Adam Fenner's Blog, page 11

Counter-Attack and Other Poems – Reviewed

Siegfried Sassoon

COUNTER-ATTACK

We’d gained our first objective hours before
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes,
Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.
Things seemed all right at first. We held their line,
With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed,
And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench.
    The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs
    High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps;
    And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,
    Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;
    And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,
    Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime.
    And then the rain began,—the jolly old rain!

A yawning soldier knelt against the bank,
Staring across the morning blear with fog;
He wondered when the Allemands would get busy;
And then, of course, they started with five-nines
Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud.
Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst
Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell,
While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke.
He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear,
Sick for escape,—loathing the strangled horror
And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead.

An officer came blundering down the trench:
“Stand-to and man the fire-step!” On he went …
Gasping and bawling, “Fire-step … counter-attack!”
    Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right
    Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left;
    And stumbling figures looming out in front.
    “O Christ, they’re coming at us!” Bullets spat,
And he remembered his rifle … rapid fire …

And started blazing wildly … then a bang
Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out
To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked
And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom,
Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans …
Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned,
Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed.

THE FATHERS

Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.
One of them said: “My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.
But Arthur’s getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine-inch gun.”

“Yes,” wheezed the other, “that’s the luck!
My boy’s quite broken-hearted, stuck
In England training all this year.
Still, if there’s truth in what we hear,
The Huns intend to ask for more
  Before they bolt across the Rhine.”
I watched them toddle through the door—
  These impotent old friends of mine.

THE GENERAL

“Good-morning; good-morning!” the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
“He’s a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
        * * * * *
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

THE TRIUMPH

When life was a cobweb of stars for Beauty who came
  In the whisper of leaves or a bird’s lone cry in the glen,
On dawn-lit hills and horizons girdled with flame
  I sought for the triumph that troubles the faces of men.

With death in the terrible flickering gloom of the fight
  I was cruel and fierce with despair; I was naked and bound;
  was stricken: and Beauty returned through the shambles of night;
  In the faces of men she returned; and their triumph I found.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find the complete collectiong preserved as a part of the Gutenberg project here.

These poems are a part of a collection Counter-Attack and Other Poems, and can be found on Goodreads here, with this review posted here.

Analysis

Siegfried Sassoon’s Counter-Attack and Other Poems offers a harsh, unvarnished look at war, especially World War I. Written from his experience as a soldier in the trenches, Sassoon’s poems cut through the myths of heroism and glory that were so often associated with war. Instead, he paints a picture of soldiers who are physically and mentally scarred, caught in an endless cycle of violence and trauma. These poems aren’t just about the horrors of battle—they’re about the toll war takes on people, both during and long after it’s over.

One of the most striking themes in Counter-Attack is the sense of futility. War doesn’t make anyone a hero; it strips people down to their basic instincts for survival. In poems like Dreamers, Sassoon shows soldiers who once had hopes and dreams, but now they’ve been reduced to mere survivors, “citizens of death’s grey land.” What they remember of home—the warmth of a firelit room or a clean bed—feels impossibly far away. The soldiers’ lives before the war seem distant, and now all that matters is getting through each day. There’s no glory in it, just the grim reality of trying to stay alive.

This sense of chaos and disorientation is mirrored in the structure of Sassoon’s poetry. Many of the poems are fragmented, with short, jarring lines that reflect the unstable, unpredictable nature of the soldier’s world. In Counter-Attack, for example, Sassoon shifts abruptly from one scene to the next—one moment, soldiers are fighting in the trenches, and the next, they’re retreating or reflecting on the carnage. The unevenness of the rhythm and the fractured lines make it feel like the reader is trapped in the confusion and terror of the front lines. This style isn’t just a formal choice; it’s an attempt to capture what the soldiers go through mentally and emotionally. The world around them is chaotic, and so are their thoughts.

The tone of Sassoon’s poetry is bitter and disillusioned. There’s no romanticizing of war in these poems—only anger, frustration, and sorrow. In Base Details, for example, Sassoon targets the officers who stay safe behind the front lines while sending young soldiers to die. Through sharp sarcasm, he paints a picture of an officer who takes pleasure in his comfortable position, indifferent to the suffering of those he commands. Similarly, in The General, Sassoon mocks the incompetence of military leadership, showing how a general’s mistakes can lead to the deaths of his men. There’s no sense of honor or nobility in these men’s actions, only a dangerous disconnect between the people who make the decisions and the soldiers who pay the price.

But it’s not all anger. Sassoon also captures the quiet, haunting moments of despair that soldiers face. In How to Die, for example, the idea of death isn’t romanticized or even feared. Instead, the soldier accepts it as part of his duty, as though it’s just another step in a cycle that never ends. It’s almost a resignation, a recognition that death in war has been stripped of its meaning and is just something that happens. In Wirers, the soldiers are reduced to mechanical beings, numb and exhausted, but still carrying out their work under constant threat of death. There’s no escape from the madness of war—they can’t stop, and they can’t look away.

The emotional toll of war is also central to Sassoon’s poetry. Many of the soldiers in his poems are physically alive but emotionally shattered. In Survivors, Sassoon paints a picture of men who have made it through the battle but are left haunted by the violence they’ve witnessed. They are “grim and glad” on the outside, but on the inside, they are lost, forever changed by the horrors they’ve seen. In Repression of War Experience, the soldier tries to suppress the memories of war, but they keep creeping back, always there, “whispering” in the background. This constant trauma is what Sassoon emphasizes—the way war doesn’t just kill bodies, it breaks minds.

One of Sassoon’s most striking critiques is aimed at those who are untouched by the war. In The Fathers, he shows the civilians back home who, though they may express sympathy, are too far removed from the reality of the war to understand what the soldiers are going through. They have their own romanticized ideas about the war, believing that their sons are fighting for a noble cause. But these people don’t see the truth of what’s happening on the front lines. Similarly, in Does It Matter?, Sassoon highlights the indifference of society to the suffering of soldiers, both physical and psychological. The poem’s repetitive structure, with its dismissive answers to the speaker’s questions, shows how society continues to move on while the soldiers are left behind to deal with the lasting scars of war.

