Warrior Poems

[flavia]

[
There seems to have been a place for mercenaries in all periods of history. I like the last verse in particular. Flavia

Madam, did you found the answer on your question about Archilochos?

Kind regards

Hi Yes I did and thanks. Istill like him even though he left his shield behind and ran( to get revenge some other day no doubt) Flavia

[TFLAVIUSAMBIORIX]

Robert,
that is one of the few poems that is in any way close to truthful.
When people glorify killing I tell them this simple thing: Imagine your girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/etc., imagine your best friend, etc. now imagine all these people taken away, or crippled. that is what you do to people just like yourself when you take a life, or maim in combat.

and before you guys say anything-yes, I am in the military, I refuse to do anything in which I might have to kill another human being, I do medical work for the Michigan state guard (MVDF), nobody has to go kill anyone, we should all learn that war is only a destructive thing, and every soldier killed is the loss of that loved one for another person.

think about it guys.............

I know, I m such a dirty hippy :lol:

[Robert Vermaat]

Hi John,
Yes, I like that poem also. It's not sanctimonious, but a hard warning against 'dreams of glory' and similar vanities. To kill for your loved ones I can fully understand, but to kill or die 'for the glory of the nation' is a hollow phrase, mis-used time and again by politicians over the last centuries.
And before anyone tells me that these words might be insulting to those who serve I hasted to add that they are not meant that way. But no-one asks the families of the fallen and the maimed what they think of it.

Which reminds me - a survivor of the London subway bombing spoke on a recent BBC documentary and revealed that - despite the hospital being situated across Whitehall - no member of the government had ever visited the victims. Which was very surprising to him because of all the bravado and big words uttered in the media by members of that same government. It was therefore all the more surprising that his wife (who lost both legs) was visited by her Prime Minister (she's from Australia) within a very short time.

The 'state' only glorifies its heroes when they have a use for them.

[TFLAVIUSAMBIORIX]

yes, see the story of Vasili Zeitsev (sic?)

he was used as soviet propaganda (in fact, the whole duel between major koenig never happened hock: ) but after the war he spoke for more democracy, and was sent to live, not in a gulag, but still an exiled area of siberia with no phones or communication, just to keep him out of stalin's way. BTW, he was mostly blinded by shrapnel on Jan. 20 1942.

the poem is certainly not offensive to servicemen, 'it is the soldier that despises war the most, for he is the one that must suffer from it' as is said in many an old adage.

[TFLAVIUSAMBIORIX]

chris,
the minstrel boy has one more verse that was thrown out in most publications of it:

The minstrel boy will return we pray,
when he does we all shall cheer him,
torn perhaps in body,
but not in mind nor spirit.

then may he play his harp in peace,
in a world such as heaven intended,
for all the bitterness of man must cease,
and all wars must be ended.

[Arthes]

Greetings,
I always liked Wilfred Owen when younger, still have a book of his poems.
The way I see it, when it comes to war, nobody should be ordered to do anything by somebody that is not prepared to do it themselves.
As for the government ministers during the London bombings, they were busily telling the 'plebs' to 'carry on as normal' and no doubt, hiding somewhere well away from potentially exploding buses.

The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke
1887-1915

[TFLAVIUSAMBIORIX]

COMRADES: AN EPISODE

Before, before he was aware
The 'Verey' light had risen...on the air
It hung glistering...
And he could not stay his hand
From moving to the barbed wire's broken strand
A rifle cracked.
He fell.
Night warned. He was alone. A heavy shell
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead.
His wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled
On to the glimmering ground.
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound,
Knowing, of course, he'd not see home again-
Home whose thought he put away.
His men
Whispered: 'Where's Mister Gates?' 'Out on the wire.'
'I'll get him ' said one...
Dawn blinked, and the fire
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line.
'Stand to!'
Too late! I'll get him.' 'O the swine!
When we might get him in yet safe and whole!'
'Corporal didn't see 'un fall out on patrol,
Or he'd ' a got 'un.' 'Sssh!'
'No talking there.'
A whisper: 'A went down at the last flare.'
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked; their swish
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish.
No hope for him!
His corporal, as one shamed,
Vainly and helplessly his ill-lucked blamed.



Then Gates slowly saw the morn
Break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass
Of No Man's Land...
And the tears came
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame.
He closed his eyes: he thought of home
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come...



