Adam Fenner's Blog, page 6

We Are One – Really? – Reviewed

Christine Bolton

Are we truly missing a piece
that only a lover can bring
to make us whole?
Who is to say?
Do we not function properly on our own?
We still love, still give, and still grieve
As individuals

Colors become mixed
Creating a new color of compromise
Sharing lives is hypnotic

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

We Are One – Really?

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Analysis

We Are One – Really? challenges the conventional notion that love is essential for completeness. Rather than outright rejecting love, the poem questions its common portrayal—as something that fills a void, requires compromise, or blurs personal identity. The speaker doesn’t argue against relationships but instead asks whether they always improve life. If love demands change, sacrifice, or the loss of one’s individuality, is it truly enriching, or does it take something away? Through a tone that is thoughtful, skeptical, and at times frustrated with love’s idealization, the poem explores these concerns in depth.

It begins with a probing question: Are we truly missing a piece / that only a lover can bring / to make us whole? This idea is deeply ingrained in society, from fairy tales to films to everyday conversations. People are told that love completes them, that a romantic partner is the key to fulfillment. However, the speaker interrupts this assumption with Who is to say?—a challenge that forces the reader to reconsider the idea. The next lines push further: Do we not function properly on our own? This question highlights an alternative perspective: even without romantic love, individuals experience deep emotions. We still love, still give, and still grieve / As individuals. The poem reminds the reader that love exists in many forms—friendship, passion, family connections—none of which depend on romance. The speaker argues that solitude does not equate to lacking.

As the poem progresses, it explores what happens when two individuals come together. Colors become mixed / Creating a new color of compromise. This metaphor captures both the beauty and the risk of relationships. Blending colors results in something new, but in doing so, the original hues are lost. Sharing lives is hypnotic / but can change who we are. The word hypnotic implies an almost unconscious transformation, suggesting that love can be so consuming that people may not even realize how much they are altering themselves. The next lines drive the point home: Negotiation and forfeiture come into play / Your life could become their life to direct. Love involves compromise, but at what cost? The poem warns against relationships where compromise turns into loss—where one person’s identity is overshadowed by the other. The speaker challenges the reader to consider whether love, in some cases, becomes more about control than connection.

The poem strongly opposes love that demands ownership. Free spirits live without permission / Alone or together. The phrase without permission stands out, suggesting that true love does not require one person to seek approval for their independence. The next lines reinforce this theme: One does not become the master of the other / The more superior of the two / Or the lesser of the two. Love should be a partnership of equals, not a hierarchy. The repetition of master, superior, lesser emphasizes how often relationships fall into imbalances of power. The poem rejects relationships where one partner dominates the other and instead promotes love built on mutual respect and autonomy.

A striking question follows: Is togetherness double the pleasure / Or half the joy? This flips the typical belief that love amplifies happiness. Instead, the speaker suggests that relationships may sometimes diminish it. The poem elaborates: Singly we are unshackled to revel in what we love / Freely and without constraint or concession. The words unshackled and constraint imply that relationships, even when well-intended, often come with restrictions. Being alone means having the freedom to pursue joy without adjusting to another’s expectations. The speaker does not dismiss relationships entirely but insists that their benefits should not be assumed.

The poem’s conclusion ties everything together. Can we not be happy by ourselves without the other being upset? There is an undertone of frustration here, as if the speaker has experienced the expectation that happiness should come exclusively from a partner. If one person finds joy outside the relationship, why should it be seen as neglect? The final question—Who wants selfish love?—is left open-ended but carries a clear implication: love should allow individuality, not demand conformity. If love means losing freedom, feeling guilty for independence, or shrinking to fit another’s expectations, then perhaps it is not love at all.

Structurally, the poem is fluid and conversational. The absence of a rigid rhyme scheme or meter makes it feel like an internal dialogue, a speaker thinking aloud, questioning long-held beliefs. The tone remains consistent—curious, skeptical, sometimes frustrated but never dismissive. The poem does not declare love as bad; rather, it refuses to accept the universal belief that love is always good, always necessary, always an enhancement. The persistent questioning forces the reader to examine their own beliefs about love and fulfillment.

The poem makes one thing clear: people are whole on their own. Love, when healthy, should add to a person’s life, not diminish it. If love requires someone to give up their identity, it is not love—it is control, dependence, or expectation. We Are One – Really? does not provide definitive answers, but it accomplishes something more valuable: it compels the reader to pause and rethink everything they have been told about love, relationships, and what it truly means to be complete.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

‘Waking’ – Reviewed

Hana Rubinstejnova

liberated statue with
chain around the legs
share an act of kindness
give us free range eggs

who knows where it leads
when kids build rockets

…

You may find the rest of the poem here

MIDNIGHT POETRY – ‘Waking’

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Analysis

Waking is about seeing things for what they really are. It looks at freedom, power, kindness, and conflict, but strips away the illusions that usually surround them. It doesn’t make a speech or demand action. It just lays things out plainly, showing how people are used, how power serves itself, and how most of us are kept just comfortable enough to stay passive. The speaker isn’t trying to convince anyone. They’re just waking up to something that can’t be ignored anymore.

