tak my rod and gang up the glen:
Me and Davie, we ken the pules
Whaur the troot grow great in the hows o’ the hills:
And, wanderin’ back when the gloamin’ fa’s
And the midges dance in the hazel shaws,
We’ll stop at the yet ayont the hicht
And drink great wauchts o’ the scented nicht,
While the hoose lamps kin’le raw by raw
And a yellow star hings ower the law.
Davie will lauch like a wean at a fair
And nip my airm to make certain shure
That we’re back frae yon place o’ dule and dreid,
To oor ain kind warld –

But Davie’s deid!
Nae mair gude nor ill can betide him.
We happit him doun by Beaumont toun,
And the half o’ my hert’s in the mools aside him.

John Buchan's brother, Alistair died of wound at Arras in 1917.
He wrote a poem to his brothers memory.

That's a lovely poem. Interesting that in both poems, he is hopeful of the future, able to come to terms with things in his own way. His account of what he'll do at home is SO beautiful. Quite different from some of the hopeless despair of other war poets.

'We happit him doun ....'

A wonderful line.

How many parents who can speak the above vernacular have used the line to a child ... 'away up tae bed and I'll be up tae happ ye in.'?

Double emotional whammy.

Des

It is indeed. Just read the poem again - it really is most powerful in its restrained way.
Marina

Dear Marina.
I agree entirely with you about the Buchan poems. In a different vein I found this yesterday, but I don't have any accreditation for it.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THOMAS.

In Summer we suffered from dust an' from flies,
The flies in our rations, the dust in our eyes,
And some of our fellows they drooped in the 'eat
But the Bosche,oh, the Bosch, was perspirin' a treat.

There were times when we longed for a tankard o' beer,
Bein' sick o' warm water- our tipple out 'ere
But our tongues might be furry an' throats like a flue,
Yet it's nothin' to wot the fat Bosches went through.

Now Winter is 'ere with the wet an' the cold
An' our rifles an' kit are a sight to be'old,
An' in trenches that's flooded we tumble an' splosh,
"Wot cheer?" we remarks, it's the same for the Bosch

If were standin' in two feet of water ,you see,
Quite likely the Bosches are standin' in three;
An' though the keen frost may be ticklin' our toes,
Oo doubts that the Bosches 'ole bodies is froze.

Are we sleepy or sick or 'arf dead for a meal?
Just think of 'ow underfed Bosches must feel!
Are we badly in need of a shave or a wash?
Consider the 'orrible state of the Bosch!

So 'ere's our philosophy simple an' plain,
Wotever we 'ates in the bloomin' campaign,
Tis balm to our souls, as we grumble an' cuss,
To feel that the Bosches are 'atin it wuss.


Not perhaps written with the eloquence of Graves or Buchan!!! but at least there seemed to be some humour there as well.As our man Thomas suggests that if the grass isn't greener on the other side, maybe the mud was browner!
Regards Steve.

Yes, it is a good one, Steve - spirited and full of character and humour. I don't think I've seen this one before - maybe someone will be able to identify it for us. I tried a google of the title and the first line, but no joy. Still, it speaks for itself, doesn't it?
Marina

(1) Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Breakfast (1914)

We ate our breakfast lying on our backs
Because the shells were screeching overhead.
I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread
That Hull United would beat Halifax
When Jimmy Stainthorpe played full-back instead
Of Billy Bradford. Ginger raised his head
And cursed, and took the bet, and dropt back dead.
We ate our breakfast lying on our backs
Because the shells were stretching overhead.



(2) Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Mad (1914)

Neck-deep in mud,
He mowed and raved -
He who had braved The field of blood -
And as a lad
Just out of school
Yelled - April Fool!
And laughed like mad.



(3) Wilfred Wilson Gibson, Lament (1916)

We who are left, how shall we look again
Happily on the sun or feel the rain
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly and spent
Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings -
But we, how shall we turn to little things
And listen to the birds and winds and streams
Made holy by their dreams,
Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

Dear Marina
I've found the author of The Philosophy of Thomas. It was R.A.Thorold, but can't find any info at the moment.Perhaps someone will oblige.Here is a great poem by Miss C.Fox Smith,who was well known for nautical stuff.

THE CONVERSATION BOOK.

I 'ave a conversation book; I brought it out from 'ome,
It tells the French for knife an' fork an' likewise brush an' comb:
It learns you 'ow to ast the time, the names of all the stars,
An' 'ow to order hoysters, an' 'ow to buy cigars.

But there ain't no shops to shop in, there ain't no grand hotels,
When you spend your days in dugouts doin' 'closal trade in shells;
It's nice to know the proper talk fer theatres an' such,
But when it comes to talkin', why, it doesn't help you much.

There's all them friendly kind o' things you'd naturally say
When you meet a feller casual-like an' pass the time of day.
Them little things as break the ice an' kind of clears the air'
Which when you turn the phrase book up ,why,them things ain't there!

