Adam Fenner's Blog, page 23

A dead boche

Robert von Ranke Graves

    To you who’d read my songs of War
    And only hear of blood and fame,
    I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)
    “War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,
    Today I found in Mametz Wood
    A certain cure for lust of blood:

    Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
    In a great mess of things unclean,
    Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
    With clothes and face a sodden green,
    Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
    Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

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 sum of a man

For those who’ve heard the song of war
Seen it strip a man, to his brittle parts
Testing, pushing, grinding to the bone
Waterloo turned men to fertilizer
Fed Europe, their bloody supper

Found abandoned friends or foes
Last meals feed rebellious guts
Devoured host, bloated vessel
Sun baked husk of what was
Perverted reminder of what is

Strangers turned to brothers lost
Battles shared, common cause united
A battlefield gift, from a gored womb
Lifetime of anguish, memories anchor
War horns bellow, ringing in the ears

Photo by Jill Dimond on Unsplash

Hate not, Fear not

Robert von Ranke Graves

     Kill if you must, but never hate:
         Man is but grass and hate is blight,
     The sun will scorch you soon or late,
         Die wholesome then, since you must fight.

     Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
         That cankers root and fruit alike,
     Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,
         Strike with no madness when you strike.

     Fever and fear distract the world,
         But calm be you though madmen shout,
     Through blazing fires of battle hurled,
         Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!

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.

Us and them

It isn’t about you, me, us, but them
A mother, sister, brother, father, home
Maybe a girl, she doesn’t know me…yet

Sometimes it isn’t about them, or you
But them, beside me, my brothers and sisters
Us against you, you chose today, and us

We, this, you could have waved hello
Shared chai, laughter, but not you, or us
You chose us, RPG, AK, IED, we chose us too

We would again, choose our brothers, sisters
Here and home, not you, we never choose you
We did choose here, or they did, because of you

They chose us, offered us, recruited us, those they’s
Pushed us forward, to meet you, now us, together
Always us, never they, without them, no us

Photo by Kalen Emsley on Unsplash

The Dead Drummer

Thomas Hardy

I

    They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
     Uncoffined – just as found:
    His landmark is a kopje-crest
     That breaks the veldt around;
    And foreign constellations west
     Each night above his mound.

II

    Young Hodge the Drummer never knew –
     Fresh from his Wessex home –
    The meaning of the broad Karoo,
     The Bush, the dusty loam,
    And why uprose to nightly view
     Strange stars amid the gloam.

III

    Yet portion of that unknown plain
     Will Hodge for ever be;
    His homely Northern breast and brain
     Grow up a Southern tree.
    And strange-eyed constellations reign
     His stars eternally.

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 patch of dirt

At nineteen, it is just a patch of dirt
A world away, on a map, or globe
Insignificant as all the others

It is only a piece of paper, signed
Legalese, for something, not sure
What use is a Will, at nineteen

This truck, lined up, marked bumper
The only distinguishing feature
His chair, in the back, tattered

That narrow stretch of road
Unmarked, as good as any
A mound of dirt, roadside bomb

It could have been on a beach
Salty to taste, here it blows bitter
Grating at the eyes, gathering blood

His brothers would drive past
This same spot, every day and see
That mound of dirt, gathering blood

Photo by Anubhav Saxena on Unsplash

Arms and the boy

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

        Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
        How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
        Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash;
        And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

        Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
        Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads.
        Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
        Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

        For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
        There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
        And God will grow no talons at his heels,
        Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.

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 boy and his rifle

The length was cold in his hands
Alien but familiar an extension of himself
Polymers, steel, blued and blackened
Care for it they said, this is your lover

He had prepared, all his short life
Playful wrestling, backyard tag
The bad guys, get them, stories taught
Men protect, defend, destroy, your turn

Waving flags, triumphant music
Bands, songs, poetry, colorful ribbons
Dress violence in gallantry, cover darkness
Offer a warm blanket, for a child to hide

Photo by Farid Ershad on Unsplash

The Dead

Rupert Brooke

    Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
    There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old,
    But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
    These laid the world away; poured out the red
    Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
    Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
    That men call age; and those who would have been,
    Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

    Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
    Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
    Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
    And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
    And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
    And we have come into our heritage.

Immortality

An eager drive, recruit the willing, eager, opportunistic
But not mine, ours, we have means, opportunity
Why should our home sacrifice legacy, immortality
Good years, grandchildren, budding shoots pruned
Scarred remains, damaged husk returns wounded
Social battles remain, limited market skills
What for? For the greater battle, national pride
Community takes, but offers what in return?

Service, honor, legacy, brotherhood, pride
Noble, valorous, hero, courage, nothing
National gratitude, shameful secret
Everything asked, nothing exchanged
Words, weak gusts, inflated currency
A mouthful of air, for immortality

Photo by Urban Vintage on Unsplash

There will come soft rains

Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the
smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

She is right, you know.

I woke up, ready to read and work through another piece. Respond to a poem. Sara took the wind out of my sails on this. For all the words we fling at something like war, the earth doesn’t care. Neither does the universe, it is a social creation, for our own means. If we stopped singing songs, telling stories and writing poetry, the battles we fight would be forgotten.

