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

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