I met a chap the other day a-rootin' in a trench,
'E didn't know a word of ours, nor me a word of French:
An' 'ow it was we managed,well, I cannot understand,
But I never used the phrase book, though I 'ad it in my 'and,

I winked at 'im to start with: 'e grinned from ear to ear,
An' 'e says "Tipperary", an' I say "Sooveneer"
'E 'ad my only Woodbine, I 'ad 'is thin cigar,
Which set the ball a-rollin' an' so- well there you are!

I showed 'im next my wife an' kids, 'e up 'an showed me 'is
Them little funny Frenchy kids with 'air all in a frizz:
"Annette" 'e says, Louise 'e says, an' 'is tears began to fall,
We was comrades when we parted, but we'd 'ardly spoke at all.

'E'd 'ave kissed me if i'd let 'im, we 'ad never met before,
An' I've never seen the beggar since, for that's the way o' war:
An' though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same
If e'll ever see them kids of 'is...... I never ast 'is name!



That speaks for itself really.I dont know if anybody has listed this before but in looking up C.Fox Smith I came across this site. Sorry if it's been mentioned before, but do try

http://cti.library.emory.edu/greatwar/index.html

There's some great stuff on there. Regards Steve.

http://cti.library.emory.edu/greatwar/index.html

There's some great stuff on there. Regards Steve. [/QUOTE]
There is indeed, Steve, thanks - it's a new site to me.
I liked the Fox Smith poem - so simply written and yet it has layers and layers of things to say. Touching too. Keep 'em coming!
Can't find anyhitng about Thorold on the internet either - anyone know him?
marina

Steve - just had a browse through the postcards on that site you mentioned - very interesting. I liked The Kaiser's Dream!
Marina

A Poem from 'The Camp Magazine'
published by interned soldiers of the Royal Naval Brigade in Groningen Holland
from Issue no. 1 - April 1915

As weary once thro' Belgium I strode
Along the ancient cobbled road,
With tall dark trees on either side,
Suddenly a house there I espied.
Outside there stood an old, old, man,
His clothes were bare, his features wan,
Still he stood with concious pride,
With no sign of fear, no wish to hide,
While ever before him there passed along
The refugees - a silent throng.
I too, passed on my way,
But he stood firm, come what may.
Deep in thought I wondered why
He preferred to stay, perhaps to die.

Home - memories - and all those
That make the lives of peasants and Kings,
Better the bricks in a mould'ring cot,
Than to go away from this sacred spot.
Old man! Old man! A moral you taught,
Be firm in trouble: have strength in thought.

R. D. FIELDER.

http://www.greatwardifferent.com/Great_War...Refugees_00.htm

Fielder sounds the type who would be firm and strong - I hope so.
marina

Dear Marina. I agree about the Kaiser's Dream. Seems like plenty of irony in peoples thoughts at that time.
The good thing about the Emory.edu site is that I don't have to type them all out!!!
I liked My Son by Ada Tyrrell and The Dead by Sigourney Thayer. Regards Steve.

Liked the Thayer - not so keen on Tyrell - funny rhythm to it. Lot of names on that site - going to take ages to browse them all! Any other faves?
Marina

Dear Marina. Only chose those two because they were different. It will take as long to go thru them all as Jules will take with his diary. Regards Steve.P.S. How about broadening the subject out a bit by adding any funny or unusual articles from that time,especially any social history stuff. Steve

Pacifist War Song - 1917
by H.P. Lovecraft
We are the valiant Knights of Peace
Who prattle for the Right:
Our banner is of snowy fleece,
Inscrib’d: "TOO PROUD TO FIGHT!"
By sweet Chautauqua’s flow’ry banks
We love to sing and play,
But should we spy a foeman’s ranks!
We’d proudly run away!
When Prussian fury sweeps the main
Our freedom to deny;
Of tyrant laws we ne’er complain;
But gladsomely comply!
We do not fear the submarines
That plough the troubled foam;
We scorn the ugly old machines -
And safely stay at home!
They say our country’s close to war
And soon must man the guns;
But we see naught to struggle for -
We love the gentle Huns!
What though their hireling Greaser bands
Invade our southern plains?
We well can spare those boist’rous lands,
Content with what remains!
Our fathers were both rude and bold,
And would not live like brothers;
But we are of a finer mould -
We’re much more like our mothers!

What scorn!
Marina

Sorry Marina ,

Just adding another view as a bit of "social history stuff". I think to remember reading that a lot of people still supported the "lads" but had more than enough of the war. This lot just did not like any form of war. It is not my taste of poety or song.

Liam

He's just having a go - probably represents a commonly held view of pacifists at the time, so it is one aspect of social commentary. Absolutely withering!
Marina

I forgot to add he was an american. A noted writer of strange stories, as well as poems, etc.

HOWARD PHILLIPS LOVECRAFT (20 August 1890–15 March 1937)

click here==>H.P. Lovecraft

Liam

I knew of his prose writing - but as with Buchan, had no idea he wrote poetry too! You live and learn!
marina