Adam Fenner's Blog, page 21

Fragment 5

Archilochus

Ἀσπίδι μὲν Σαΐων τις ἀγάλλεται, ἥν παρὰ θάμνῳ
ἔντος ἀμώμητον κάλλιπον οὐκ ἐθέλων·
αὐτὸν δ’ ἔκ μ’ ἐσάωσα· τί μοι μέλει ἀσπὶς ἐκείνη;
Ἐρρέτω· ἐξαῦτις κτήσομαι οὐ κακίω.

One of the Saians (Thracian tribe) now delights in the shield I discarded
Unwillingly near a bush, for it was perfectly good,
But at least I got myself safely out. Why should I care for that shield?
Let it go. Some other time I’ll find another no worse.

Translated by Douglas Gerber, 1999

The works of Archilochus, are viewed as famous by Greeks and even Romans as the works of Homer. The above poem was so famous that it became a connecting thread for latin poets for hundreds of years. In a world of Homeric heroes, many famous poets would make reference to throwing away their shields.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

My rifle, my weapon

One mind, any weapon
Am I, or this, my rifle

These hands awaken, eyes divine
Shoulders direct, feet obtain
My target, a target, any target
This rifle, any rifle, any gun, or blade

Mind concedes, grasp hold, my hands
Assault, defend, target acquisition
Similar result, central point penetrates
Bludgeons, eviscerates, eliminates

Armorer delivers tools, to weapons
Cold steel, to ready minds, steady hands
Wield violence, force, hostiles eliminated
Armorer inspects, tags, weapons returned

Photo by Elimende Inagella on Unsplash

Fragment 114

Archilochus

I don’t like a general
who towers over the troops,
lordly with elegant locks
and trim mustachios.
Give me a stumpy soldier
glaringly bowlegged,
yet rockfirm on his feet,
and in his heart a giant.

Translated by William Barnstone 1988.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

Poster child

He’s beautiful, in his war paint
Better suited for a recruiting poster
Strong jawed, broad shouldered
A firm grip, and glowering eyes
No use for this one, or his photoshoot
Rising out of the water, for a cameraman
We need gravel in their guts
A pot belly, and a strong back
And something, the camera can’t see

IMAGE: 1990s USMC Recruiting Poster

Hell’s Pavement

John Masefield

“When I’m discharged at Liverpool ‘n’ draws my bit o’ pay,
I won’t come to sea no more;
I’ll court a pretty little lass ‘n’ have a weddin’ day,
‘N’ settle somewhere down shore;
I’ll never fare to sea again a-temptin’ Davy Jones,
A-hearkening to the cruel sharks a-hungerin’ for my bones;
I’ll run a blushin’ dairy-farm or go a-crackin’ stones,
Or buy ‘n’ keep a little liquor-store”
So he said.

They towed her in to Liverpool, we made the hooker fast,
And the copper-bound official paid the crew,
And Billy drew his money, but the money didn’t last,
For he painted the alongshore blue,
It was rum for Poll, and rum for Nan, and gin for Jolly Jack;
He shipped a week later in the clothes upon his back;
He had to pinch a little straw, he had to beg a sack
To sleep on, when his watch was through,
So he did.

I enjoyed this piece enough, it captures something youthful and enduring about the military culture that I struggled to respond to the piece in a way that added something new and unique. Honestly, how do you top the honesty of a surly sailor ready to leave, who blows his money at the bar and returns a week later with nothing but the shirt on his back?

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

Ol’ Sarg’s Speech

Save the speech ol’ Sarg’
I’m through, I’m done

You won’t retain,
Not me, I’m done

I’ve done my time
It’s true, I’m through

Paid my dues,
I did, I’m done

A bonus, you say
I’d listen, it’s true

Perhaps, maybe
It’s true, I could do

What’s a few more years
I may not be done, it’s true

Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

The Colored Soldiers

Paul Laurence Dunbar

If the muse were mine to tempt it
    And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
    I would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
    Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
    Who fought for Uncle Sam!

In the early days you scorned them,
    And with many a flip and flout
Said “These battles are the white man’s,
    And the whites will fight them out.”
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
    In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
    Of the foes’ advancing tread.

Then distress fell on the nation,
    And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner?
    No! the nation shouted, No!
So when War, in savage triumph,
    Spread abroad his funeral pall—
Then you called the colored soldiers,
    And they answered to your call.

