Adam Fenner's Blog, page 22

‘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

The Troop Ship

Isaac Rosenberg

Grotesque and queerly huddled
Contortionists to twist
The sleepy soul to a sleep,
We lie all sorts of ways
And cannot sleep.
The wet wind is so cold,
And the lurching men so careless,
That, should you drop to a doze,
Wind’s fumble or men’s feet
Is on your face.

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 Track

Capacity for twenty one
We can squeeze in more
Pile them on their packs
Push through the door

Let them sleep atop
Tangled limbs galore
Stand on ammo crates
Avoid the sergeant’s snore

Stumble out the gate
The air inside is poor
To stretch our legs
A new chance to explore

Photo by Max on Unsplash

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

Alan Seeger

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear …
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

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.

An appointment

I’ll tell you man, I’ve got it planned
College application, submitted
Don’t waste your time, don’t bother
We won’t make it out, we won’t survive

I have always been good at math
Engineering, it is a good field
Thirty rounds per magazine, that’s it
Don’t need more to know, than that

There is this girl, she is the best
I think it is serious, taking it slow though
That is sweet, she is moving on
Probably feels bad for you, being here

We are going to grow old, you know
The two of us on a porch, rocking
It isn’t worth the fantasy, not for us
This valley has a plan, we won’t leave

I have an appointment, a life to live
A future, after this, we will make it home
Don’t bother, our calendar is marked
A grim appointed time, this will end

Mark your calendar, I’m not giving in
I’m not giving up on us, not that easily

Photo by Cristian Guerrero on Unsplash

The Battle Autumn of 1862

John Greenleaf Whittier

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
     The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
     No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
     Her ancient promise well,
Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps
     The battle’s breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours
     Through harvest-happy farms,
And still she wears her fruits and flowers
     Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,
     This joy of eve and morn,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
     And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
     And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
     And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
     With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
     The war-field’s crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear
     Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
     She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below
     The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow
     She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours
     The good of suffering born,—
The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
     And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these,
     The vision of her eyes;
And make her fields and fruited trees
     Our golden prophecies!

Oh, give to us her finer ear!
     Above this stormy din,
We too would hear the bells of cheer
     Ring peace and freedom in.

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 Snowman

Training started in winter
I taught the southerner
How to make a snowman

Snow melted to brown grass fields
The crisp air to our backs
Airplane loaded, rifles at our feet

Spring buds weakly in the desert
Sparse gems bloom in sandy waste
Chow hall fruits, weak expectations

Summer heat, fighting season
Sun’s hot breath, tempers flair
Step off at dusk, avoid the heat

Cooler weather, fall’s offering
Better winds, same brown color
Gate squeaks open, well trod path

Winter air bites, crips nips on the ears
Airplane exhaust, warm runway air
Rifles at our feet, movie and a drink

A thin line at the airport, banners in hand
Winter time welcome, small crowd
Snowman greets, through the window

Photo by Nathan Wolfe on Unsplash

Stonewall Jackson

Herman Melville

Mortally Wounded at Chancellorsville

The Man who fiercest charged in fight,
 Whose sword and prayer were long —
       Stonewall!
 Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong,
How can we praise? Yet coming days
 Shall not forget him with this song.

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead,
 Vainly he died and set his seal —
       Stonewall!
 Earnest in error, as we feel;
True to the thing he deemed was due,
 True as John Brown or steel.

Relentlessly he routed us;
 But we relent, for he is low —
       Stonewall!
 Justly his fame we outlaw; so
We drop a tear on the bold Virginian’s bier,
  Because no wreath we owe.

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 Man

We stripped him down
Gathered his things
Grenades and rifles
AK, bandoleer of ammo

Puncture wounds
Legs, chest, neck
Blood drained slow
Mouth and eyes open

Cheap equipment torn
Legs and arms, thin
His body has an odor
His shoes are well worn

Helicopters circled overhead
Our armored trucks waited
His litter was light, we carried
His lonely body to the road

He wasn’t much, an easy fight
But a fight, he fought, he stood
Against us, respect he earned
For what its worth, grim reward

Photo by Scott Umstattd on Unsplash

Shiloh: A Requiem (April, 1862)

Herman Melville

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
      The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
      The forest-field of Shiloh—
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
      Around the church of Shiloh—
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
            And natural prayer
      Of dying foemen mingled there—
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—
      Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
      But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
      And all is hushed at Shiloh.

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.

Cabin in the woods

The echoes of battle fade
Cries of men, drum beats
Memories and orders called
When the cannon dust settles
And the wounded are collected
Rain patters on the roof overhead
The wounded groan, side by side
Bullet punctured, and tore through
The dividing line, a thin line
Washed away in evening rain
Fading as the army moves on

Hard to match Melville on this one. Bet you didn’t know he had left more than a white whale.

Photo by Ruben Hanssen on Unsplash

Anthem of the Doomed Youth

Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
      And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

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.

Machines of war

Call that machine of war, a grinding machination
The hungry beast, social animal, machine gun mounted
Schoolyard fights turn serious, when flags wave
Words like honor, duty, country embolden youth
Face down the butchers blade, grim resolve
Artillery whistles overhead, death from above
Machine guns rattle and grown, from the front
Mines pop, cowardly things, make meat from below

The cries from the rear, and beyond, a mother’s wale
A playful brother’s smirk, flanked left and right
What use is there to die at home, old and alone
A device to feed, breathe, a bag for waste and whatnot
Surrounded by children, watching the clock, counting down
No immortality on this field, or doomed cattle marching

Photo by SHOT on Unsplash

The Vigil

Henry John Newbolt, Sir

    England! where the sacred flame
        Burns before the inmost shrine,
    Where the lips that love thy name
        Consecrate their hopes and thine,
    Where the banners of thy dead
    Weave their shadows overhead,
    Watch beside thine arms to-night,
    Pray that God defend the Right.

    Think that when to-morrow comes
        War shall claim command of all,
    Thou must hear the roll of drums,
        Thou must hear the trumpet’s call.
    Now, before they silence ruth,
    Commune with the voice of truth;
    England! on thy knees to-night
    Pray that God defend the Right.

    Hast thou counted up the cost,
        What to foeman, what to friend?
    Glory sought is Honour lost,
        How should this be knighthood’s end?
    Know’st thou what is Hatred’s meed?
    What the surest gain of greed?
    England! wilt thou dare to-night
    Pray that God defend the Right.

    Single-hearted, unafraid,
        Hither all thy heroes came,
    On this altar’s steps were laid
        Gordon’s life and Outram’s fame.
    England! if thy will be yet
    By their great example set,
    Here beside thine arms to-night
    Pray that God defend the Right.

    So shalt thou when morning comes
        Rise to conquer or to fall,
    Joyful hear the rolling drums,
        Joyful hear the trumpets call,
    Then let Memory tell thy heart:
    “England! what thou wert, thou art!”
    Gird thee with thine ancient might,
    Forth! and God defend the Right!

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.

A count for war

The calls to war, journalist’s cries
Desperate newsman selling papers

Leader’s, kings, presidents, congress
Reply with grim calculus, immoral count

Tally voters, citizen’s bloody appetite
Soldier’s heads, a ready force awaits

General’s wary, cost of war, deficit
Draft the plan, communities supply

Photo by Noah Windler on Unsplash

Old Fighting-Men

Rudyard Kiping

All the world over, nursing their scars,
Sit the old fighting-men broke in the wars,
Sit the old fighting-men, surly and grim
Mocking the lilt of the conquerors’ hymn.

Dust of the battle o’erwhelmed them and hid.
Fame never found them for aught that they did.
Wounded and spent to the lazar they drew,
Lining the road where the Legions roll through.

Sons of the Laurel who press to your meed,
(Worthy God’s pity most, you who succeed!)
Ere you go triumphing, crowned, to the stars,
Pity poor fighting-men, broke in the wars!

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.

Old man’s hands

They cursed the old man, presidential burdens
Waved his pen, blustering and stuttering speeches
Dispatched, deployed the nation’s children to war
Not a war, or a war, a police action, limited authority

The youth marched, shipped out, set boots on ground
Kicked in doors, ripped children from beds, wives howled
Stained farm fields with insurgents blood, defending
Planted flags on foreign soil, that old men never wanted

It bore their name, official actions, campaign errors
Morning briefings, dispatched list of the fallen, slain
Legacy tarnished, or leadership exalted, times of crisis
Era defined by an old man, in his chair, with his name

The young, return home–maybe, families open arms welcome
Memories behind, scratching at the edges, over the border
Blood washes off easily, but something always stays
History records, lists of names, and moves on

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

Grenadier

Alfred Edward Housman

    The Queen she sent to look for me,
    The sergeant he did say,
    Young man, a soldier will you be
    For thirteen pence a day?

    For thirteen pence a day did I
    Take off the things I wore,
    And I have marched to where I lie,
    And I shall march no more.

    My mouth is dry, my shirt is wet,
    My blood runs all away,
    So now I shall not die in debt
    For thirteen pence a day.

    To-morrow after new young men
    The sergeant he must see,
    For things will all be over then
    Between the Queen and me.

    And I shall have to bate my price,
    For in the grave, they say,
    Is neither knowledge nor device
    Nor thirteen pence a day.

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.

A bonus

Traded my body and four short years
For a paycheck and some benefits
A signing bonus too, can you believe
College money, if I’m so inclined

A new set of clothes, and a roof
Taught some skills, and discipline
A new family too, can you believe
This rifle is pretty cool, real cool

The war is over, and now I’m home
My brothers moved away, me too
Skills don’t translate, can you believe
Professor thinks I’m crazy, maybe

Lists on lists of resources, I find
Loads and loads of requirements
Limiting exclusions, can you believe
Maybe I’ve been duped, probably

A bureaucrat’s bargain, fine print
Brightly colored posters, marketing
Benefits in fast food, can you believe
A list, to get on the list, these benefits

Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash