War poems. Please post your favourite or your own.

[oblivious]

Poems of War: A collection of classic war poems
http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/poemsofwar.htm

A Treasury of War Poetry
http://www.geocities.com/~bblair/index_twp.htm

120 War Poems
http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpmain.htm
http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

Poems and Songs of the American Civil War
http://www.civilwarhome.com/poemssongs.htm

VIETNAM WAR POETRY
http://www.angelfire.com/wa/warpoetry/Vietnam.html

Two Sides of War (All Wars)
"All wars are planned by older men
In council rooms apart,
Who call for greater armament
And map the battle chart.

But out along the shattered field
Where golden dreams turn gray,
How very young the faces were
Where all the dead men lay.

Portly and solemn in their pride,
The elders cast their vote
For this or that, or something else,
That sounds the martial note.

But where their sightless eyes stare out
Beyond life's vanished toys,
I've noticed nearly all the dead
Were hardly more than boys."
~Grantland Rice

[jody]

1. "Coming Home" by Curtis D. Bennett

THE WAR POETRY WEB SITE

Coming Home

Inside the gray, steel womb of cargo space.
Flag covered caskets quietly lie
In rank and file, line on line in silence.
Bound together in final military formation
Flags of blood reds, cloud whites and ocean blues,
Drape and caress the dull, pewter boxes
Encasing the broken, ashen, hallowed remains
Of dead young boys and girls,
Forced to pay the ultimate price
In this foreign land with strange people,
Where brutal Death forever lurks,
Beneath the surface, around the corner
Watching with cold eyes that never sleep.

Outside, hot desert night winds
Sweep down from the northern mountains
In biting, stinging clouds of dust
Blowing and swirling the tarmac, ruffling flags.
Steel, hydraulic doors whine and close tight

Sealing the precious cargo inside.
Engines come to life and rumble the air,
The huge cargo transport trundles away
Disappearing in the darkness of the taxiway.
Moments later, re-emerging, a roaring shadow
That races and climbs sharply up and away
Into the night air to seek the stars.

Floating suspended between earth and sky
The westbound plane heads for the full moon.
Carrying its sleeping, youthful cargo home.
To the land that gave them birth,
To the parents who loved and raised then
To the government who sent them to fight,
And the politicians who killed them.
In the early morning hours, it touches down
On glistening tarmac of the sleeping base.
To taxi off and away towards the dark distant hanger
Where black hearses wait under tight security.

Once again hydraulics hum the cargo doors open.
The setting moon softly illuminates the caskets.
So quietly they lie, so well they sleep,
With no more promises to keep,
No more miles to go.

Curtis D. Bennett
May 12, 2004

[yardwork]

2. Brothers in Arms, by Mark Knopfler

Brothers in Arms

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms

Through these fields of destruction
Baptism of fire
I've watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

[Monkeyman]

6. Beat me to it

[The Straight Story]

3. See 'the little bear' at my link:

http://www.toddhowell.com/poems/

[LostinVA]

4. "High Flight" and "In Flanders Field"

John Gillespie McGee, Jr.
No. 412 Squadron, RCAF

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.
Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air,
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew.

And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high, untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.


*************************

In Flanders Field
John McCrae, Lt. Colonel

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

[LostinVA]

5. Not a poem, but: St. Crispin's Day Speech from "Henry V"

"This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

[dipsydoodle]

9. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers

comes to mind when I think of DU.

[LostinVA]

12. That speech always makes me cry when I see it performed

[dipsydoodle]

13. Last time I used that phrase

was 10 years ago when I said " so much for we few etc" when some complete bastard sawed a huge branch off an ash tree simply because his fishing rod caught on it when he tried to cast out some stupid distance on a relatively small lake.

[dipsydoodle]

7. One of Woody's - When the Roses Bloom Again

but I don't think he recorded it and the lyrics may not be his.

Well, they're strollin' in the gloamin',
When the roses are in bloom.
A soldier and his sweetheart, brave and true.
And their hearts are filled with sorrow,
For their thoughts are of tomorrow,
As she pins a rose upon his coat of blue.

"Do not ask me, love, to linger,
"When you know not what to say.
"For duty calls your sweetheart's name again.
"And your heart need not be sighing,
"That I'll be among the dying.
"I'll be with you when the roses bloom again."

When the roses bloom again,
And the sun is on the river:
The Mockingbird will sing it's sweet refrain.
And in the days of Auld Lang Syne,
I'll be with you, sweetheart mine.
Oh, I'll be with you when the roses bloom again.

With the rattle of the battle,
Came a whisper soft and low:
"Our soldier, he is fallen in the fray."
"I am dying, I am dying,
"And I know I've got to go,
"But I wanna tell you before I pass away."

"There's a far and distant river,
"Where the roses are in bloom,
"And a sweetheart who is waiting there for me.
"And it's there, I pray you'll take me.
"I'll be faithful, don't forsake me.
"I'll be with you when the roses bloom again."