It starts with a contradiction. Liberated statue with / chain around the legs. A statue is meant to stand for something permanent, an ideal—justice, victory, freedom. But here, that symbol is broken. It claims to be free, but it’s still chained. That image alone sets the tone for the rest of the poem. If something built to represent liberation is still trapped, what does that say about the world around it? It suggests that what we call freedom might not be as real as we think.

Share an act of kindness / give us free range eggs. It moves from something grand—freedom, statues, chains—to something almost ridiculous. Free range eggs are supposed to be an ethical choice, a way to feel good about consumption. But the phrase in this context feels empty, like kindness has been reduced to something small and marketable. And then there’s the deeper point: free range chickens aren’t actually free. They have more space, better conditions, but they’re still part of a system that exists to use them. Just like the statue, it’s another illusion. The world offers just enough comfort, just enough choice, to keep people from questioning the system itself.

The second stanza moves from these symbols to a larger pattern. Who knows where it leads / when kids build rockets / role play Robin Hood then / line their own pockets. It starts with childhood dreams—kids imagining a future, playing the hero. But somewhere along the way, those dreams shift. The kids who played Robin Hood—the symbol of taking from the rich to give to the poor—grow up and take for themselves instead. It’s not an accusation, just an observation. Maybe it’s corruption, maybe it’s survival, maybe it’s just the way the system is built. The point is that even the ones who start with good intentions often end up reinforcing the same cycle they wanted to break.

Then the poem moves to the people in charge. Status wealth and power / display of egos round a table. There’s no need to explain who these people are—it’s clear. Leaders, politicians, corporate executives. The people who shape the world, but not for the benefit of most. The phrase display of egos makes it obvious that it’s not about making real decisions. It’s about power, about looking important. Come to senses if you dare / and are still somewhat able. There’s a challenge here, but it doesn’t feel hopeful. It suggests that even if they wanted to wake up, to see clearly, they might not be able to anymore. Power has a way of making people blind, of trapping them in their own self-importance.

The last stanza, ties everything together. The machinery of conflict / is greatest source of drama / to keep us on the edge of seats / and still wearing pajama. Conflict isn’t just about control—it’s about entertainment. War, political battles, crises—these things keep people engaged, keep them watching, keep them feeling like they’re involved. But that’s all they do. The last line is sharp in its simplicity. People sit at home, watching war, watching corruption, watching the world unravel, but they don’t move. They stay in their pajamas. Maybe they feel informed, maybe they feel outraged, but they don’t act. And that’s how the system keeps going.

The poem is short, but nothing is wasted. The structure is tight, with short lines that make each idea stand on its own. There’s no excess, no filler. The tone is quiet, controlled. No big emotional outbursts, no dramatic language—just a steady unfolding of how things work. The pauses between the lines leave space to think, to sit with each idea before moving on. And that’s what makes it unsettling. It doesn’t tell the reader what to do with this knowledge. It just puts it there. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

And in the end, the image that lingers is the free range chicken. A creature that is given just enough space to feel free but is still part of a system designed to use it. The world works the same way. The question the poem leaves behind is whether we’re the ones wearing the chains without realizing it.

Photo by kaluci on Unsplash

Complications – Reviewed

Merlin Spielen

It is not your kisses
I miss the most.

It is simply
those moments
that slip past,
unmarked,
unremarkable—
mundane minuet
of you and I,
eating dinner,
doing dishes,
drinking tea…

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Complications

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Analysis

Complications is a poem about loss, but not in the way people usually think about it. It doesn’t focus on heartbreak or loneliness in a dramatic sense. It doesn’t dwell on big fights or regrets. Instead, it lingers on the small things—the little moments that were once part of everyday life but are now missing. Whether this is about a breakup or the passing of a spouse, the feeling is the same. When someone is gone, what hurts the most isn’t just their absence. It’s the empty spaces where they used to be.

Right from the start, the poem sets up an expectation and then immediately turns away from it. It is not your kisses I miss the most. That could have been the focus—the passion, the romance, the grand moments of love. But it isn’t. Instead, the poem shifts toward the moments that slip past, unmarked, unremarkable. It’s not the special occasions that linger in memory, but the quiet, ordinary ones—eating dinner, doing dishes, drinking tea… The ellipsis at the end suggests that the list could go on forever, that there are so many more little things lost in time.

The structure is simple, flowing like a thought that unfolds naturally. The short lines make it feel personal, like someone speaking quietly, lost in their own memories. The line breaks slow the poem down, making each thought feel deliberate. The words don’t rush; they settle. The speaker is lingering in these moments, trying to hold onto them before they fade.

