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