Bring on the Dead


Solemnly we remember you but once a year with sullen face,
And reward you with false flowers and prayers.

And as we make our way back to normality without a backwards glance, happy with our conscience! We forget you for another year .

are we the Grateful ones?, happy to breathe the chilled air and hear the lark twitter gay on a cold November morn, to know that there’s always tomorrow for us.

But I would ask you this! Who would trade places with you now
Oh! Grateful dead! And see what you had seen and march on without a fuss ?

And should you speak but once again would you not say “tear down your bloody cenotaphs and give us what is rightfully ours there is no Glory in death, but for blood did we not lust”?

Stolen youth! Oh! Wasted seeds of Europe, no bloodline for you to continue your lineage, just cold earth for now lest greed take away your resting place
And what then do we remember?

Was this reward foretold you by some ancient sage before your supreme sacrifice should you still walk into the teeth of the Hydra before that last November?

And could you speak for one last time should you say “was nothing learnt by our parting, our deaths did you not trust?”

And lastly! Why did God not cry “Enough!, Enough!, Enough!” ?

(Arther dentwood)

Isaac Rosenberg

Louse Hunting
Nudes -- stark and glistening,Yelling in lurid glee.
Grinning facesAnd raging limbs Whirl over the floor one fire.
For a shirt verminously busy Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
And soon the shirt was aflare Over the candle he'd lit while we lay.
Then we all sprang up and striptTo hunt the verminous brood.
Soon like a demons' pantomine The place was raging.
See the silhouettes agape,See the glibbering shadows Mixed with the battled arms on the wall.
See gargantuan hooked fingers Pluck in supreme fleshTo sutch supreme littleness.
See the merry limbs in hot Highland flingBecause some wizard vermin Charmed from the quiet this revel When our ears were half lulled By the dark music Blown from Sleep's trumpet.

In Memoriam

by Ewart Alan Mackintosh (killed in action 21 November 1917 aged 24)
(Private D Sutherland killed in action in the German trenches, 16 May 1916, and the others who died.)

So you were David's father,

And he was your only son,

And the new-cut peats are rotting

And the work is left undone,

Because of an old man weeping,

Just an old man in pain,

For David, his son David,

That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,

And I can see them still,

Not a word of the fighting,

But just the sheep on the hill

And how you should get the crops in

Ere the year get stormier,

And the Bosches have got his body,

And I was his officer.

You were only David's father,

But I had fifty sons

When we went up in the evening

Under the arch of the guns,

And we came back at twilight -

O God! I heard them call

To me for help and pity

That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,

My men that trusted me,

More my sons than your fathers',

For they could only see

The little helpless babies

And the young men in their pride.

They could not see you dying,

And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,

They saw their first-born go,

But not the strong limbs broken

And the beautiful men brought low,

The piteous writhing bodies,

They screamed 'Don't leave me, sir',

For they were only your fathers

But I was your officer.

In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place;

and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing,

fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived,

felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn 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.

Dulce et Decorum Est

1

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned out 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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 flound'ring 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

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.

Wilfred Owen

Argonne Forest At Midnight
A sapper's song from the World War 1915


Argonne Forest, at midnight, A sapper atands on guard. A star shines high up in the sky, bringing greetings from a distant homeland.

And with a spade in his hand, He waits forward in the sap-trench. He thinks with longing on his love, Wondering if he will ever see her again.

The artillery roars like thunder, While we wait in front of the infantry, With shells crashing all around. The Frenchies want to take our position.

Should the enemy threaten us even more, We Germans fear him no more. And should he be so strong, He will not take our position.

The storm breaks! The mortar crashes! The sapper begins his advance. Forward to the enemy trenches, There he pulls the pin on a grenade.

The infantry stand in wait, Until the hand grenade explodes. Then forward with the assault against the enemy, And with a shout, break into their position.

Argonne Forest, Argonne Forest, Soon thou willt be a quiet cemetary.
In thy cool earth rests much gallant soldiers' blood.

An unknown German War Poet.

The Happy Warrior

Herbert Read (1893-1968)

"The Happy Warrior"
His wild heart beats with painful sobs,

His strin'd hands clench an ice-cold rifle,

His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue,

His wide eyes search unconsciously.

He cannot shriek.Bloody salivaDribbles down his shapeless jacket.

I saw him stabAnd stab againA well-killed Boche.

This is the happy warrior,This is he...