I yearn for the extra ordinary times of you and I. The break in “extraordinary” is important. The speaker isn’t talking about grand, unforgettable moments. They are talking about extra ordinary—more of the ordinary, more of what once felt routine but is now deeply missed. Love isn’t just in passion or excitement. It’s in the small moments of intermingling, laughing and entwined. The repetition of “and” makes it feel fluid, like these moments naturally blended together, creating a life that felt whole.

Then, the poem moves into physical intimacy, but not in the way that might be expected. The speaker isn’t reminiscing about passion. They aren’t longing for the rising or falling, not even the glory. Instead, they miss the spaces in between the tangled sheets. This is a different kind of closeness—the quiet kind, the kind that happens in the pauses, in the comfort of just being next to someone. There’s a softness to this that makes the absence feel even heavier.

In the final stanza, everything is stripped down to its simplest form. The speaker doesn’t long for passion, or excitement, or even love in its grandest sense. They long for simply you, / simply me. The repetition of simply drives the point home. Love, at its core, isn’t complicated. It’s just two people being together. Converging, conversing, being simple, unadulterated, us. The final word—us—is left hanging on its own. It’s small, but it carries all the weight of the poem.

The tone is soft, almost hushed. There’s sadness, but it’s not dramatic. It’s not about heartbreak in the traditional sense. It’s about absence. The absence of the everyday, the absence of the familiar, the absence of us. The poem doesn’t beg for anything. It doesn’t rage against loss. It just lingers in that space, remembering. And that’s what makes it feel real. It captures the way love is felt after it’s gone—not in the big, cinematic moments, but in the quiet spaces where it used to be.

Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

Flower, perhaps! – Reviewed

Shreya Sharma

I would love to bask in the glory of God,
And to be buttered up by honeyed butterflies.
I would love to be swaying beneath the humongous skies,
And go large and endless amidst the vast fields.
And so, I would love to be a flower!

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Flower, perhaps!

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Analysis

There’s something honest about Flower, perhaps!. It isn’t weighed down by complicated ideas or abstract metaphors. It’s a simple wish, but one that carries a quiet depth. The speaker doesn’t want to be a hero, a ruler, or even another person. They want to be a flower—something small, yet essential, something admired for its beauty but also valued for what it gives. A flower isn’t just decoration. It feeds bees, marks life’s biggest moments, and fills the world with color. The poem embraces this idea completely.

At its core, the poem answers a question—if you could be someone else, who would you be? The speaker’s choice of a flower is surprising. A flower has no power. It doesn’t speak or make choices. It simply exists. But that’s what makes it so meaningful. A flower is part of something greater. It thrives under the sun, sways in the wind, and gives life to the creatures around it. It is both fragile and important, both temporary and unforgettable.

The poem opens with a sense of wonder, reaching for something beyond the ordinary. I would love to bask in the glory of God. It’s not just about sunlight; it suggests something sacred, as if blooming is a kind of worship. The images that follow reinforce that feeling—buttered up by honeyed butterflies, swaying beneath humongous skies. The flower is not lifeless or still. It moves, expands, and takes part in the world. It may be small, but it belongs to something vast.

Then the perspective shifts. The flower is not just a part of nature; it becomes woven into human life. Bliss among the lovers, visited by hundreds of bumblebees. It is placed in sanctuaries, offered at weddings and funerals. It doesn’t need words to carry meaning. It is cherished in times of joy and sorrow alike. The speaker’s wish is not just to exist, but to matter—to be something that people reach for in their most tender moments.

What makes this wish stand out is its humility. The speaker doesn’t ask for a grand purpose. They don’t even ask to last. A flower is temporary. It blooms, it fades, it is plucked and forgotten. The poem doesn’t state this outright, but it lingers underneath. To be a flower is to be noticed and loved, but only for a short while. Maybe the speaker understands that. Maybe they even embrace it. They don’t ask for permanence, only to be something meaningful, even briefly.

The structure is simple. The speaker lists reasons for their wish, then repeats it—I would love to be a flower! Each repetition strengthens the feeling, making it sound more certain each time. The rhythm flows naturally, like someone speaking their thoughts aloud, realizing with every line how much they truly want this.

There’s something bittersweet about the choice. Flowers don’t control their fate. They grow where they are planted. They are stepped on, picked, and pressed between pages. But the speaker doesn’t fear that. They accept both joy and sorrow, knowing that a flower’s existence, no matter how brief, still holds meaning. And maybe that’s what makes the poem so compelling. It’s not about longing for greatness. It’s about wanting to be something small, fleeting, but full of life. A flower, perhaps.

Photo by MIO ITO on Unsplash

The Supremer Sacrifice – Reviewed

Furnley Maurice

(In the prisons of England many conscientious objectors have gone gradually insane. – Author’s note)

Close now the door; shut down the light:
Yet can these walls my wrath provoke,
While on the altar of my Right
My brain burns into smoke?

Close now the door, and lock the chain,
Men have me judged, and I am glad:
I shall not cry out in my pain,
I will go slowly mad.

Some drink the dregs of duty’s cup,
Some die, or dare their marvels through,
But I will give my reason up
For things that I hold true.

The known is merged in the unknown,
The serpent nestles to the dove,
And I lay all God’s beauty down
For the great God I love.

The fragrant branches wet with rain,
The babes and bushes by the door,
The dreams that wrack my mortal brain
Shall trouble me no more.

But I will sit, with a mild stare,
And count the rain-drips one by one;
I shall not know the sun is there
When next I see the sun.

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Analysis

Some sacrifices are loud—graves, medals, names carved in stone. Others happen in silence, behind locked doors, unseen and unrecognized. The Supremer Sacrifice is about one of those quiet sacrifices, one that is neither honored nor understood but still demands everything. The speaker is a conscientious objector, refusing to fight not out of fear, but because their morality won’t allow it. The world calls them a coward, but they see something higher. And for that, they are willing to lose everything, even their sanity.

There is no victory here. No hope, no relief, no moment where the suffering leads to something greater. The choice has been made, but it is not triumphant. The poem does not resist war so that something better can replace it. It only walks through the consequences of that refusal—loneliness, madness, and a mind unraveling beyond repair.

It begins with confinement. The door closes, the light disappears. That’s the first reality. Not ideals, not righteousness—just the cold fact of being locked away. But the prison itself isn’t what breaks the speaker. Yet can these walls my wrath provoke? They do not rage, do not fight against their captors. The real battle is inside. My brain burns into smoke. Not with passion, not with defiance, but with something slow, something that disappears into nothing.

Judgment comes next. Men have me judged, and I am glad. No defense, no argument, no attempt to justify. The sentence is not death or torture—it is madness. I shall not cry out in my pain, / I will go slowly mad. This is not suffering in the way most people understand it. There is no dramatic climax, just the slow destruction of the self. And they do not resist.

Then, the contrast. Other men go to war. Some die in battle, some drink the last bitter dregs of duty, but the speaker chooses something else. I will give my reason up / For things that I hold true. It is a sacrifice, but not one that earns medals. Losing the mind is not an honorable death, not a moment of clarity. It is just loss, endless and unseen.

Then the world starts to shift. The known is merged in the unknown, / The serpent nestles to the dove. Thought itself collapses. Opposites blur, meaning dissolves. And still, they do not fight it. I lay all God’s beauty down / For the great God I love. They give up everything—every bright and living thing—for a belief that demands total surrender.

The fragrant branches wet with rain, / The babes and bushes by the door. Not grand things. Small, ordinary details—the pieces of a life that no longer belongs to them. But even those last thoughts are slipping away. The dreams that wrack my mortal brain / Shall trouble me no more. No hope of return, no way back to what they once were.

Finally, the final surrender. I will sit, with a mild stare, / And count the rain-drips one by one. No resistance. No feeling. Just the slow counting of something meaningless, because meaning itself is fading. And then the last lines: I shall not know the sun is there / When next I see the sun. If they ever leave that cell, the world will still exist, but they will not be the same person who once lived in it.

The poem does not ask for pity. It does not argue. It only shows what is lost. Some men will not fight, and instead of death, they face something slower, quieter. They choose to be forgotten, to be despised, to disappear into madness rather than take a life. The world will not honor them, but the poem does. It does not make them heroes. It only refuses to look away.

Photo by Grant Durr on Unsplash

Recruiting – Reviewed

Ewart Alan Mackintosh

Lads, you’re wanted, go and help,’
On the railway carriage wall
Stuck the poster, and I thought
Of the hands that penned the call.

Fat civilians wishing they
‘Could go out and fight the Hun.’
Can’t you see them thanking God
That they’re over forty-one?

Girls with feathers, vulgar songs –
“Washy verse on England’s need –
God – and don’t we damned well know
How the message ought to read.

‘Lads, you’re wanted! over there,’
Shiver in the morning dew,
More poor devils like yourselves
Waiting to be killed by you.

Go and help to swell the names
In the casualty lists.
Help to make a column’s stuff
For the blasted journalists.

Help to keep them nice and safe
From the wicked German foe.
Don’t let him come over here!
‘Lads, you’re wanted – out you go.’

* * * * *
There’s a better word than that,
Lads, and can’t you hear it come
From a million men that call
You to share their martyrdom.

Leave the harlots still to sing
Comic songs about the Hun,
Leave the fat old men to say
Now we’ve got them on the run.

Better twenty honest years
Than their dull three score and ten.
Lads, you’re wanted. Come and learn
To live and die with honest men.

You shall learn what men can do
If you will but pay the price,
Learn the gaiety and strength
In the gallant sacrifice.

Take your risk of life and death
Underneath the open sky.
Live clean or go out quick –
Lads, you’re wanted. Come and die.

You may find this and other poems here.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Recruiting” is angry. It doesn’t plead, mourn, or persuade—it just tears into the recruitment machine, the people who feed it, and the lies they spread. It has no patience for war dressed up as duty and honor. It spits on the posters, the speeches, the songs, the fake heroics. It doesn’t even dignify war with tragedy—just strips it down to the truth.

It begins with an image familiar in wartime Britain: a recruitment poster. Lads, you’re wanted, go and help. But the poem doesn’t focus on the words—it focuses on the hands that wrote them. Who decided these men should go? Not soldiers. Not the ones who will die. That crack in the message widens: those pushing for war are never the ones who pay its price.

The poem then attacks them directly. Fat civilians sit safely at home, pretending they wish they could fight while thanking God they’re over forty-one. They admire soldiers from a distance, but it’s all a lie. They enjoy war as long as it’s others dying. The poem doesn’t just criticize them—it hates them.

Girls with feathers, vulgar songs. They hand out white feathers, shaming men into enlisting. They sing recruitment songs, wrapping war in cheap patriotism. But the soldiers already know what war is. God—and don’t we damned well know / How the message ought to read? The truth is simple: they are wanted only to replace the dead. Shiver in the morning dew, waiting to kill and be killed. That is the only promise war keeps.

It doesn’t stop there. The poem keeps peeling back the layers, exposing the machine that turns war into a spectacle. These young men aren’t just fighting; they are a column’s stuff / For the blasted journalists. Their deaths will become headlines, statistics, forgotten names. They are not being protected. They are the protection—the ones who die so others don’t have to.

Then comes the shift. The asterisks mark a pause, a breath before something new. The first half is rage—sarcastic, mocking, furious. But the second half speaks in another voice.

Now, the call to war comes from the dead themselves. A million men that call / You to share their martyrdom. They do not promise victory or ease. They only tell the truth. Here, the poem does something dangerous. It has spent so much time tearing down propaganda, but now it offers something almost like a reason to fight. Better twenty honest years / Than their dull three score and ten. A short, full life over a long, empty one. War, it suggests, at least offers something real. A chance to be among honest men. A chance to learn what sacrifice means.

And here is the contradiction. The poem exposes everything—the false patriotism, the hypocrisy of those who send others to die, the way war is sold as something noble when it is just slaughter. But it does not tell young men to refuse. It does not say stay home. Instead, it tells them: if you go, at least you will know the truth. At least you will stand among men who understand what is real.

The final lines are the hardest blow. Take your risk of life and death / Underneath the open sky. War is a gamble. There is no safety. Live clean or go out quick. Fight and hold onto whatever discipline you can, or die. Those are the only choices.

And then the final words. Lads, you’re wanted. Come and die. The same message as the recruitment posters—stripped of illusion. No duty, no noble cause, no promise of honor. Just death. That is all war asks of them.

And yet—the poem does not say don’t go. That is its final contradiction. It has no respect for those who push war from a distance, no patience for cowards who make speeches and write songs while staying safe. It rips apart the idea that war is heroic, but it also has no sympathy for those who refuse to fight. It offers no alternative. It does not pretend there is a way out. It only says: this is war. If you go, you will die. But at least you will know what that means.

The structure makes the message even sharper. The first half is fast, cutting, mocking. The second half is slower, heavier, like the voice of someone who has already accepted death. At first, the poem sneers. By the end, it has stopped laughing. It has stopped arguing. It has simply laid out the truth.

“Recruiting” is not about heroism, patriotism, or duty. It is about stripping everything down until only reality remains. It hates those who treat war lightly, who glorify it without paying its price. It exposes every lie. And then, at the end, it refuses to say there is another choice. It does not comfort or inspire. It just says: if you go, you will die. And if you don’t, you will live knowing others have died in your place.

There is no answer. No escape. Just the truth.

Photo by Антон Дмитриев on Unsplash

Hymn Before Action – Reviewed

Rudyard Kipling

The earth is full of anger,
The seas are dark with wrath,
The Nations in their harness
Go up against our path:
Ere yet we loose the legions —
Ere yet we draw the blade,
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,
Proud heart, rebellious brow —
Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
We seek Thy mercy now!
The sinner that forswore Thee,
The fool that passed Thee by,
Our times are known before Thee —
Lord, grant us strength to die!

For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone.
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.

From panic, pride, and terror,
Revenge that knows no rein,
Light haste and lawless error,
Protect us yet again.
Cloak Thou our undeserving,
Make firm the shuddering breath,
In silence and unswerving
To taste Thy lesser death!

Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,
Remember, reach and save
The soul that comes to-morrow
Before the God that gave!
Since each was born of woman,
For each at utter need —
True comrade and true foeman —
Madonna, intercede!

E’en now their vanguard gathers,
E’en now we face the fray —
As Thou didst help our fathers,
Help Thou our host to-day!
Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
In life, in death made clear —
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, hear!

You may find this and other poems here.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

Rudyard Kipling’s Hymn Before Action is a poem about war, but it differs from the poetry of soldiers who experienced battle firsthand. It does not describe mud, blood, or horror. It does not question the justice of the war or the decisions of leaders. Instead, it is a poem of preparation—an appeal for strength, discipline, and the courage to face death without breaking. There is no expectation of survival, nor is there a promise of victory. The poem is a prayer, not for deliverance, but for the ability to endure.

