War Poetry.

42RM

Banned
I´ve started to become interested in war poetry after I found out how many of the lads that actually had put down their thoughts as poetry.

So I thought I would start a post on this topic. If you have a poem you want to share with us; let's try to gather them here.

I’ll start with this one by David J Delaney.

New Generation Veterans.

We honour our old veterans, we honour them with pride
and read of all the horrors they have carried deep inside.
We know they served in Asia or New Guinea’s highland rains,
Vietnam or in Africa where many men were slain.

We know that fateful landing on Gallipoli’s dark shore,
wherever Aussies fought, we know there are so many more,
but now a new young generation needs our help as well,
they too have been to war and suffer with their private hell.

Though losses are not classed as great, their fears are just the same
those electronic hidden bombs, still injure, kill or maim.
They fight against an enemy they find so hard to see
who mingle in the market place, then cause much tragedy.

Insurgents in Afghanistan hide in the rough terrain
or roaming in Iraq, where, wearing robes they look the same.
The suicide stealth bombers, don’t care who they hurt or kill,
then, with their own beliefs, they try to break our forces will.

Our fighting Aussie spirit shows on any foreign land,
they’re in the skies, they’re on the sea, or on the desert sand.
Now many are returning with the horrors they still see
and living with their nightmares, suffering bureaucracy.

I know on ANZAC day, we all remember with a tear,
but all vets young or old, they need our help throughout the year,
support and listen to their stories, when they do get told,
lets honour our new veterans, just like we do our old.
 
Sunset Vigil by Sgt Andy McFarlane

The news is spread far and wide
Another comrade has sadly died
A sunset vigil upon the sand
As a soldier leaves this foreign land

We stand alone, and yet as one
In the fading light of a setting sun
We’ve all gathered to say goodbye
To our fallen comrade who’s set to fly

The eulogy’s read about their life
Sometimes with words from pals or wife
We all know when the CO’s done
What kind of soldier they’d become

The padre then calls us all to pray
The bugler has Last Post to play
The cannon roars and belches flame
We will recall, with pride, their name

A minute’s silence stood in place
As tears roll down the hardest face
deafening silence fills the air
With each of us in personal prayer

Reveille sounds and the parade is done
The hero remembered, forgotten by none
They leave to start the journey back
In a coffin draped in the Union Jack
 
Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops come marching home again, with gold and gallant tread,
But look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
Caroline Elizabeth Norton (1808-77) SOLDIER OF THE RINE

The war is over now.
Vultures wheel at heights from which the mountains are only rumpled white rock patching the curved earth.
The birds’ center-magnified vision sees all:
The kingdoms ravaged, fields un-harvested, rotting in early winter rain. Men and others huddle in their villages against famine and death, while in the cities songs are sung of heroes victories.
Vultures avoid the cities of Men. The dead tossed over the walls stink of plague.
The war is over.
The abandoned strongholds are desolate now beyond even vultures‘ picking.
And vultures follow the Last Battle‘s soldiers in their refugee bands, waiting as they take forts and castles, hold them for a time, lose them to their lawful owners or (more often) to larger marauding bands. leaving enough behind to glut the vultures so that they can barely fly.
The war is over. This is peace.
Vultures circle at heights where, like the fields of destruction beneath, the only rules are those of hunger.
Mary Gentle GRUNTS:
 
There may be what tortures you.
There may be what reduces you to silence.
There may be what fails to satisfy you.
There may be what irritates you.
and
There may be what Grieves you.
But man has to train himself by enduring these things.
Isoroku Yamamoto, Admiral of the Imperial Japanese Navy

Proudly you gathered, rank on rank to war,
As you heard God’s message from afar;
All you had hoped for, all you had, you gave
To save mankind-yourself you scorned to save.
Old Valiant Hearts, John Stanhope Arkwright

Let others glory follow
In their false riches wallow
And in their grief be merry
Leave me but love and sherry
Richard Lovelace, Cavalier poet

When you go home
Tell them of us, and say;
For your tomorrow,
We gave our today.
British memorial at Kohima, CBU WW II

The Universe exist in chaos;
Man is the measure of the Universe.
The ultimate chaos of mans existence is War;
By mastering War, we master the Universe. Unknown to me

“Just a Common Soldier”, A. Lawrence Vaincourt
He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one.
And tho’ sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,
All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we’ll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,
And the world’s a little poorer, for a soldier died today.
He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life.
Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way,
And the world won’t note his passing, though a soldier died today.
If we cannot do him honor while he’s here to hear the praise,
Then at least let’s give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,
Our country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.