Something about what we are though, we would still fight, that is how we are wired to challenge one another, and ourselves. And our leaders, tend to not participate in the literary traditions that are often framed as a warning.

Photo by Tiago Ferreira on Unsplash

Does it matter?

Siegfried Sassoon

    Does it matter? – losing your leg? …
    For people will always be kind,
    And you need not show that you mind
    When the others come in after hunting
    To gobble their muffins and eggs.

    Does it matter? – losing your sight? …
    There’s such splendid work for the blind;
    And people will always be kind,
    As you sit on the terrace remembering
    And turning your face to the light.

    Do they matter? – those dreams from the pit? …
    You can drink and forget and be glad,
    And people won’t say that you’re mad;
    For they’ll know that you’ve fought for your country,
    And no one will worry a bit.

Sassoon, is fast becoming my favorite war poet.

Pity our veterans

Thank you for your service.
It’s too bad about your, you know
So brave, such sacrifice
We can’t thank you enough

It is too bad you weren’t
Smart enough for college
Good enough at sports
No other opportunities

Like me, us, we, not you
Your sacrifice, bravery
Heroism and gallantry
Disability, scars of war

We support our veterans
Enough, not too much
Never an inconvenience
We honor your sacrifice

Photo by Thomas Ashlock on Unsplash

Beat! Beat! Drums!

Walt Whitman

Beat! beat! drums!–Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows–through doors–burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet–no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums–so shrill you bugles blow.

Beat! beat! drums!–Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities–over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day–no brokers or speculators–Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums–you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!–Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley–stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid–mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums–so loud you bugles blow.

Dogs of war

Cry havoc!, and let slip. Careful now
We are modern, civilized, better than
This is no war, this is a…not a war

Fierce hunger cries, vengeance, peace
National rage, global outcry,
Bureaucracy tames, wild beast

Journalists, traders, politicians thirst
Investments, contracts, moral outrage
We must do something, not our children

Violent calls, not for blood, cameras off
Humane society, non-lethals and drones
Not our hands, our bombs, foreign nationals

Release the hounds, quietly, somewhere else
Yoga in the morning, football game tonight
Barbecue memorials, heavy traffic holiday

We must remember, always on guard
Never inconvenient, nation of heroes
Don’t ruffle the citizenry, havoc’s cry

Photo by Oleg Moroz on Unsplash

The man he killed

Thomas Hardy

     “Had he and I but met
     By some old ancient inn,
    We should have sat us down to wet
     Right many a nipperkin!

     “But ranged as infantry,
     And staring face to face,
    I shot at him as he at me,
     And killed him in his place.

     “I shot him dead because –
     Because he was my foe,
    Just so: my foe of course he was;
     That’s clear enough; although

     “He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
     Off-hand like – just as I –
    Was out of work – had sold his traps –
     No other reason why.

     “Yes; quaint and curious war is!
     You shoot a fellow down
    You’d treat if met where any bar is,
     Or help to half-a-crown.”

A glass of chai

Three cups of chai, so the book says
Friendship in a small glass

Swirling leaves foretell uncertainty
The sugar always settles, final sip

We chose this open field, or you did
Or I did, our patrol, your incursion

Sovereign lands, foreign invaders
An afternoon stroll, armored, armed

You defended your lands, from us
We defended ourselves, from you

Is this what you wanted, we wanted
Boys playing at war, until we aren’t

Photo by Mehrshad Rajabi on Unsplash

The hero (Continued)

Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

    “Jack fell as he’d have wished,” the Mother said,
    And folded up the letter that she’d read.
    “The Colonel writes so nicely.” Something broke
    In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
    She half looked up. “We mothers are so proud
    Of our dead soldiers.” Then her face was bowed.

    Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
    He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
    That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
    For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
    Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
    Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

    He thought how “Jack,” cold-footed, useless swine,
    Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
    Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
    To get sent home; and how, at last, he died,
    Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
    Except that lonely woman with white hair.

More to excavate from this one it seems.

For what purpose

For what gain, means or result, why bother
It doesn’t belong on a resume, no job offers
Your children’s bellies, your families home
It won’t pay for a car, vacation, no benefit
Society will praise you, but offer nothing
An old story for the bar, garish blustering
They will thank you, admire you, shun you
Admirable alien, reminder of their faults
For what then, all risk, no reward, why?

You are right, but…
It is right, that is all it has to be

There will be whispers, fears, speculation
Did you? Was it a lie, a story, fabrication
A tinge of truth, inflated reality, fiction
Or worse, is it true? Was it true, horrors
Blood soaked, gunpowder blackened
Capable of, violence, killer, murderer
Did you like it? Do you still want it?
Are you, do you, have that, PTSD?
Snap, you could, maybe, a risk to us all

Then what?
Stay home, send someone else, who?

There is always someone else

No, we reject, deny, refute and rebel
We are not transactional, commercial
My brothers and sisters ignore the absurdity
Move forward to the line, past it, protect it
Sleep softly, warm, safe, nestled tight
Sheepdogs protect their flock, despite
Its rejection, fear, ignorance, cowardice
Selfish, or selfless, stories, told or forgotten
That isn’t the point, that is not the purpose

Then for what purpose?

Greater purpose.

Photo by Olivier Piquer on Unsplash