The poem begins with an image of the world on the brink of war. The earth is angry, the sea is restless, and nations are marching. There is no stopping what is coming. The soldiers in the poem do not ask why they are fighting. They do not question their orders or expect to be spared. Instead, they turn to God, seeking aid—not to win the battle, but to withstand its trials. This sets the tone: this is not a poem about glory, but about duty.

The second stanza is a confession. The soldiers do not claim righteousness. They acknowledge their flaws—pride, rebellion, and carelessness. They admit they have neglected faith in the past, but now, with death looming, they seek God’s mercy. The most striking line in this section, “Lord, grant us strength to die!”, captures the poem’s essence. There is no request for protection or hope for a safe return. The soldiers understand that many of them will not survive, and they ask only for the fortitude to face their fate. This is what makes Hymn Before Action unique. It does not offer false hope. It speaks plainly: death is inevitable, and they must meet it with strength.

The poem also acknowledges the presence of men who do not share the same faith—those who “kneel beside us at altars not Thine own.” Instead of condemning them, the poem asks God to spare them from wrath. If calling them to war was a mistake, the blame should not be placed on them. Here, Kipling makes an important distinction: the soldiers are not responsible for the war itself. They are called to fight, and they answer, regardless of whether the cause is just.

A particularly revealing moment in the poem is when the soldiers ask not for protection from the enemy, but from themselves. War does not only kill—it changes people. It breeds fear, panic, and vengeance. The poem pleads for steadiness, for discipline, for the ability to resist hatred. It emphasizes that even in the midst of battle, soldiers must not become monsters. War has rules, and they must hold to them.

The most human moment comes in the appeal to Mary. Here, the soldiers are no longer warriors, but simply people—born, afraid, and vulnerable like everyone else. The plea, “Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow, remember, reach and save”, shifts the focus. It is not about battle anymore; it is about what comes after. The soldiers hope they will not be forgotten.

Kipling’s poem is structured and controlled, lacking excitement or rage. It does not celebrate war, nor does it depict its horrors. It simply prepares soldiers for what is coming. Fear and uncertainty do not matter. They must push forward. They must be ready.

This is where Hymn Before Action differs from the poetry of soldiers who truly experienced war. Kipling was not a soldier. He wrote from the outside, imagining war as something structured, something with purpose. His poem assumes that war is part of a greater plan and that soldiers must prepare themselves physically and spiritually. It is a poem about faith, duty, and the resolve to meet death.

By contrast, poets who lived through war saw it differently. Wilfred Owen’s Anthem for Doomed Youth questions what kind of prayers the dead receive, answering with gunfire, battle sounds, and fading daylight. In Dulce et Decorum Est, Owen portrays soldiers as broken, exhausted, and coughing up blood—war is not noble, but sickness and death. Siegfried Sassoon’s poetry seethes with anger, targeting generals, governments, and those who romanticize war. His Base Details mocks officers who send young men to die while they remain safe, and Glory of Women attacks those at home who blindly praise war.

Kipling’s poem does not share this bitterness. It does not see war from the trenches, but from the moment before battle, when soldiers still believe in discipline and divine purpose. It is not a poem of disillusionment, but of preparation, belonging to a world where war can still be met with faith and courage.

Kipling himself believed in duty and sacrifice, supporting the British Empire. However, his view of war changed after his son John was killed in World War I. Afterward, his writing became more aware of war’s cost, more bitter. Hymn Before Action was written before that loss, in a time when war could still be imagined as something structured and meaningful.

The poem is powerful, but it does not capture the reality of war as experienced by those who fought. It does not describe gas attacks, trench foot, or the sight of friends dying in the mud. It does not ask what happens when prayers go unanswered. It only asks for strength. For soldiers preparing to fight, that may have been enough. For those who survived, who saw war for what it truly was, it would not have been.

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Ballad Of Army Pay – Reviewed

F.W. Harvey

In general, if you want a man to do a dangerous job : —
Say, swim the Channel, climb St. Paul’s, or break into and rob
The Bank of England, why, you find his wages must be higher
Than if you merely wanted him to Fight the kitchen fire.
But in the British Army, it’s just the other way.
And the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay.
You put some men inside a trench, and call them infantrie,
And make them face ten kinds of hell, and face it cheerfully ;
And live in holes like rats, with other rats, and lice, and toads,
And in their leisure time, assist the R.E.’s with their loads.
Then, when they’ve done it all, you give ’em each a bob a day !
For the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay.
We won’t run down the A.S.C., nor yet the R.T.O.
They ration and direct us on the way we’ve got to go.
They’re very useful people, and it’s pretty plain to see
We couldn’t do without ’em, nor yet the A.P.C.
But comparing risks and wages, — I think they all will say
That the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay.
There are men who make munitions — and seventy bob a week ;
They never see a lousy trench nor hear a big shell shriek ;
And others sing about the war at high-class music-halls
Getting heaps and heaps of money and encores from the stalls.
They ‘ keep the home fires burning ‘ and bright by night and day.
While the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay.
I wonder if it’s harder to make big shells at a bench,
Than to face the screaming beggars when they’re crumping up a trench ;
I wonder if it’s harder to sing in mellow tones
Of danger, than to face it — say, in a wood like Trone’s ; *
Is discipline skilled labour, or something children play ?
Should the maximum of danger mean the minimum of pay ?