And like hounds unleashed and eager
    For the life blood of the prey,
Spring they forth and bore them bravely
    In the thickest of the fray.
And where’er the fight was hottest,
    Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fearless
    At the very mouth of hell.

Ah, they rallied to the standard
    To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
    None were braver in the fight.
From the blazing breach of Wagner
    To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
    Of the battles of the free.

And at Pillow! God have mercy
    On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
    Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
    O’er the hot wrought spirits sway
Of the gallant colored soldiers
    Who fell fighting on that day!

Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
    And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
    Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
    In the depths of slavery’s night,
Their muskets flashed the dawning,
    And they fought their way to light.

They were comrades then and brothers.
    Are they more or less to-day?
They were good to stop a bullet
    And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
    When rebellion raised its head;
And the traits that made them worthy,—
    Ah! those virtues are not dead.

They have shared your nightly vigils,
    They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
    Has enriched the Southern soil.

They have slept and marched and suffered
    ‘Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
    And have been as brave and true.

And their deeds shall find a record
    In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
    Every blot of Slavery’s shame.
So all honor and all glory
    To those noble sons of Ham—
The gallant colored soldiers
    Who fought for Uncle Sam!

I normally shy away from longer pieces, but Dunbar’s work earned the right to have every syllable heard.

Nothing I’ll be able to write can punch as hard as Dunbar. But I’ll make a modest attempt, from a limited perspective.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

The color green

I’d never seen this woodland green
Blended digital, square printed
Hues dark and light blended
Spectrum, intentional design

Crisp, clean, we formed up
Our skivvies standing, squared
Formation stripped bare
Skin deep, shoulder to shoulder

Now you all wear green
The only color you will see
Each a different shade
All the same formation

Photo by Samuel Ferrara on Unsplash

A Nameless Grave

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“A soldier of the Union mustered out,”
  Is the inscription on an unknown grave
  At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,
  Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout
  Of battle, when the loud artillery drave
  Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave
  And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt.
Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea
  In thy forgotten grave! with secret shame
  I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn,
When I remember thou hast given for me
  All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name,
  And I can give thee nothing in return.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

Stories lost

“A soldier of the Union mustered out,”

Unknown, unnamed soldier lies
Untold stories, for unknown ears

A mother, father, sister, wife
Your…He…Until the end…we are…

Sorry for your loss.

Rousing laughter, brothers banter
I can’t believe you…And then we…

They almost got us…But then you…
No, that was you…No, remember we…

Never forget.

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

Battle of Maldon (excerpt, again)

Author unknown

There was a crashing of shields. Seafarers came forth
enraged in the fight; the spear often went right through
the life-houses of the fated. Then Wystan went forth,
Thurstan’s son, he fought against the warriors—
he was in the press, the killer of three of them,
before Wigelin’s son lay dead among the slain.
There was a stern moot there. They stood fast,
warriors in the warfare, warriors perishing,
warriors wearied by wounds.
                                    The slain fell to the earth. (296-303)

Oswold and Eadwold all the while
both of them brothers, encouraged the warriors,
their friendly companions they urged with their words
that they must endure there in their need,
not weakly, using their weapons. (304-8)

Bryhtwold spoke out, heaving his shield
(he was an old comrade), brandishing his spear;
very boldly he advised the warriors:
“Resolution should be the tougher, keener the heart,
the mind should be greater when our power diminishes.
Here lies our lord, all chopped up,
a good man on the gravel. He will always regret it,
he who thinks to turn away from this war-play.
I am old in life—I don’t wish to wander away,
but I’m going to lie down by the side of my lord,
beside these beloved men.” (309-19)

Written about the battle of Maldon, which took place on August 10-11 991 CE. From the perspective of the Anglo-Saxons. The battle was between the England and the vikings, to oversimplify it. Both the poem’s beginning and ending are lost.

There are always a lot of themes to play with. Many not the intention of the author of the time. But there is something about the expectation of service in this.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

Service obligation, privilege

This privilege, obligation, you’ll regret
Lay down your life, lay down beside
Lay down your children, grandchildren
Set them aside, and choose honor

Beside your lord, your country, for
Duty and honor, service, show them
You are of greater heart, stronger
Mettle, chopped up in this gravel

Set aside your selfishness, desires
A soft kiss, a lover’s warm hands
A child’s laughter, fails to compare
To a good man on the cold gravel

Photo by Dylan Freedom on Unsplash

Battle of Maldon (excerpt)