Yet, even with all the anger and sadness, Sassoon’s poems are not without moments of humanity. In The Triumph, for example, amidst the chaos of battle, there are brief glimpses of connection. Despite everything, the soldiers retain their humanity, finding small moments of beauty and meaning in each other’s faces. This tension between the dehumanizing effects of war and the moments of humanity that still survive is part of what makes Sassoon’s poetry so powerful. Even in the darkest circumstances, the soldiers are still people, still capable of feeling and connecting in small ways.

Ultimately, Counter-Attack and Other Poems is a stark, unflinching critique of war. Sassoon doesn’t just show the physical destruction of battle—he dives deep into the psychological toll it takes on soldiers, the trauma that follows them long after they leave the front lines. Through vivid imagery, sharp irony, and fragmented structure, he forces readers to confront the truth of war, rejecting the sanitized versions of battle that society often clings to. The soldiers in these poems are not heroic warriors, but broken men trying to survive in a world that has lost its sense of meaning. The collection is a powerful reminder of the real cost of war—not just in lives lost, but in the emotional and mental scars that never fade.

Photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash

Before Action – Reviewed

Leon Gellert

We always had to do our work at night.
I wondered why we had to be so sly.
I wondered why we couldn’t have our fight
Under the open sky.

I wondered why I always felt so cold.
I wondered why the orders seemed so slow,
So slow to come, so whisperingly told,
So whisperingly low.

I wondered if my packing-straps were tight,
And wondered why I wondered……Sound
went wild………
and order came…… I ran into the night,
wondering why I smiled.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

Leon Gellert’s “Before Action” captures the mental space of a soldier just before heading into combat, focusing on the questions and discomforts that preoccupy his mind rather than the violence itself. The poem doesn’t dwell on fear, but instead explores the soldier’s questioning of his situation—his discomfort with the cold, the darkness, the tightness of his pack—and his confusion when he feels excitement in the face of danger. Gellert’s approach avoids romanticizing war, instead highlighting how the soldier’s internal thoughts and small physical details shape his emotional response to the moment before battle.

The soldier is not afraid, but he is unsettled. His thoughts are filled with questions, like why they have to operate at night or why the orders come so slowly and quietly. The cold he feels is not just a physical sensation but a symbol of the discomfort and isolation of waiting for something he knows is coming but can’t control. His mind lingers on the small details, wondering if his packing straps are tight enough or if the situation is as it should be. These small, uncertain questions are what occupy him in the moments before action, not the fight itself.

There’s a focus on time throughout the poem—specifically, the slow, drawn-out feeling of waiting. The orders come “so slow to come,” almost whispering into the night, stretching out the anticipation. The soldier’s mind is consumed by the waiting, by the uncertainty of when things will happen, how they will unfold, and whether he is truly ready. The act of waiting itself becomes uncomfortable, and the soldier tries to find control in small ways, like adjusting his pack. It’s as though he’s trying to make sure the physical world around him is in order because the larger, uncontrollable event is drawing near.

Then, when the moment finally arrives, everything changes. The soldier’s thoughts shift from wondering about the situation to reacting to the chaos as the “Sound went wild” and orders finally come. He runs into the night, but instead of fear, there’s a smile on his face—a smile that he himself doesn’t fully understand. This smile isn’t about joy or triumph; it’s a response to something deeper, something instinctive, tied to the anticipation of the fight that’s finally arrived. It’s an excitement he can’t explain, a mix of confusion and readiness, suggesting that despite the danger ahead, there’s a part of him that’s eager for it. The smile becomes a symbol of the soldier’s complex relationship to the war. He knows what he’s about to face, but he’s not sure why he feels the way he does about it.

The shift in tone mirrors the soldier’s internal change. The first few stanzas are full of wondering and questioning, but the final stanza breaks that pattern. The structure becomes fragmented, matching the soldier’s shift from a mental space of uncertainty to the physical reality of the mission. The line “I wondered why I wondered…Sound went wild…” marks the transition from introspective questioning to the rush of action. This break in rhythm reflects the disorienting shift from mental unease to physical action, and the sense that the soldier, in spite of his earlier confusion, is now fully engaged in what is happening around him.

The smile at the end doesn’t offer a clear answer. It doesn’t signal triumph or resolution; instead, it highlights the complexity of human emotions when faced with something so momentous. It’s a mix of excitement and confusion, of knowing what’s to come but not fully understanding why he feels the way he does about it. The soldier isn’t overwhelmed by fear or dread, but rather caught up in a moment that’s both thrilling and unnerving, a contradiction he can’t quite explain.

Gellert’s poem ultimately shows that preparation for war is as much about the psychological state of the soldier as it is about physical readiness. The discomfort of the wait—the cold, the tight straps, the delayed orders—becomes as significant as the fight itself. The soldier’s confusion about his own feelings emphasizes the internal conflict of being on the edge of something traumatic. There’s a strange, almost unsettling excitement in his reaction to the moment of action. The poem doesn’t offer easy answers or resolutions but instead invites the reader to reflect on the complexity of human responses to war—how something as dangerous as combat can spark a mix of emotions, from dread to excitement, that the soldier himself can’t fully make sense of.

Photo by Matthew Kosloski on Unsplash

Moving the Bones – Reviewed

Rick Barot

There are too many ancestors, so we are gathering their bones.

The poor ones, their graves broken by the roots of trees. The ones whose headstones have been weathered as blank as snow-drifts.

We have bought the wide plot. We have built the mausoleum. And now we fill it with the bones.

The ones killed in the monsoon floods. The one buried in her wedding dress. The one buried with his medals.

Because there will be a time when we cannot keep track of them, scattered in the cemetery like prodigals, we collect the bones.

The ones whose faces I can still recall. The ones who have been dead for a hundred years. We collect their bones. 

At each opened grave, we think about the body taking its shape as father, sister, cousin, uncle. We hunger for the story of each figure.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

© Copyright © 2021 by Rick Barot. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 10, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.

This poem is a part of a collection Moving the Bones, and can be found on Goodreads here, with this review posted here.

Analysis

Rick Barot’s poem Moving the Bones is a meditation on memory, family, and the passage of time. The work moves through a landscape of personal and collective history, where the past is not merely recalled but gathered, handled, and reconfigured, much like the bones that the speaker gathers from their ancestors. The theme is one of connection—connection to those who came before, to the bodies left behind, and to the histories that shape us. But it is also a poem about loss: the gradual disappearance of those histories, the inevitability of forgetting, and the shifting nature of home and identity.