"The Golden race is with the gods, who are in heaven, in the fixed sphere, who chiefly hold command in the providence exercised toward men. Of those who die in military service…shall we not say they are
chief of the golden race?" Plato


 
I went to see the soldiers by Kenny Martin


I went to see the soldiers, row on row on row,
And wondered about each so still, their badges all on show.
What brought them here, what life before
Was like for each of them?
What made them angry, laugh, or cry,

These soldiers, boys and men.
Some so young, some older still, a bond more close than brothers
These men have earned and shared a love, that's not like any others
They trained as one, they fought as one
They shared their last together
That bond endures, that love is true
And will be, now and ever.

I could not know, how could I guess, what choices each had made,
Of how they came to soldiering, what part each one had played?
But here they are and here they'll stay,
Each one silent and in place,
Their headstones line up row on row
They guard this hallowed place.
 
HEARTBEAT FROM GLORY (memorial day),
Michael Anderson

Row by row the markers stand
Flags wave, old cannons rust
On this day that we recall
Those who died for us

Give a speech and lay a flower
Pray no more will die
Honor those that died in War
Answering a call

Hereos teach us how to live
Dead soldiers teach us how to give

In memory of sacrifice
When someone died fore me
From Gettysburg to Vietnam
Stalingrad to Calvary

No man loves more than he
Who lays his life down for his friend
They died while we carry on
A war that never ends

Men who gave all they could give
Men who died so we could live
And when we feel the warm spring sunshine
And when we see the flowers watered in the rain
We feel the hand of God upon us
And nothing sacrificed in love will die in vain

None of us can stand alone
We all need a helping hand
Some’s sacrifice for you
Forced them to take a stand.
 
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THE FINAL
INSPECTION
The Soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass..
'Step forward now, Soldier ,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?'
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
'No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.


And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear..
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.


I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears


If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.


There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the Soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.


'Step forward now, you Soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell.'


Author Unknown~
 
Soldiers’ Ground by Brian Cowan

This piece of earth so green and lush is hallowed ground to me.
Though you may see abundant life, that isn’t what I see.
I see politicians’ lies and Generals’ poor command,
And loss and tears and sacrifice, that sanctified this land.

Though trivial geography to those whose feet it bore,
Its brave defenders challenged us for who would want it more.
Tooth for tooth, eye for eye and crimson blood for blood,
Every anguished inch we bought, exchanging flesh for mud.

And when the battle ended and our prize was made secure,
When we beheld what cost us dear, our victory seemed unsure.
Smoking, scorched and barren earth, devoid of any life,
Scarlet-cloaked with broken men, the residues of strife

Now grass thrives on the sweat of those who cursed and fought and bled,
Flowers root in sanguine soil, perfume decaying dead.
Your white and towering monuments that glisten in the sun,
Remind me of the bones they hide. For you, the job is done.

You stand and make pronouncement at the valour that was shown,
You call this land a symbol and you claim it as your own,
But political diplomacy and Generals’ great reward,
Were purchased with the struggle of those men who took the sword.

You dare to stand among us now, pretending at our loss,
To know the true and deeper meaning of a soldier’s cross.
This ground is ours, both friend and foe. We bought it with our all.
While you stood last and cheered us on, ignoring duty’s call.

Be gone from here pretenders for you do not have the right,
To share with those who sacrificed. Those who fought the fight
Your gains are built on their remains. Your glory we hold cheap.
Your presence here an insult to all those who sleep the sleep.

Your posing and your flowery speeches, eloquently trite.
Charades of ceremony are but mockery in our sight,
The victor and the vanquished bled to hold this land so dear
Be gone, for this is soldiers’ ground. You have no business here.
 
Rupert Brooke Died in the first World War

The Soldier
Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever 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.
The Soldier

Rupert Brooke
 
THE GREEN BERET MEN
By Rod Spinks, Royal Marine 1957/68.

A word in the house, a stroke of a pen
The country disbanded a fine body of men
With fighting finesse and fitness supreme
The creme de la creme wore berets of Green.

Their training was tough, it had to be so
How to fight with a knife and kill with one blow
Salerno, Vaagso, Dieppe and St Nazaire
With impossible odds the Commando's were there.