Author unknown

There was a crashing of shields. Seafarers came forth
enraged in the fight; the spear often went right through
the life-houses of the fated. Then Wystan went forth,
Thurstan’s son, he fought against the warriors—
he was in the press, the killer of three of them,
before Wigelin’s son lay dead among the slain.
There was a stern moot there. They stood fast,
warriors in the warfare, warriors perishing,
warriors wearied by wounds.
                                    The slain fell to the earth. (296-303)

Oswold and Eadwold all the while
both of them brothers, encouraged the warriors,
their friendly companions they urged with their words
that they must endure there in their need,
not weakly, using their weapons. (304-8)

Bryhtwold spoke out, heaving his shield
(he was an old comrade), brandishing his spear;
very boldly he advised the warriors:
“Resolution should be the tougher, keener the heart,
the mind should be greater when our power diminishes.
Here lies our lord, all chopped up,
a good man on the gravel. He will always regret it,
he who thinks to turn away from this war-play.
I am old in life—I don’t wish to wander away,
but I’m going to lie down by the side of my lord,
beside these beloved men.” (309-19)

Written about the battle of Maldon, which took place on August 10-11 991 CE. From the perspective of the Anglo-Saxons. The battle was between the England and the vikings, to oversimplify it. Both the poem’s beginning and ending are lost.

There are always a lot of themes to play with. Many not the intention of the author of the time. But there is something striking about a speech about a dead lord, who lead his people to battle…

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

Civilized age

Time, technology, enlightened philosophy
History and education has civilized us
Far and away from the nobles and peasantry
Class division, social hierarchy, unpleasantry

Wars professionalized, recruited masses
A choice, volunteering after benefits review
Only the fittest to fight, a youthful endeavor
Retire young, with a modest pension paid

Presidential administration, war persecuted
A written dictate, leadership suited at a desk
Politicians bluster, rally inspiration, lead voters
Appoint generals for war, aged administrators

A civilized age, experience comfort, please vote
Deploy the young, better equipped and funded
Experience guilt, wave goodbye, read the news
We don’t risk our leaders, don’t wander away

Author’s note: I’ll probably rewrite this one. The more I think about this topic the more it irritates me.

Photo by Ricardo Cruz on Unsplash

Break of Day in the Trenches

Isaac Rosenberg

The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe—
Just a little white with the dust.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

The sun shines

Overhead the sun shines
Cuts through the smoke
Soot and sand, golden light
Draws sweat, collecting
in our chin straps, glaring

Dragonfly wings beat past
Silent trails between us
Soft landing on rifle stock
Antennae flitter about
Does it taste gunpowder

The quiet moment, after
Bullets penetrate morning
Air, or him. It didn’t offer
Warning, to either side
Silently departing

Photo by sk on Unsplash

On Growing Old

John Masefield

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nore share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.

Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower.
Spring-time of man, all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

Young man’s game

Hold pity, for neither young, nor old
Youthful buds pruned too early
Or decayed petals wilt and brown

A young man, a symbol of potential
Life unlived, mistakes unmade, sacrifice
Memory unclouded, muddied by time

The old, potential realized or passed
Life lived, errors abound, experienced
A lifetime nearly forgotten, clouded

Grim memories, lightened by old friends
War wounds burn, scar tissue strains
Immortal memories, fictionalized truths

Stories told, lives lived to uncertain length
Scales teeter, appraise the immeasurable
Hold pity, for neither old, nor young

Photo by Annie Nyle on Unsplash

‘When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead’

Charles Hamilton Sorley

When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you’ll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
“Yet many a better one has died before.”
Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.

In what may be one of the most powerful stories of a poem, this poem was found in Sorley’s kit after he was killed by a sniper in the Battle of Loos.

Every day I select a war poem, and respond to it, generally in poetic form. But perhaps not. Each poem grabs at something a little differently. Sometimes the themes blend together, sometimes they contradict. Many poets, were veterans themselves, others not. Their perspectives vary, and the poetry does in response. I’ll continue to do this as long as I keep finding poetry that explores novel or meaningful themes. You know, until the well runs dry.

What can we say

What can we say, or I say but ‘thank you?’
A kindness, an expression of gratitude
A truth from a grateful nation, or person
What else could I say, or we say, what more

A dead man’s final breath, a worthless comfort
A transition, exhalation of the spirit, departure
Symbolic, unnecessary, It would always pass
A corpse is always heavy, breathless bulk

You, we can offer no comfort, or change
No hope for the pale battalions, gone
A mother’s cries, a brother’s regrets
Only change the subject, for yourself

Photo by Marko Blažević on Unsplash