You may find this and other poems here.

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Author’s note: Written in World War 1, there is great satisfaction reading about how soldiers never stopped complaining about their pay. I get the whys but…

Analysis

“Ballad of Army Pay” is about unfairness. It lays out, in simple terms, that the men facing the most danger in war are the ones who are paid the least. The poet does not just say this outright—he shows it by comparing soldiers to others involved in the war effort. The phrase “the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay” is repeated like a chant, making sure the reader cannot miss the point. There is no focus on patriotism or duty here. The poem is about money. If wages reflect what someone is worth, then soldiers are worth almost nothing.

The poem does not treat this as an accident. It starts by looking at how pay usually works in dangerous jobs. If someone is asked to do something risky, like swim the Channel or rob a bank, they expect high wages. But in the army, it is the other way around. The more dangerous the job, the lower the pay. The reason is not spelled out, but the logic is clear—soldiers are easy to replace. Their lives are cheap because there is always another man to take their place.

This becomes even clearer when the poem compares soldiers to other workers. Munitions workers make seventy shillings a week, while soldiers in the trenches make just one. The workers never see battle, never hear an explosion over their heads, never live in mud alongside rats and lice. Yet they are paid far more. The reason is obvious: skilled labor is hard to replace. Training someone to build weapons takes time, but any able-bodied man can be handed a rifle and sent to fight. The poem does not explain this outright, but the contrast makes it clear. Soldiers are replaceable, so their pay stays low.

The poem does not just focus on factory workers. It also points to entertainers who sing patriotic war songs. They make money and receive applause while the men they sing about are dying. The poet does not attack them directly, but the comparison is meant to feel absurd. They are rewarded because people are willing to pay for entertainment. A soldier’s work is not valued the same way because there will always be more men willing—or forced—to do it.

The military itself is not spared. The poem brings up the Army Service Corps (A.S.C.), Railway Transport Officers (R.T.O.), and Army Pay Corps (A.P.C.), all of whom perform necessary jobs. The poet does not dismiss their work. In fact, he admits the army could not function without them. But their jobs are safer, and yet their pay is better. Even within the army, those furthest from combat make the most. This is another sign of how the system values people.

The last stanza shifts from comparisons to direct questions. The poet asks whether making shells in a factory is really harder than dodging them in battle. Whether singing about war is harder than fighting in one. Whether discipline—the thing that holds the army together—is really worth so little. These questions do not need answers. The poem has already made them obvious. The way soldiers are paid shows exactly how much—or how little—their lives are worth to those in charge.

This is not just about the army. The poem also says something about the community as a whole. Low pay for soldiers means that society does not see them as valuable workers. In most jobs, people are paid according to skill, experience, or risk. The army does not work that way. The low pay suggests that anyone can be a soldier and that if one dies, there is always another to replace him. The war machine keeps moving, and individuals do not matter. This is not just about money. It is about what a soldier’s life is worth, not just to the government, but to the entire system that supports the war.

The tone of the poem is bitter but not hopeless. There is frustration in the words, but also dark humor. The sarcasm makes the unfairness more obvious by showing how ridiculous it is. The repetition of the key phrase ensures that the message sticks. By the time the poem ends, there is no doubt about what it is trying to say: the soldiers fighting and dying in the war are being treated unfairly, and no one seems to care. The poem does not just complain about the problem—it forces the reader to see it. It does not ask for sympathy. It demands fairness.

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Dryad – Reviewed

 A J Dalton

His axe didn’t save him
for all that he swung it
like a mighty hero of old
snarling and spitting disdain
sweat rolling from his tousled brow
maybe blurring his vision
his heavy muscles bunched and glistening
in an impressive display of manhood.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

“Dryad” – new A J Dalton poem available #scifi #poetry

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Analysis

“Dryad” is a poem about revenge, but also about consequences. It tells the story of a woodsman who is killed by the fey after cutting down trees. He fights back, prays to his god, and begs for his life, but nothing saves him. The fey do not forgive. The poem feels like a myth, but it speaks to a modern issue: the destruction of nature and the growing consequences of climate change. The woodsman is not just one man—he represents humanity’s approach to the natural world, taking and destroying without considering the long-term cost. The fey, in this reading, are not just magical beings but the voice of nature itself, finally striking back.

The structure of the poem builds on this idea. It moves in three clear sections, each one listing something that could have saved the woodsman but didn’t. First, his physical strength fails him. The poem describes him as a warrior, muscles tense, sweat rolling, swinging his axe with force. He believes in his power, but it means nothing in the end. This reflects the way humanity has approached nature for centuries—believing that strength, industry, and effort will always provide solutions. But nature does not care about strength. The woodsman, despite his power, is doomed.