The poem’s structure is loose, with a series of observations and reflections building on each other, almost in a chain of thought. The speaker moves through different sites of memory, both personal and communal, allowing the poem to take on a kind of sprawling, episodic quality. The lines are long, winding, and contemplative, creating a sense of a mind wandering through the past, collecting fragments and images. This structure, which mirrors the act of gathering bones, suggests an accumulation of memory over time—small, seemingly insignificant pieces coming together to form a larger, more complex whole. There’s a deliberate repetitiveness to the language, especially with the phrase “We hold the bones,” which serves as both a refrain and a meditation on the act of holding onto the past, even when that past feels like it’s slipping away.

The tone of the poem is one of quiet reverence but also of unease. The speaker acknowledges the difficulty of remembering and the paradox of memory itself—how it is both an act of preservation and an act of erasure. The imagery of bones—fragile, enduring, disjointed—captures this tension beautifully. At times, the poem feels like an elegy, a mourning for what has been lost, but there is also a kind of tenderness in the way the speaker interacts with the bones, as though they are not just relics of the dead but also conduits to understanding. In this way, Barot captures both the sorrow and the beauty of life’s impermanence. There’s something humbling in the act of gathering the bones, as if the speaker is trying to make sense of the chaos of history by offering it a shape.

There is also a strong undercurrent of displacement throughout the poem. The speaker contemplates what it means to come from a place or a family, to have roots in a particular soil. Yet, as the poem moves on, home becomes increasingly difficult to define. “Look back far enough and your family becomes unfamiliar,” Barot writes, and the speaker begins to see home as a shifting concept—something not tied to one place or nation but to the relationships and memories that define us. This tension between belonging and alienation runs deep throughout Moving the Bones, where identity itself is in flux, always being redefined by memory, migration, and time.

At its core, Moving the Bones is about the act of remembering and the ways in which we try to preserve what is fading. The act of collecting bones, of gathering history, is both an attempt at connection and an acknowledgment of how much is beyond our reach. The bones are symbols of the past, of stories that have already begun to slip away, even as we hold on to them. The poem’s resolution is not one of closure but of acceptance: there will always be things we cannot remember, and yet we continue to gather the fragments, to tell the stories, to make sense of the bones.

Barot’s language is not ornate but measured and precise, capturing the stillness of the act of remembering. There is a tenderness in his observations, even when the images are stark or unsettling. The image of the mausoleum, “white as certain roses,” is a beautiful example of Barot’s ability to weave the natural world into his reflections on death and memory. These moments of beauty and clarity punctuate the poem, offering brief reprieves from the darker themes of loss and dislocation.

In its quiet complexity, Moving the Bones invites the reader to consider their own relationship to the past—the people and places that shaped them, the memories that linger, and those that fade. The poem offers no easy answers but instead allows us to sit with the questions, to hold the bones, and to wonder at the mystery of what has been and what will be.

Photo by Angeline Winter on Unsplash

From a Bathtub – Reviewed

Steven Bruce

In four inches of lukewarm water,
I clean my body with cheap
washing-up liquid.

Careful of the bruises, the cuts,
and the blister on my bony chest.

Blood from a gash in my head runs
down into the brown water.

Someday, these wounds will heal,
but for now, all you understand
is the bleeding.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find this and other poems here.

This poem is a part of a collection White Knuckle, and can be found on Goodreads here, with this review posted here.

Analysis

Steven Bruce’s “From a Bathtub” paints an intimate picture of personal struggle through the simple act of bathing. The poem’s portrayal of physical pain and emotional trauma is direct and unflinching. The speaker is not merely cleaning themselves but is engaged in a process of coping with wounds—both visible and invisible—that are far from easy to wash away. The stark, minimalistic language adds to the rawness of the moment, drawing the reader into the discomfort of the speaker’s world.

The theme revolves around injury, both physical and emotional, and the often long, difficult journey of recovery. The wounds—the bruises, cuts, and blisters—aren’t just marks on the body but signs of deeper, ongoing struggles. The image of blood flowing from a “gash in my head” into “brown water” speaks not only to physical trauma but to a sense of messiness and confusion. The blood turns the water murky, making the act of cleaning feel futile. It suggests that while one may try to heal externally, the internal scars remain, often unresolved and deeply embedded. This image is a powerful metaphor for the emotional pain that lingers long after the visible signs of injury have faded.

The poem’s structure mirrors the fragmented state of the speaker’s mind. There’s no grand narrative, no sweeping emotional highs or lows—just the steady unfolding of the speaker’s experience in the moment. The lines flow into each other with enjambment, creating a sense of continuity that mirrors the ongoing nature of the speaker’s suffering. The lack of punctuation and clear breaks between thoughts adds to the feeling of disruption, as if the speaker’s mind is constantly in motion, unable to rest. This absence of closure, this fragmentation, reinforces the tension between the present pain and the distant hope of healing.

The speaker’s carefulness around their wounds speaks to a sensitivity born from past injury. They’re not just dealing with cuts; they are responding to the knowledge of how much harm they have already endured. This isn’t just about physical wounds—it’s a reflection of how trauma makes one acutely aware of their vulnerability. The use of “cheap washing-up liquid” and “lukewarm water” emphasizes the sense of neglect and discomfort in the process of self-care. The speaker isn’t bathing in warm, soothing water but in something utilitarian, something that doesn’t offer the comfort or tenderness typically associated with healing. This creates an image of neglect, not just of the body, but of the speaker’s emotional state.

The line “Someday, these wounds will heal” introduces the idea of hope, but the word “someday” tempers this hope with uncertainty. Healing isn’t immediate; it’s distant and uncertain. This line underscores the disconnect between the immediate reality of pain and the distant possibility of recovery. In the moment, all the speaker knows is the “bleeding,” both literal and figurative. The blood is not just physical—it represents the emotional scars that continue to affect the speaker. The act of trying to clean, to heal, becomes a symbol of the slow and painful journey through trauma. It suggests that healing takes time, but even more than that, it’s a process that often feels endless and incomplete.