The silent sun over the earth held sway,
Occasional rifles cracked and far away
A heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone,
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone.
'I must get back', said Gates aloud, and heaved
At his body. but it lay bereaved
Of any power. He could not wait till night...
And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight.
Then with a groan:
'No luck ever! Well, I must die alone.'



Occasional rifles cracked. A cloud that shone,
gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone...
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play.
Someone whistled: 'Over the hills and far away'.
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun
Burning his life before it was begun.



Suddenly he heard Corporal Timmins' voice: "Now then,
'Urry up with that tea.'
'Hi Ginger!' 'Bill!' His men!
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson (the 'bard'),
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard
Not to see them: Wilkinson, stubby, grim,
With his 'No, sir.' and the slim
Simpson: 'Indeed, sir?' (while it seemed he winked
Because his smiling left eye always blinked)
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blond and wise,
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes;
And all the others...tunics that didn't fit...
A dozen different sorts of eyes. O it
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no:
'I've got to die. I'll get to them. I'll go.'



Inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute,
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute...
His head was hammering, and his eyes were dim;
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him
And freeze along his spine...Then he'd lie still
Before another effort of his will
Took him one nearer yard.
The parapet was reached.
He could not rise to it. A lookout screeched:
'Mr Gates!'
Three figures in one breath
Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death'
And Gates was lifted in. 'Who's hit?' said he.
'Tammins and Jones.''Why did they that for me?-
I'm gone already!' Gently they laid him prone
And silently watched.
He twitched. They heard him moan



'Why for me?' His eyes roamed around, and none replied.
'I see it was alone I should have died.'
They shook their heads. Then, 'Is the doctor here?'
'He's coming sir; he's hurryin', no fear.'
'No good...
Lift me.' They lifted him.
He smiled and held his arms out to the dim,
And in a moment passed beyond their ken,
Hearing him whisper, 'O my men, my men!'


By: Robert Nichols

[Arthes]

The Ruin

The city buildings fell apart, the works
Of giants crumble. Tumbled are the towers
Ruined the roofs, and broken the barred gate,
Frost in the plaster, all the ceilings gape,
Torn and collapsed and eaten up by age.
And grit holds in its grip, the hard embrace
Of earth, the dead-departed master-builders,
Until a hundred generations now
Of people have passed by. Often this wall
Stained red and grey with lichen has stood by
Surviving storms while kingdoms rose and fell.
And now the high curved wall itself has fallen.
.......
Wrætlic is þes wealstan; wyrde gebræcon,
burgstede burston, brosnað enta geweorc.
Hrofas sind gehrorene, hreorge torras,
hrungeat berofen, hrim on lime,
scearde scurbeorge scorene, gedorene,
Aeldo undereotone. Eorðgrop hafað
waldendwyrhtan, forweorone, geleorene
heard gripe hrusan, oþ hund cnea
werþeoda gewitan. Oft þæs wag gebad,
ræghar and readfah, rice æfter oþrum,
ofstondem under stormum; steap geap gedreas............................................
.......
The heart inspired, incited to swift action.
Resolute masons, skilled in rounded building
Wondrously linked the framework with iron bonds.
The public halls were bright, with lofty gables,
Bath-houses many; great the cheerful noise,
And many mead-halls filled with human pleasures.
Till mighty fate brought change upon it all.
Slaughter was widespread, pestilence was rife,
And death took all those valiant men away.
The martial halls became deserted places,
The cities crumbled, its repairers fell,
Its armies to the earth. And so these halls
Are empty, and this red curved roof now sheds
Its tiles, decay has brought it to the ground,
Smashed it to piles of rubble, where long since
A host of heroes, glorious, gold-adorned,
Gleaming in splendour, proud and flushed with wine,
Shone in their armour, gazed on gems and treasure,
On silver, riches, wealth and jewellery,
On this bright city with its wide domains.
Stone buildings stood, and the hot streams cast forth
Wide sprays of water, which a wall enclosed
In its bright compass, where convenient
Stood hot baths ready for them at the centre.
Hot streams poured forth over the clear grey stone,
To the round pool and down into the baths.

Mod monade, myne swiftne gebrægd;
hwætred in hringas, hygerof gebond
weallwalan wirum wundrum togæedre.
Beorht wæeron burgræced, burnsele monige,
heah horngestreon, heresweg micel,
meodoheall monig mondreama full,
oþþæt þæt onwende, wyrd seo swiþe
Crungon walo wide, cwoman woldagas
swylt eall fornom secgrofra wera;
wurdon hyra wigsteal westenstaþolas
brosnade burgsteall. Betend crungon,
hergas to hrusan. Forþon þas hofu dreorgiað
and þaes teaforgeapa tigelum sceadeð
hrostbeages hrof. Hryre wong gecrong
gebrocen to beorgum þær iu beorn monig
glædmod and goldbeorht gleoma gefrætwed,
wlonc and wingal wighyrstum scan,
seah on sinc, on sylfor, on searogimmas,
on ead, on æht, on eorcanstan,
on þas beorhtan burg bradan rices.
Stanhofu stodan, stream hate wearp
widan wylme; weal eall befeng
beorhtan bosme þær þa baþu wæron,
hat on hreþre; þæt wæs hyðelic.
Leton þonne geotan ......................
ofer harne stan hate streamas
under............ ....................
oþþæt hringmere, Hate..............
................ þær þa baþu wæron.
...........................................
Hamer, R. 1970 A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse, London

[Jeroen Pelgrom]

Five Souls by W.N. Ewer (1917)

First Soul
I was a peasant of the Polish plain;
I left my plough because the message ran:-
Russia, in danger, needed every man
To save her from the Teuton; and was slain.
I gave my life for freedom - This I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.

Second Soul
I was a Tyrolese, a mountaineer;
I gladly left my mountain home to fight
Against the brutal treacherous Muscovite;
And died in Poland on a Cossack spear.
I gave my life for freedom - This I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.

Third Soul
I worked in Lyons at my weaver's loom,
When suddenly the Prussian despot hurled
His felon blow at France and at the world;
Then I went forth to Belgium and my doom.
I gave my life for freedom - This I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.

Fourth Soul
I owned a vineyard by the wooded Main,
Until the Fatherland, begirt by foes
Lusting her downfall, called me, and I rose
Swift to the call - and died in far Lorraine.
I gave my life for freedom - This I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.

Fifth Soul
I worked in a great shipyard by the Clyde;
There came a sudden word of wars declared,
Of Belgium, peaceful, helpless, unprepared,
Asking our aid: I joined the ranks, and died.
I gave my life for freedom - This I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.

[TFLAVIUSAMBIORIX]

Jeroen,

so true, all fight for something they believe, or think they believe IMHO

[Robert Vermaat]

Five Souls by W.N. Ewer (1917)

Five lives, same story? Some people just never learn...

[hoplite14gr]

Five lives, same story? Some people just never learn...

Do they ever? I am so full of doubt.....

Marta asked her cousin what happend in the border and he replied:

Where we went, not many tread,
I assure you dear Marti.
Gods there have a funeral,
and devils enjoy the party!

Kind regards

[Arthes]

Greetings,
I like that poem, all fighting the same war (I believe) but from a different viewpoint.
I remember my grandfather telling me about the ceasefires and some of the 'nice blokes' they met, that they knew they may have to kill the next day. He was in the Royal or Horse Artillery, but I don't remember where he was except for Macedonia and fighting 'Red Cossaks'. He told me about finding a tortoise in Macedonia he kept as a pet, can't remember what happened to it.
regards
Arthes

[Robert Vermaat]

Greetings,
I like that poem, all fighting the same war (I believe) but from a different viewpoint.

One war? Could be.. This was my interpretation though:
1st soul: Middle Ages, Germans (Teuton knights) attack Russia
2nd soul: Habsburg wars
3rd soul: Napoleon
4th soul: WW1
5thsoul: WW2 (BEF)

I remember my grandfather telling me about the ceasefires and some of the 'nice blokes' they met, that they knew they may have to kill the next day. He was in the Royal or Horse Artillery, but I don't remember where he was except for Macedonia and fighting 'Red Cossaks'.

Battlefield fraternisation is the general's nightmare. Remember the Christmas ceasfire in WW1, 1914? It was forbidden and never happened again.

He told me about finding a tortoise in Macedonia he kept as a pet, can't remember what happened to it.

Reminds me of Dan Peterson's monitor lizard he brought from Iraq..

[Jeroen Pelgrom]

Glad you all liked it, i got it from a WW1-website. What struck me was the different point-of-views of the soldiers, they all believed that they died for freedom - frenchmen, german etc.

Here is another one;
Memorial Tablet by Siegfried Sassoon (1918)

Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby's scheme).

I died in hell - They called it Passchendaele.
My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back;
and then a shell burst slick upon the duckboards:
so I fell into the bottomless mud, and lost the light

At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare;
For, though low down upon the list, I'm there;
"In proud and glorious memory" ... that's my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he's never guessed.
I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?