Next, his prayers fail. He turns to his war god, hoping for protection, but the fey do not listen. The poem suggests that faith is not enough. Climate change will not be stopped by belief or tradition. There is no higher power coming to fix things. The fey do not accept the idea that everything can be forgiven just because he asks. This challenges the assumption that things will always work out in the end, that the damage humans have caused can be undone by simply wanting it to be. The fey operate by their own rules, just as nature does.

Finally, his pleas fail. He speaks of his people, the cities they live in, the homes built from fallen trees, but none of it matters. The fey do not see progress, only destruction. This is where the poem is most connected to climate change. The modern world is built on what has been taken from nature—forests turned into buildings, rivers redirected, land reshaped to fit human needs. But the poem suggests there is a limit, and when it is crossed, nature will respond with the same mercilessness it has suffered. The fey do not show mercy because humans have never shown mercy to the earth.

The tone of the poem is unflinching. It does not soften the woodsman’s fate, nor does it make him a tragic figure. He is simply experiencing the consequences of his actions. The fey’s revenge is brutal, but there is no suggestion that it is unjust. The world has taken from them, so they take back. This reflects the growing fear that climate change is no longer something to be prevented, but something to be endured. The storms, wildfires, and rising temperatures are not a warning anymore—they are the answer to what has already been done.

Then comes the last line: “perhaps it was all to our shame.” This moment shifts the meaning of the poem. Up until now, the fey have been relentless, punishing the woodsman with the same ruthlessness he showed the trees. But here, there is hesitation. There is regret. If the fey are nature itself, then even nature may not want what is coming. Storms, droughts, floods—these things do not have intent, but they bring destruction. The damage humans have caused may be answered with destruction in return, but the poem raises a question: will anything be left afterward?

The poem does not suggest that revenge will fix anything. It does not frame the fey as saviors or the woodsman as a villain. It simply presents the inevitability of what happens when destruction goes too far. The structure reinforces this idea—each failed attempt to save himself pushes the woodsman closer to death, making his fate feel unavoidable. The fey’s final action is merciless, but the last line stops it from being a simple story of justice. The poem does not ask whether humanity deserves what is coming. It only asks whether anything can stop it.

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Light Loss – Reviewed

John Le Gay Brereton

“Our loss was light,” the paper said,
“Compared with damage to the Hun”:
She was a widow, and she read
One name upon the list of dead
—Her son—her only son.

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Analysis

“Light Loss” is a brief poem, but it delivers a strong critique of how war casualties are reported. It follows a widow reading about her son’s death in the newspaper. The first two lines come from the paper itself, stating that the loss was small compared to what the enemy suffered. Then the poem shifts to the mother—she finds her son’s name, her only son, on the list of the dead. The poem does not describe her reaction. It does not say if she cries, screams, or feels numb. It only presents the fact: her son is dead, and the newspaper calls it a “light loss.” This contrast between the official statement and the personal reality is what makes the poem so powerful.

Governments have to keep people motivated during war. They cannot dwell on every death, or morale might suffer. Casualty reports need to frame losses in a way that keeps the public focused on the larger goal. The phrase “Our loss was light” is meant to be reassuring. It suggests that the war effort is going well, that the sacrifices are small compared to the gains. If every loss were treated as an individual tragedy, people might begin questioning whether the war is worth it. The state needs to think in terms of numbers. But war is not experienced that way. The government speaks in statistics, while the widow sees only one name. That name is everything to her.

The poem does not argue that the government is lying. The numbers might be accurate. The loss may really be small compared to the enemy’s. But the poem makes it clear that this kind of language has a cost. The widow is alone with her grief. The newspaper’s reassurance means nothing to her. It does not matter how many enemy soldiers died. It does not matter that the total number of casualties is low. Her son is gone, and no number can make that loss feel light.

The poem’s structure reinforces this message. The first two lines present the official account. The last three shift to the widow’s reality. This division highlights the gap between how war is reported and how it is felt. The tone is quiet, restrained. The final words—“her son—her only son”—say everything. The state sees war in numbers. She sees it in a single death. The poem does not tell the reader what to think, but it makes it clear that no loss is ever truly light.

This is not a poem about battle or patriotism. It does not argue for or against the war itself. It does not need to. Its focus is on the way death is counted, the way human lives are reduced to numbers in a report. The state sees death as something necessary, something that can be measured. The widow sees death as something absolute. The poem does not say that the government should change how it reports war deaths. It does not suggest that the widow’s grief should be placed above the needs of the nation. It simply presents both realities side by side—the need for war to be framed in a way that keeps people going, and the unavoidable pain that comes from reducing human lives to statistics. It shows that war is not just fought on the battlefield. It is also fought in language, in the way loss is presented, in the way people are asked to keep moving forward even when their personal world has been shattered.

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