If we consider Bruce’s own history of abuse, the poem takes on an even deeper layer of meaning. The speaker’s experience is not just about the immediate physical pain but also about the emotional and psychological scars that stay long after the wounds have closed. The “brown water” reflects the confusion and disarray that often accompany trauma, where the self feels muddled and unclear. The speaker’s journey through healing is not just about tending to physical injuries but about navigating the emotional weight of the past, which doesn’t simply disappear.

The tension between the present suffering and the distant possibility of recovery is central to the poem. The speaker acknowledges that healing may come one day, but right now, the pain is all-consuming. There’s no easy resolution, no immediate relief. The poem doesn’t offer us a clear or hopeful ending, but rather shows us the struggle of living with pain, with wounds that don’t heal quickly, if at all. This tension—between “someday” and “for now”—captures the difficulty of dealing with trauma. Healing might come, but it is far from immediate and often feels impossibly out of reach.

In the end, “From a Bathtub” offers no tidy resolution. It doesn’t romanticize the healing process, nor does it present a false sense of optimism. It simply presents a moment in the ongoing struggle of recovery—an honest, sometimes painful moment where healing feels distant, and all that matters is the blood in the water. Bruce’s poem speaks to the complexity of trauma, the messiness of recovery, and the reality of living with wounds that may never fully disappear. It doesn’t promise that things will get better soon; instead, it simply shows us the raw truth of the experience.

Photo by Tom PREJEANT on Unsplash

the great silence – Reviewed

TONY SINGLE

i cleave to myself, o’erwhelmed
on a stuttered trail of dreams
holding this space ‘tween the firs
’til in snowfall i dissolve
fallen to the flurry of time

often have i bethought myself
of the needle wreath she placed there
(’twas as fine a crown as any)
she told me she loved me for the last time
& i’ve waited since for renewal
for the gladdening of another spring

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

the great silence

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

In The Great Silence, the speaker reflects on the passage of time, the inevitability of aging, and the emotional weight of loss. The poem’s imagery of winter—snow, frost, and cold landscapes—becomes a lens through which the speaker navigates these experiences. Winter serves not just as a backdrop for the speaker’s reflections but as a symbol of both the physical process of aging and the emotional stillness that accompanies loss. It captures the quiet dissolution of the past and the slow, often difficult acceptance of what is gone.

The poem begins with a description of the speaker feeling “overwhelmed,” trapped between memories and dreams, lost in the “stuttered trail” of time. The reference to snow and dissolution speaks to the fading of moments, of life itself. This blending into the snow reflects the fragility of existence, where the passing of time slowly erases things, leaving behind only quiet emptiness. The snow in this context is not just a seasonal change but a symbol of the way time buries the past under layers of cold, quiet moments.

The speaker’s sense of loss is immediate, especially in the memory of a woman who once gave them a “needle wreath.” This delicate symbol—part crown, part fading gift—marks both the beauty and fragility of the connection they shared. It’s a moment of quiet mourning, a mourning that doesn’t overwhelm but rather settles into the speaker’s being over time. The speaker is caught in a space between hope and acceptance, waiting for a “renewal” or a return to life that never comes. The “gladdening of another spring” is a longing for something to bring warmth to the stillness of winter, but the speaker remains suspended in this moment, caught in the space between seasons.

As the speaker ages, they notice the paradox of time: “the older i get, the younger i feel.” Aging brings wisdom, but it also brings a kind of disorientation and loss of certainty. The speaker’s growing awareness of how little they truly know—”the less i know”—captures the vulnerability that comes with age. They are caught between the weight of years and the strange lightness that age can bring. The “hoar frost” on their heart and beard symbolizes this duality: the frost, cold and impermanent, covering both the body and soul, is both a burden and a strange release from the concerns of youth. It is a slow, inevitable process, not crushing, but gentle and persistent. It hints at both the sorrow of aging and the quiet peace that can come with it.

The winter imagery also reflects the speaker’s emotional landscape. The speaker says they no longer care about tracing their beginnings or knowing their end, signaling a release from the need to define themselves by the past or by the future. Aging here becomes a process of letting go—of memories, of expectations, of the need for closure. The speaker chooses instead to “remember her,” the one who is gone, not as a loss to be mourned forever but as something to be quietly acknowledged. The “wintry canvas” is a space where memory lingers, but it is no longer the dominant force. Instead, the speaker finds a kind of peace in the silence left behind, a silence that holds both remembrance and acceptance.

In the final stanzas, the speaker expresses readiness to move forward, despite the absence of the one they loved. The imagery of the “great white yawn” between the trees and the “flurry for more time” speaks to the space between what has been and what might come. There’s no bitterness here, just a quiet acceptance that time, though slipping away, still offers the possibility of more moments. The “great silence” between the trees is not empty—it is a space for transformation, for reflection, and for a kind of quiet peace. It’s a place where the speaker can leave behind what is no longer needed and move on, though they carry the absence with them.

Winter, then, is both a symbol of loss and a mirror for the speaker’s experience of aging. It’s not just a time of cold and death, but also a space of stillness and reflection where transformation can take place. The snow may cover what is gone, but it also preserves what remains, leaving traces of the past that are both faint and meaningful. Aging, like winter, brings a sense of loss, but it also brings a kind of clarity, a shedding of old illusions, and a quiet acceptance of what is. The speaker’s journey is not one of despair, but of quiet acknowledgment of life’s seasons. Even in the silence, there is movement—growth, transformation, and a strange peace in knowing that all things eventually dissolve, but that dissolution brings its own form of renewal.

Photo by Dominik Dombrowski on Unsplash

Shelley in the Trenches – Reviewed

John William Streets

Impressions are like winds ; you feel their cool
Swift kiss upon the brow, yet know not where
They sprang to birth : so like a pool
Rippled by winds from out their forest lair
My soul was stir’d to life ; its twilight fled ;
There passed across its solitude a dream
That wing’d with supreme ecstasy did seem ;
That gave the kiss of life to long-lost dead.

A lark trill’d in the blue : and suddenly
Upon the wings of his immortal ode
My soul rushed singing to the ether sky
And found in visions, dreams, its real abode-
I fled with Shelley, with the lark afar,
Unto the realms where the eternal are.