Their raids so successful that once Hitler said
"If captured no prisoners I want these men dead"
To late he discovered his men were not keen
To battle with these Marines who wore berets of Green.

On D-Day at Sword beach they were there to the fore
As they jumped from the landing craft and made for the shore
Their contempt for the Nazi's was very plain to see
For they wore not steel helmets but berets of Green.

When it was all over and the fighting no more
The first that was disbanded was the Green beret Corp's
Who went back to their Shires, their Towns and their Glens
A real fine body of gentle self disciplined men.

As the years roll on by they still meet it is said
To talk, toast the Queen and remember their dead
Whose memorial stands at the foot of the Ben
Where they fought for the right to be Green beret men.

For our freedom of movement our freedom of speech
To those who come after , this gospel I preach
A word in the house a stroke of the pen these cannot wipe out
The debt to those brave Green beret men.
 
Cry of a Dead Soldier
By an unknown 15 year old American girl.

They said it would be hard,
Not hard as I had thought,
As I stood in a line,
With my friends and fought.

'Til one by one,
We were gunned down,
As the government sat at home,
With heavy heads and a frown.

They were angry,
Perhaps embarrassed of us,
We tried our best...
But it wasn't enough.

And still they send,
More troops to die...
Like that...
Of my friends and I.

My wife was at home,
The children too...
Not knowing that..
Their worst dreams had come true.

It's too late now,
They'll never see my face,
Because where I lie...
Is my resting place.

I dream of the day,
When we meet in the sky..
But now...
I can't even say goodbye.
 
This one goes out as a tribute to all of you who served in Vietnam.

Remembering the War
By Toni Cross-Rumbel

It's amazing how long ago it was
I'll never forget though
Four or five decades have passed
I still remember as though it were yesterday
I'll never forget the Vietnam War

It all started with the letter
The dirty evil curse that bound so many citizens
I remember crying when I first saw the piece of paper
I'll never forget the look of horror on my sister's face
It was one of those moments where I wished I were dead
I'll never forget the Vietnam War

Most of my mates talk in a tight circle
I know full well why they do so
I do too; well nobody would want to talk about it with anyone else
Not if they were criticized by the public
For doing what they thought was right
For fighting for their country
I'll never forget the Vietnam War

Most of us veterans are scared for life
You may not notice when you first walk past us
But if you know us real well
And if you look real close
You'll find that there's definitely something wrong
That there's something that's buried deep inside
I'll never forget the Vietnam War
 
Brilliant guys.

A few years ago I had the honour of being a colour bearer for the RAFA here in South Africa during Remembrance Day. The flags were slowly lowered as the last post was played. I'm not an emotional type of person, but I had tears running down my cheeks. Neither am I ashamed to admit it.

There were ex Afrika Korps as well as South African and British ex 8th Army soldiers standing side by side, and then laying their wreaths, all remembering their mates who died.

Author: SSgt. Scott E Hilligoss
The soldiers life is not for all
A soldier must be willing to give his all
He is overworked and underpaid
A truer patriot was never made

Ready to go at any time
Wherever there is trouble or the first sign
His courage and honor are unsurpassed
Ready and willing to complete the task
Travelling to lands both near and far

He stands his post and looks at the stars
Wondering what he might have done
If he had not chosen to carry a gun

Remember the next time that you are driving by
And see the flag flying proud and high
That somewhere out there a soldier stands
Weary and cold in a foreign land
Protecting our country from our foes
Standing tall and proud come rain or snow.
 
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“Merry Christmas, My Friend” by LCpl James M Schmidt, USMC, 1986

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone.​

I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live​

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.​

No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.​

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.​

For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen.
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.​

I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.​

And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.​

He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,
Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.​

Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?​

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.
I soon understood, this was more than a man.​

For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.​

Soon around the Nation, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.​

They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.​

I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.​

Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.​

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice.​

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more​
My life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.​

I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill.​

So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.​

Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.​

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.​

I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.​

But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all secure."​

One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.​
 
My son, who is twelve, was studying war poetry leading up to Remembrance Day this year.
After reading various poems, they were asked to write their own.
This is what he wrote:

Chinooks Fly


Chinooks fly,
Brave boys die,
Fighting for a stranger's freedom

I.E.Ds explode,
Guns reload,
Airstrikes rock the ground

For some religion,
Or dumb guy's decision,
Innocent people die

Coffins fly home,
Soldiers write home,
Wondering if they'll
Ever come back
 
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