[judaspriestess]

8. these are actually lyrics to a song

by my all time favorite chick band L7 (song recorded for the first gulf war)
WARGASM

wargasm, wargasm, one two three
tie a yellow ribbon 'round the amputee
masturbate, watch it on tv
crocodile tears for the refugees
wargasm, wargasm, one two three
smutty bloody pictures, ecstasy
blue balls waiting impatiently
from alcatraz to lady liberty
body bags and dropping bombs
the pentagon knows how to to turn us on
wargasm wargasm one two three
pit bull, pit bull, ecstasy
wave those flags high in the air
as long as it takes place over there

wargasm, wargasm, wargasm, wargasm
body bags and dropping bombs
the pentagon knows how to turn us
turn us on
turn us on, wargasm
turn us on, wargasm

[valerief]

10. Here's one.

There once was a place named Iraq
Which Dimson wanted to attack
Poppy said no
But Babs ran the show
She said, "Nuke 'em. They're poor anyway, so that would be a step up for them (giggle)."

[yewberry]

11. A couple:

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

--Randall Jarrell



Naming of Parts

"Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine glori"

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easily
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

-- Henry Reed (Part I of "Lessons of the War")

[me b zola]

33. Well, that's what I get for posting before reading the replies

I, too, chose The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner. :hi:

[ironflange]

14. "Anthem for Doomed Youth" by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

In "War Requiem," Britten follows this with

Kyrie eleison
Christe eleison
Kyrie eleison

:cry:

http://www.hcu.ox.ac.uk/jtap/warpoems.htm#7

[LostinVA]

16. I forgot about that one

An excellent choice. The Greek always gets me.

[The Blue Flower]

15. Dulce Et Decorum Est

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

It is (est) sweet (dulce) and (et) fitting (decorum) to die (mori) for (pro) the fatherland (patria).

[SaveElmer]

17. Sheridan's Ride...

Sheridan's Ride
by Thomas Buchanan Read

Up from the South, at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down:
And there, through the flush of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight;
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with his utmost speed.
Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire;
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was to be done? what to do?--a glance told him both.
Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say:
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldier's Temple of Fame,
There, with the glorious general's name,
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester--twenty miles away!"

[dipsydoodle]

18. JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE MOTHER

Go here. scroll to bootom of page and play the music too. http://www.acws.co.uk/songs/justbefo.htm

George F. Root, 1863
Just before the battle, mother,
I am thinking most of you,
While, upon the field, we're watching,
With the enemy in view.
Comrades brave are round me lying,
Filled with thoughts of home and God;
For well they know that, on the morrow,
Some will sleep beneath the sod.

CHORUS
Farewell, mother, you may never,
Press me to your breast again;
But O, you'll not forget me,
If I'm numbered with the slain.

Oh, I long to see you, Mother,
And the loving ones at home,
But I'll never leave our banner,
Till in honour I can come.
Tell the traitors all around you
That their cruel words we know,
In every battle kill our soldiers
By the help they give the foe.

Hark! I hear the bugles sounding.
'Tis the signal for the fight,
Now, may God protect us, Mother,
As he ever does the right.
Hear the "Battle Cry of Freedom,"
How it swells upon the air,
Oh, yes we'll rally 'round the standard,
Or we'll perish nobly there.

[ironflange]

19. Another one by Owen, particularly applicable today

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

-----

Stubbornness and stupidity have never been in short supply.

[jody]

20. Not a poem, but worth listening to, General Douglas MacArthur: Thayer Award Acceptance Address

General Douglas MacArthur: Thayer Award Acceptance Address, part of the speech below. The link has the entire speech and mp3 file of MacArthur's speech.

General Westmoreland, General Grove, distinguished guests, and gentlemen of the Corps!

As I was leaving the hotel this morning, a doorman asked me, "Where are you bound for, General?" And when I replied, "West Point," he remarked, "Beautiful place. Have you ever been there before?"

No human being could fail to be deeply moved by such a tribute as this . Coming from a profession I have served so long, and a people I have loved so well, it fills me with an emotion I cannot express. But this award is not intended primarily to honor a personality, but to symbolize a great moral code -- the code of conduct and chivalry of those who guard this beloved land of culture and ancient descent. That is the animation of this medallion. For all eyes and for all time, it is an expression of the ethics of the American soldier. That I should be integrated in this way with so noble an ideal arouses a sense of pride and yet of humility which will be with me always: Duty, Honor, Country.

Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points: to build courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.

[SoCalDem]

21. From our own DU war poetry slam

http://www.newtonsbaby.com/dupoets/

SoCalDem Donating Member (20220 posts) Feb-12-03, 05:07 PM (ET)


53. Ain't war grand??


Planes flying
Bombs dropping
Children dying
Corks popping
Mothers crying
Zealots praying
Rumsfeld grinning
America's staying
Ari spinning
Oil gushing
Money flowing
Poverty crushing
Hatred growing
Flags flying
Bush smirking
Children dying
Democrats shirking
Mothers crying

[Book Lover]

22. Sassoon tends to be the one who moves me most

Does it Matter?

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.


Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.


You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.


'They'

The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
'And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'

[montieg]

23. Dylan: Masters of War

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

Poetry about the horrors of war never loses its truth or timeliness.

[SEABEE Chief]

24. Here's one

Thousand Yard Stare
Poetry by Lachlan Irvine

I know a man who looks at me
With eyes that see right through.

Like a dog whistle with a pitch
Beyond the reach of human ears,
His eyes are focussed on the middle distance,
Fixed on a point which others cannot see.

I know I may not share his world
Where tracer splits the midnight sky,
Where ambush waits along each track,
Where constant guard must be maintained,
And even sleep can bring no rest
When relaxation may mean instant death.

What has that world to do with me?
It seems so very far away.

Yet I cannot escape those eyes,
That ice-blue look that haunts me still;
That steady, thousand-yard stare...
There - in my mirror - every day.


http://lachlanirvine.tripod.com/poetry/id1.html

[venable]

25. American Football, by Harold Pinter

American Football

Hallelujah!
It works.
We blew the shit out of them.

We blew the shit right back up their own ass
And out their fucking ears.

It works.
We blew the shit out of them.
They suffocated in their own shit!

Hallelujah.
Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew them into fucking shit.
They are eating it.

Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew their balls into shards of dust,
Into shards of fucking dust.

We did it.

Now I want you to come over here and kiss me on the mouth.

[WinkyDink]

26. "The Man He Killed" (Hardy); "War is Kind" (Crane)

"HAD he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

"But ranged as infantry, 5
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

"I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe, 10
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

"He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like—just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps— 15
No other reason why.

"Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown." 20

~~~~~~~~~~~
I

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Annces]

27. Vietnam poem

I know what it is like to be so afraid
on a rain-soaked day such as this.
in Vietnam I prayed fervently.
shivering uncontrollably in the mud.
as men whose duty it was to kill me filed by.
only a little more than a yard away.
on a rain soaked day such as this.
The type of day that dogs don't understand.

Leroy Quintana

[Prisoner_Number_Six]

28. Here's one I wrote many years ago

I was probably about twenty five or so when I wrote this. As far as I know it's never been published anywhere (my father had a Poetry Corner in his local newspaper, and he published a lot of my poetry without ever specifically telling me which ones saw print).

I'm not even certain if it's a good poem or bad.
------

A TIME GONE BY

Bowed, covered heads slowly converge
and gather 'round the blackened rock
in memory of what has passed before--
In memory of a time gone by.

The hymns are sung with tearful wails,
for what has been is blowing past,
mere smoke upon the stormy winds.

Why do they mourn? Old people dressed
in rags of ash, with soot upon
their covered heads-- They raise
their blistered arms to reach up
for the bloody sky, but touch
a weeping thunderstorm instead.

Who are these old ones gathered here
around the blackened rock so bare?
So desolate a place to be--
So sad a thing to see--
So different from the time that died
the day they dropped the bomb....

© 2007 Steven A. Hessler
All Rights Reserved

[oblivious]

32. It gave me the shivers, like the great poems above.

[La_Fourmi_Rouge]

29. "Song of Napalm" by Bruce Weigl

After the storm, after the rain stopped pounding,
we stood in the doorway watching horses
walk off lazily across the pasture's hill.
We stared through the black screen,
our vision altered by distance
so I thought I saw a mist
kicked up around their hooves when they faded
like cut-out horses
away from us.
The grass was never more blue in that light, more
scarlet; beyond the pasture
trees scraped their voices into the wind, branches
crosscrossed the sky like barbed wire
but you said they were only branches.

Okay. The storm stopped pounding.
I am trying to say this straight: for once
I was sane enough to pause and breathe
outside my wild plans and after the hard rain
I turned my back on the old curses. I believed
they swung finally away from me . . .

But still the branches are wire
and thunder is the pounding mortar,
still I close my eyes and see the girl
running from her village, napalm
stuck to her dress like jelly,
her hands reaching for the no one
who waits in waves of heat before her.

So I can keep on living,
so I can stay here beside you,
I try to imagine she runs down the road and wings
beat inside her until she rises
above the stinking jungle and her pain
eases, and your pain, and mine.

But the lie swings back again.
The lie works only as long as it takes to speak
and the girl runs only as far
as the napalm allows
until her burning tendons and crackling
muscles draw her up
into that final position
burning bodies so perfectly assume. Nothing
can change that, she is burned behind my eyes
and not your good love and not the rain-swept air
and not the jungle-green
pasture unfolding before us can deny it.

[crispini]

30. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

Is it a "war" poem? Maybe. Written 1867 so not about THE Dover Beach... but with war reference nonetheless.

================================
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.


Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

[me b zola]

31. I chose this one becaue it has special meaning to me

My father was a ball & turret gunner/belly gunner in a B-24 Liberator during WWII. He was stationed in North Africa and Italy, flew many important missions. My father passed in 1991.


The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell, 1914-1965

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life.
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

[alcibiades_mystery]

34. Sassoon: Blighters

THE House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
‘We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!’

I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag-time tunes, or ‘Home, sweet Home’,
And there’d be no more jokes in Music-halls
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.