MAY 2ND, 1916.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

John William Streets’ poem, Shelley in the Trenches, combines a soldier’s grim reality in the midst of World War I with a longing for the transcendence that Romantic poetry offers. The poem invites us into a space where memory, imagination, and the influence of Percy Bysshe Shelley converge. The speaker, presumably a soldier stuck in the trenches, seeks refuge in the beauty of Shelley’s world as a means of escaping the horror and despair of war. Through references to Shelley’s poetry, Streets explores the power of art and nature to lift the soul, even in the darkest moments.

The poem begins with an exploration of impressions, which the speaker likens to winds—“cool swift kiss upon the brow” but “know not where they sprang to birth.” This image of fleeting winds captures the sense of something ethereal, hard to grasp yet deeply felt. In the context of war, it’s as if the soldier is experiencing rare moments of clarity or peace amidst the chaos, moments that stir the soul without fully understanding their origin. The reference to the “long-lost dead” suggests that the speaker is contemplating death—not just the death of soldiers, but perhaps a broader reflection on the impermanence of life itself. However, this moment of reflection, while acknowledging loss, offers a sense of awakening, as the soul is “stir’d to life” and “twilight fled.” This opening sets the tone of the poem as one of quiet introspection, where the soldier briefly escapes the darkness of war into something greater.

The second stanza brings in the imagery of the lark, an unmistakable reference to Shelley’s To a Skylark. The lark is a symbol of freedom, joy, and transcendence, all things that are in stark contrast to the brutal and confined life in the trenches. By invoking this image, the speaker longs for an escape from the grim reality around him. The phrase “upon the wings of his immortal ode” suggests that the escape is not just a physical one, but a spiritual or intellectual release made possible through Shelley’s poetry. The “immortal ode” is not just a reference to the lark’s song, but to the eternal power of Shelley’s verse to inspire, soothe, and elevate the spirit, even in the most desolate circumstances.

When the speaker says, “I fled with Shelley, with the lark afar,” it suggests more than a simple escape; it implies a shared journey with Shelley toward something higher, something beyond the immediate suffering of war. This idea of transcendence, so central to Shelley’s work, is clearly at play here. In Prometheus Unbound and Adonaïs, Shelley explores themes of liberation and the eternal nature of the soul. Streets invokes these ideas by positioning the speaker alongside Shelley, in the “real abode,” where the soul can find peace and immortality. This is not just an escape from the physical violence of the trenches, but a release from the limitations of death itself. The “real abode” becomes a place where the speaker can find solace, far removed from the violence and finality of war.

The tone of the poem is one of reverence and yearning. There is a sense of quiet awe, as the speaker moves from the despair of the trenches into a dreamlike realm, buoyed by the power of poetry. The speaker is not simply observing nature or art from a distance but is fully immersed in it, becoming part of it. This is evident in the way the lark’s song becomes a conduit for the soul’s escape, not just in its imagery, but in its ability to “rush singing to the ether sky.” Here, art and nature are not passive forces—they actively transport the soul beyond its current circumstances.

Streets also uses the structure of the poem to reflect this movement from the physical to the spiritual. The long, flowing lines mirror the speaker’s emotional journey, allowing for a seamless transition between the harsh reality of war and the dreamlike realm of Shelley’s poetry. There’s no sharp break between the two, suggesting that the boundaries between life and death, reality and imagination, can be crossed effortlessly. This fluid structure captures the essence of the speaker’s experience—one of fleeting impressions, emotions, and thoughts that flow together to create an escape.

In the broader context of World War I, the poem becomes a meditation on the trauma and despair of war. While the soldier may be physically trapped in the trenches, the act of turning to Shelley’s poetry offers a kind of freedom—a release from the psychological and emotional burden of the war. The poem suggests that, even in the darkest times, the human spirit can find respite through art, nature, or the imagination. The references to Shelley are not just a tribute to the poet but an embodiment of the Romantic ideal that art can transcend the suffering of the physical world and offer an eternal escape.

At its core, Shelley in the Trenches is about the possibility of transcendence, even in the most hopeless circumstances. The soldier, though surrounded by destruction, is able to briefly rise above it, finding peace and beauty through the power of poetry. The speaker’s connection to Shelley offers a momentary escape from the brutal realities of war and life itself. Through the use of Shelley’s imagery, particularly the lark and the idea of flight, the poem suggests that art and nature have the power to lift the soul from the depths of despair and into a more eternal, spiritual realm. It is a reminder that, even amid the chaos of the world, there is always the potential for beauty, freedom, and immortality through the imagination.

Photo by British Library on Unsplash

Storm of Silence – Translated (Reviewed)

Imran Siddiqui

मौन का तूफ़ान

इस खामोशी में गूंजते हैं शोर,
बंद दरवाज़ों के पीछे उठते हैं हिलोर।
वो आंखें जो कभी चमकती थीं,
अब कहीं दूर ख्वाबों में भटकती हैं।

क्या मेरी बातें रंग खो बैठीं?
या तेरे दिल तक पहुँच ना सकीं?
जो हंसी थी अपनी, जो ख्वाब थे बुनते,
अब वो भी जैसे अधूरे से लगते।

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

“मौन का तूफ़ान”

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Storm of Silence (Translated AI from Hindi)

In this silence, echoes of noise resound,
Behind closed doors, ripples rise and rebound.
Those eyes that once sparkled bright,
Now wander lost in distant dreams at night.

Have my words lost their color?
Or did they never reach your heart, I wonder?
The laughter we shared, the dreams we wove,
Now seem incomplete, as if lost in the cove.

But this heart fears no storm,
In a moment, I’ll break your silence, transform.
In your shadow, there’s still light,
Even in the dark, I remain your knight.

So speak, or shall I voice my feelings loud?
In this storm, my resolve is unbowed.
No distance, no silence can break our bond,
Our love is eternal, our connection strong.

Analysis

“Storm of Silence” explores the painful emotions of someone grappling with a relationship that seems to be fading. The speaker faces not conflict or betrayal, but silence—the space between them growing wider as the connection they once had becomes more distant. The poem captures the heartache and uncertainty of love slipping away, not through a dramatic event, but through quiet withdrawal and the lack of communication. It’s a poignant reflection on the emotional toll of a relationship at a standstill, where words fail to reach, and feelings are left unspoken.

From the very first line, the poem establishes a tension between silence and noise. The phrase “In this silence, echoes of noise resound” introduces a key paradox: silence is never truly empty. The silence in the poem is heavy, filled with unresolved emotions and unspoken thoughts. It’s as if the absence of words speaks louder than anything said aloud. This sense of suffocation is reinforced by the line “Behind closed doors, ripples rise and rebound,” where emotions are still churning under the surface, even if they are not being openly expressed. The “closed doors” are a strong symbol of emotional distance, creating a barrier between the two people, one that the speaker is desperate to cross but finds increasingly insurmountable.

As the poem progresses, the speaker questions the effectiveness of their communication: “Have my words lost their color? / Or did they never reach your heart, I wonder?” The metaphor of words losing their color suggests that the connection has lost its vibrancy. Communication once full of life and meaning now feels flat, drained of its former power. The question “Did they never reach your heart?” deepens the speaker’s sense of doubt, implying that perhaps the love was never truly shared in the way they believed, or that it has now faded beyond repair.

Despite the growing distance, there’s an undeniable shift in tone as the poem continues. The speaker’s initial sadness transforms into a more determined resolve: “But this heart fears no storm.” The storm here represents both the emotional chaos that the speaker is enduring and the strength they are willing to summon to break through the silence. This moment of defiance is crucial—it signals a change from passive longing to active resistance, a belief that love, even when faced with silence, can endure if the speaker fights for it. The metaphor of the storm suggests the tumultuous emotions at play, while also symbolizing the speaker’s resolve to confront the emotional distance and rebuild the connection, no matter the challenge.

The metaphor of light and shadow also plays a central role in conveying the emotional complexity of the situation. “In your shadow, there’s still light” expresses the painful paradox that even in the absence of full connection, something of the love remains. The shadow symbolizes the emotional distance between them, but the light that still exists within it suggests that there is hope—however faint—that the relationship can be restored. This idea is reinforced by the speaker’s determination to remain the other person’s “knight,” ready to protect and fight for the bond they once shared. The knight symbolizes loyalty, strength, and an active commitment to overcoming obstacles, no matter how overwhelming.

The final lines of the poem bring the tension to a head, as the speaker’s pain and hope collide. “No distance, no silence can break our bond, / Our love is eternal, our connection strong.” Despite the growing silence and distance, the speaker refuses to let go of their belief that love can conquer all. The tone here is both defiant and desperate. There is a deep sense of longing, but also a commitment to holding onto the relationship, refusing to let it slip away without a fight.

Throughout the poem, the imagery of silence, storms, light, and shadows works together to reflect the internal conflict of the speaker. They are caught between the pain of a love that is fading and the hope that it can still be saved. The silence is suffocating, yet the storm suggests that something powerful is stirring within the speaker—a determination to bridge the gap, to transform the stillness into something that feels real and alive again. The speaker is stuck in a limbo, caught between despair and hope, struggling to hold on to a love that seems to be slipping away.

“Storm of Silence” speaks to the complexities of love when words fail. The emotional tension is palpable, as the speaker navigates the confusion, doubt, and pain of a relationship that feels increasingly out of reach. Yet, even as they question the strength of their connection, the speaker remains steadfast, believing that love can withstand the silence and distance. The poem captures the push and pull of longing and resolve, ultimately leaving the reader with a sense of quiet hope that love, no matter how distant, can weather any storm.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Haiku – the nature of this time – Reviewed

Val Boyko

The world keeps turning
Sun returns to northern lands
Cycles of nature

Lighter days ahead
Bring hope from the looming dark
A night star beckons

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Haiku – the nature of this time

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Analysis

“The Nature of This Time” is a simple yet reflective poem that captures the cyclical nature of life and the recurring presence of hope. Using the shifting seasons as a backdrop, the poem subtly explores the relationship between light and dark, and how those forces mirror not only the natural world but our internal experiences. The light in this poem goes beyond the physical return of the sun; it serves as a symbol of hope, guidance, and love that is always with us, even in our darkest moments.

The first haiku sets the tone with a grounding in the natural world. “The world keeps turning” suggests a quiet, inevitable movement, much like the rhythm of life itself. The return of the sun to northern lands signals a change—spring slowly replacing winter. There’s something comforting in the constancy of this process. The sun’s return isn’t just about the passing of seasons; it represents the idea that hope follows after hardship. The darkness, however long it may seem, eventually gives way to light. And just as the world keeps turning, so too does the promise of better days ahead.

This theme of hope becomes more pronounced in the second haiku, which contrasts the darkness with the inevitability of lighter days. The phrase “hope from the looming dark” captures that tension between light and dark. While darkness doesn’t vanish immediately, the light does push through. Hope is there, even when we feel surrounded by shadows. The mention of a “night star” beckoning provides another layer of meaning, suggesting that even in the darkest times, there are signs—something to guide us forward, if we know where to look.

The third haiku takes the reader into a more reflective space. “We remember now / What we must have forgotten” hints at a kind of rediscovery, as though we’ve lost sight of something essential. This isn’t just about the return of the sun; it’s about reconnecting with something we’ve forgotten—perhaps our ability to hope, to trust, to love. It suggests that the guidance we seek has always been there, quietly waiting for us to recognize it again. “To follow the light” becomes not just a physical direction, but a reminder of the inner light we’ve neglected or overlooked.

In the final haiku, the poem reaches its most direct message: the light is always here, and love is at its core. “The message is clear / The light is always right here” isn’t just about the return of the sun; it’s about the constancy of love and hope, things we sometimes forget are present even in the hardest times. The line “Love is our nature” reinforces the idea that love, like light, is a fundamental force—something that’s always with us, even when we struggle to see it.

The structure of the poem is straightforward, with each haiku building on the last. The transition from the return of the sun to the realization that the light is always within us feels natural. The progression from dark to light, from forgetting to remembering, mirrors the passing of the seasons, and the way we move through cycles of growth and renewal in our own lives. The simplicity of the form helps the poem stay grounded and accessible. Each line is short and deliberate, giving space for each idea to breathe without overwhelming the reader.

The tone of the poem is quiet but optimistic. There’s no rush to resolve the tension between dark and light; it’s simply acknowledged as part of the process. The poem doesn’t sugarcoat the darkness, but it reassures us that it is temporary. The light, or hope, will return. And it’s not something distant or far away—it’s here, within reach. This is a poem that speaks to a universal truth: that no matter how dark things get, light—whether in the form of hope, guidance, or love—will always return.

By keeping the language simple and the images clear, the poem invites us to reflect on our own cycles of light and dark, and to remember that love and hope are constant companions, even in times of uncertainty. It’s a gentle reminder that we are part of something bigger, something that keeps turning, moving forward, and offering the possibility of renewal. In this way, “The Nature of This Time” doesn’t just reflect the seasons; it reflects the human capacity for growth, connection, and the quiet strength we can draw from love, both within and around us.

Haiku Sequence or Haikai

The haikai, and its more commonly known form, the haiku, have their roots in Japan and are closely tied to the evolution of Japanese poetry. Haikai began as a form of linked verse called “renga,” which involved multiple poets composing alternating stanzas to create a collaborative poem. Haikai no renga, or simply haikai, emerged as a playful and less formal offshoot of renga during the 16th century. It embraced humor, wit, and everyday themes, standing in contrast to the refined, classical nature of earlier poetic traditions.

The form thrived as a means of social interaction and creativity. Poets would gather to create chains of linked verses, where each new stanza built on the previous one, following a strict syllabic pattern. The starting verse, or hokku, became particularly important. It set the tone for the sequence and was often crafted with care. Over time, the hokku gained recognition as a standalone poetic form, eventually evolving into what we now know as the haiku.

Haiku condensed the spirit of haikai into a compact, three-line structure. Traditional haiku consist of 17 syllables arranged in a 5-7-5 pattern. They often draw on seasonal references, or kigo, and employ vivid imagery to evoke emotion or capture fleeting moments in nature. This brevity and focus on simplicity became hallmarks of the form, emphasizing observation and reflection rather than elaborate language.

The usage of haikai and haiku has shifted over time. While haikai gatherings and collaborative writing are less common today, the haiku remains a popular poetic form worldwide. Its adaptability has allowed poets from different cultures to adopt and reinterpret it, sometimes loosening the traditional syllabic constraints. Despite these changes, the core of haiku—the emphasis on mindfulness and the beauty of ordinary moments—persists.

Haikai and haiku represent an intersection of tradition and innovation. They emerged from a desire to move away from rigid formalities while still honoring the essence of poetic expression. Whether as collaborative exercises or as solitary reflections, they offer a way to explore the world through concise, vivid language. Their enduring appeal lies in their ability to make the ordinary extraordinary.

You may learn more here:
Encyclopedia Britannica
Wikipedia

Photo by Perry Merrity II on Unsplash

Darkness and Light – Reviewed

Audrey Driscoll

To those who came before us
It was the Path of Birds, the River of Heaven,
Divine milk spilled on darkness.
It guided pilgrims and mariners
On journeys of faith and discovery.
Now we know.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Darkness and Light

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

In “Darkness and Light,” the poem contrasts the spiritual, mythological understanding of the universe with the scientific knowledge that defines modern life. The speaker begins by evoking images from ancient cultures that viewed the heavens as a realm of divine mystery. Phrases like “the Path of Birds” and “the River of Heaven” draw from cultural mythologies that portrayed the cosmos as a source of guidance and wonder. The “Path of Birds” could symbolize the journey of souls or the movement of divine forces, while the “River of Heaven” references the Milky Way, often seen as a sacred or divine river in various traditions, such as the Chinese “Silver River” or the Greek myth of Hera’s milk. These symbols point to an era when people navigated the universe through stories, faith, and symbols—using the stars not only for navigation but also for spiritual understanding.

The tone of the first stanza is reverent, steeped in awe for the way ancient people connected with the unknown. The imagery of “Divine milk spilled on darkness” suggests that darkness, often viewed as a void, was seen as a space where the divine could manifest. Darkness here is not feared, but embraced as a mysterious force that nurtures and reveals truths. For ancient societies, the cosmos was a place where faith, wonder, and mystery coexisted—something to be experienced, not fully understood or explained.

However, the second stanza shifts dramatically, marking a clear break from this mythological worldview. The speaker now speaks of a modern understanding of the universe, where science and technology have replaced myth and spirituality. The “ancient light from undiscovered worlds” speaks to the findings of modern astronomy, where distant stars and galaxies provide us with knowledge of the universe’s origins. The tone here is more detached and factual, in contrast to the reverence of the first stanza. The language of “gathering data from infinite distance” and “capturing images of places where stars are born” reflects a clinical, scientific approach to understanding the cosmos.

Yet, the poem doesn’t fully celebrate this shift in understanding. The lines “Now we know, but cannot see” introduce a paradox. Despite the vast amounts of knowledge we’ve gained, something essential has been lost. The more we understand, the less we seem able to connect with the deeper mysteries of the universe—the kind of mysteries that once resonated deeply with ancient cultures. The final lines, “Our eyes self-blinded to that which only darkness reveals,” suggest that our reliance on science and technology has blinded us to the very wonder and awe that once came from embracing the unknown. Where ancient cultures might have seen sacred meaning in the night sky, modern eyes are now limited by the tools of reason and measurement.

This shift from myth to science, from spiritual awe to intellectual discovery, is the central tension of the poem. The first stanza evokes a time when darkness was seen as a place of divine revelation, full of mystery and meaning. In the second, the universe becomes a field of study, where knowledge is gathered through observation and data. While this shift marks progress, the poem suggests that something has been lost in the process. The very mystery that once made the cosmos a source of spiritual connection now seems distant and inaccessible.

In many ways, the poem reflects on the limitations of human understanding, even as it celebrates scientific achievement. The more we know about the universe, the less we seem able to experience its mysteries in a way that connects us emotionally and spiritually. There’s a sense of melancholy in the poem, as the speaker suggests that while modern science has brought us closer to understanding the workings of the cosmos, it has also robbed us of the sense of wonder that once came from the unknown. We have traded one kind of blindness—ignorance—for another—rationalization.

Ultimately, “Darkness and Light” questions whether our quest for knowledge has led us to lose something fundamental: the ability to experience the world with the same reverence and mystery that our ancestors did. The poem suggests that, in our pursuit of reason and fact, we may have disconnected ourselves from the deeper, intangible aspects of existence that once formed the core of human interaction with the cosmos. The tone is reflective and somber, as it quietly critiques the price of progress. In trying to make the universe more understandable, we may have lost the very capacity to marvel at it as we once did.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

Christmas Bells – Reviewed

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
    “For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

“Christmas Bells” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is a deeply emotional poem written in 1863, halfway through the American Civil War, and reflects both the personal grief of the poet and the national tragedy of war. At first, the poem seems like a traditional Christmas hymn, filled with hope and the familiar message of peace on Earth and goodwill toward men. However, as the poem unfolds, it becomes clear that Longfellow is grappling with the harsh realities of a world torn apart by violence, loss, and personal despair.

The structure of the poem is simple and repetitive, mirroring the repetitive nature of the Christmas carols Longfellow hears. The phrase “peace on earth, good-will to men” echoes throughout the stanzas, creating a rhythmic, almost hymn-like quality. This repetition reinforces the idealistic message of peace and unity, but it also becomes a reminder of how far the world has strayed from this ideal. At the start, the bells’ carols represent a world united in a common wish for peace. Longfellow imagines the belfries of all Christendom ringing together, a symbol of shared hope and joy.

However, as the poem progresses, the tone shifts dramatically. The peaceful sounds of the bells are drowned out by the “cannon thundered in the South,” a direct reference to the Civil War and its devastating impact. The transition from peaceful Christmas carols to the violence of war signals a deep emotional conflict within the poet. The bells, once symbols of hope and unity, are now overshadowed by the destruction and hatred of the battlefield. Longfellow uses the metaphor of an “earthquake” ripping apart the “hearth-stones of a continent” to express how deeply the war has affected the nation. The warmth and joy of Christmas, traditionally represented by the hearth, are replaced by a sense of loss and hopelessness.

This emotional shift is deeply personal for Longfellow. At the time, he was not just a passive observer of the war; he was living through it. His son, Charles, had been severely wounded in the Battle of Mine Run, and the pain of his son’s injuries is felt throughout the poem. Longfellow’s grief as a father is palpable, and the realization that there is “no peace on earth” captures the despair that many felt during this time. The poem’s speaker acknowledges the overwhelming power of hate, which seems to mock the very song of peace the bells represent.

Yet, despite the sorrow and despair, the poem ends on a note of reluctant hope. In the final stanzas, the bells ring out once more, louder and deeper, carrying a message of divine justice: “The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail.” This final shift back to hope represents a belief in ultimate justice, even in the face of overwhelming suffering. The message is clear: while hatred and violence seem powerful in the moment, they will not last forever. Longfellow’s faith in the triumph of good over evil remains, and the bells, though temporarily silenced, continue to ring with a promise of peace.

The structure of the poem supports this emotional journey. The repetitive refrains of the bells create a sense of persistence, a constant reminder of peace despite the surrounding chaos. As the bells grow louder and deeper in the final stanzas, they symbolize the persistence of hope, even in the darkest of times. The poem’s resolution doesn’t ignore the reality of war or suffering but insists on the eventual triumph of justice and peace.

“Christmas Bells” is more than just a reflection on the Christmas spirit; it is a response to the deep pain and division of the Civil War. Through the simple yet powerful image of the church bells, Longfellow captures the emotional conflict between hope and despair, peace and war, faith and doubt. The poem’s themes are universal: it speaks to the human struggle to maintain hope in the face of violence and suffering. Longfellow’s personal tragedy, the suffering of his country, and the enduring message of peace all come together in a poignant meditation on the resilience of the human spirit. Despite the darkness of war and personal loss, Longfellow’s poem ultimately affirms that peace, though challenged, will endure.

You may learn more about the history behind Christmas Bells here, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow here.

If you would like to hear this song, sung as a Christmas Carol, by Bing Crosby, here it is.

The Christmas Truce of World War 1

The Christmas Truce of 1914 wasn’t something anyone planned. It happened because the soldiers, tired of mud, gunfire, and the smell of death, decided they had enough for a while. On Christmas Eve, the sounds of gunfire faded in some parts of the Western Front. Instead, familiar songs drifted across the trenches. “Silent Night” sung in German reached British ears, and soon, the English joined in with their own carols. It wasn’t loud or coordinated, just voices carrying over the chaos.

Then came the lights. German soldiers set up small trees with candles, the flickering glow cutting through the darkness. Across the trenches, soldiers wondered if this was a trick. But it wasn’t. Men on both sides hesitated, then began to climb out of the trenches. Slowly at first, like animals testing the air after a storm. They met in no man’s land, that deadly strip of land that had claimed so many lives just days before.

The meetings were cautious at first. Soldiers shook hands, shared cigarettes, and passed around tins of food. For once, the rations didn’t feel so bitter. Someone had a football, and a game started. It wasn’t organized—more like kids kicking a ball around. Laughter replaced shouts of command. The war didn’t vanish, but for a few hours, it felt like it might.

The truce didn’t last everywhere. In some sectors, officers on both sides kept their men in line, afraid the enemy might take advantage of the pause. And not everyone wanted to fraternize. Some soldiers couldn’t bring themselves to shake the hand of someone who might have killed their friends a week earlier. But in many places, the spirit of Christmas had worked its way in, if only for a day.

It couldn’t last. By the time Christmas ended, orders came down. The war had to go on. Soldiers were reminded of their duty, and the fighting resumed. But something had shifted. For those who had shared a moment of peace, the enemy wasn’t just a faceless threat anymore. He was a man, shivering in the same cold, dreaming of home just like them.

The truce became a story soldiers carried with them. Some wrote about it in letters, describing the surreal scene to their families. For many, it was a reminder of what they were fighting for—not glory or power, but the chance to live in a world where men didn’t have to meet in no man’s land under a banner of truce just to feel human again.

The Christmas Truce was fleeting. The war stretched on for years, growing more brutal with every passing month. But in the middle of all that darkness, there was this brief spark of light. It wasn’t about treaties or politics. It was just soldiers—tired, cold, and far from home—finding a way to feel human for one day.

You may learn more here:
International War Museum
History.com
Vision of Humanity
Wikipedia
Encyclopedia Britannica

German soldiers celebrating Christmas in a trench during World War I.
Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc.