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The Great War (1914-1918) Forum

Have you been moved to write your own poetry ?


JOSTURM

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Here's my offering from many years ago, when I first visited the war graves...

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

I get frustrated

the more I learn

about the first world war

Those stories of good men

in trenches

chill me to the core

The waste, such waste

the medics cried

as death took more and more

Seldom rich

starved and thin

the best of Britain's poor

The leeches

or the frostbite

a choice to make men sore

The Whizz bangs

and the Bertha guns

shake the ground and roar

The officers

dreaming of estates

and hunting wild boar

The giddy heights

of pilots

flying above the floor

The executed

deserter

not above the law

How could the men

down on the Somme

pursue some future encore

All knew the dead

none missed out

together in rapport

Asked now to go

to fight the same

I'd show the man the door !

If Tommy

won a fight at all

he made us ask 'what for' ?

I get frustrated

the more I hear

about the great great war !

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

Regards

Josturm

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My offering:

Shell Hole

There will always be a shell hole on the ridge up by messines

Though its been a century, since the whistles blew

You will always hear a Tommy, moaning about latrines

For the dead still walk the parapet

Where shells and bullets flew

There will always be a dugout, with muffled voices in the deep

Where machine gun muzzles swept,

the cows and sheep now stand

But outside still waits a sentry, fighting fitfull sleep

Beneath the turf so nicely kept, the Gas alarms are manned

By no mans land, beneath the fields

the HQ phones still ring

But its the dead that man the firestep, and its the dead that now stand to

You can smell the soldiers cooking, and you can hear dead soldiers sing

And its the dead that dream of blighty and what in civvy street they'll do

Some who walk the old line, can sense what things have been

Most have a connection to a family member lost

Most will leave with something, just a feeling or a dream

For here we are the closest to what 'victory' really cost

No matter how the years pass, as the tranquil fields are ploughed

It will always be the front line for as long as the sky is wide

Our cherished dead still linger, all around with their heads bowed

They died for us in another time

And its where their souls reside

Guy Smith 7th March 2006

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Here is another I dug out, Deboragh is the tank which Phillipe Gorgynski recovered at Cambrai......

Deborah

In a sleepy village, battle worn and streaked with rust.

The shattered tank though twisted, stands formidable and proud

Mere yards from here, she met her end, in the hell of battle thrust

Her time worn frame, now pock marked, waits in vigil for the crowds.

Modern crowds with TV eyes, no longer stop to dream

But come to gorpe unknowingly, and stare in vacant thought

Their rebel children fight, with plastic guns and laugh and scream,

And leave the scattered remnants of the lunch their parents brought

A different race, most know not how, nor care what freedom cost

Their worries are more trivial, and rest in daily life and chores

Their gaze transfixed in now, few still weep for loved ones lost

Or appreciate the debt, we owe to those that came before

But here the lady stands, with time, drifting through her many holes

From another life, her history is blasted across the years

A window on the struggle, of those gallant desperate souls

Whose distant, waning flame, has all but disappeared

As shallow fools, we look to her, and almost touch remembering

A lighted match from time, to spark a flame in all our minds

No sham of glory hides her truth, that war's a hateful thing

In one look we can't escape, she shames the face of all mankind

And though she shows with brutal honesty, the very worst of man

And proves no lower can our nations, ever sink in squalor

She shows to us as well, the very very best of men

Who in that hour of shame, shine above us all with honour.

Guy Smith 20th May 2005

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Lost.

Any news of Tommy? Just this telegram!

All brown and neat but oh so black.

They seem to forget that I’m his Mam.

Handed to me by that post-boy Sam,

Knocked on our door, peddled down the track.

Any news of Tommy? Just this telegram!

Came over all faint, had to lean on the jamb,

When stuck in my hand, from out of his sack.

They seem to forget that I’m his Mam.

Perhaps he’s not dead, led like a poor lamb,

Only bloodied in a small attack?

Any news of Tommy? Just this telegram!

Tore off the edge, hope shored the dam.

A few polite lines; he’s never coming back.

They seem to forget that I’m his Mam.

Down to the floor, my head just swam.

Oh, Mrs Atkins! I’ll run and get Jack.

Any news of Tommy? Just this telegram!

They seem to forget that I’m his Mam.

© John Sales 2002.

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Well done- why don't you try an entry in the MGWAT thread on the War Art section.

New topic every month.

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Guy,

we've met through ian Whitlock at High Wood, that Sunday the year before last when we went to see Philippe's tank in on the farm...

Best Regards

Peter (Josturm) :D

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Guy,

we've met through ian Whitlock at High Wood, that Sunday the year before last when we went to see Philippe's tank in on the farm...

Best Regards

Peter (Josturm) :D

Hi Peter,

Last outing to High Wood with poor old Trevor Pidgeon.

Small world.

Guy

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I couldn`t even compete with the very atmospheric "Boom, boom, boom, boom, - Boom, boom, boom boom, etc" penned by that Pte Baldrick. I find it`s not long before the rhymes get too obviously contrived.

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On the interment of Private Clarke and two companions.

We are here, we are here,

regular soldier [down to a few],

collier’s assistant, joined for a time,

too many years we’ve been buried from view

by the rumble and thump of the Red Dragon mine.

We are there, we are there,

on the Memorial, carved into stone

listed as Missing and mourned for a time,

the old crater’s filled, the soldiers have gone

since the rumble and thump of the Red Dragon mine.

We are home, we are home,

Bearers and Padre and Drummers at Gorre,

Company graves by the right in a line

three of our soldiers Missing no more

from the rumble and thump of the Red Dragon mine.

© David Langley

May 2001

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Grumpy'

I like that poem very much -well written.

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Thank you squirrel: it is, in fact, a true story, the final chapter 'written' at Gorre-Beuvry about 3 years ago. The RWF provided full military honours, drummer, pioneers, bearers, padre. A friend of my videoed it for me.

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Grumpy,

I'd guessed as much from the style and the content.

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I have never been into poetry, the last time I read any was about 45 years ago when I was at school. I have however written the following poem, and I would appreciate members having a read and letting me know if parts (or worse still all) have been taken from other poems I possibly read at school, as I am worried that my subconcious has come to the for from many years ago. I would hate to think it was a copy of a famous war poem, however I must admit we did not read any military poems at school.

Thanks

John

REMEMBER THEM

When they enlisted they were full of hope

To go with their friends aboard the waiting train, and boat

They landed in a foreign port, and field

To go and fight and not to yield

They did their duty for King, country, family and friends

Hoping to return to their loved ones when it ends

They fought hard in the trenches with bayonet and gun

Giving no quarter to the hated Hun

They suffered gas, bullets, shrapnel and weather

Holding the line, with all their chums together

Oh how hard they laughed and cried

Thousand upon thousand wounded and died

In the fields the crosses stand row on row

Men departed long ago

They fought together, they were the brave

Many ending in an early grave

Their sacrifice was not in vain

Hopefully no wars like this ever again.

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John,

I think that's a fine poem - thanks for contributing it for the Pals.

Peter

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Phil,

maybe some un-rhyming narrative then ? whatever you feel like.

Peter

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My Two Bobs Worth:-

Thoughts On The Battleground of Verdun, France, 5/6/7 November 1999.

1.

Here in Verdun's green countryside all is now quite,

no more the sound of shot or shell to disturb natures course,

only Autumn wind to carpet this old battle ground's shell cratered floor in shades of gold and brown.

No more the roar of shot and shell with Cordite, Gas and corpse foul smell,

filled with men in living Hell,

Only sounds of children at play.

2.

"Hush! Silence! Quiet!" the elder visitors on Annual Pilgrimage stares seem to say.

"What of respect?" But I like to think the sounds of young voices

bring a ghostly smile to French, German and American entombed by Death, in Verdun's cold wet clay,

their last sounds in mortal strife, the harsh Cannons roar, with whistle and hiss of wicked bomb, bullet and Gas,

praying to God to speed them on Eternal way, and to Mother for pain to pass.

So, let the young run, play and sing, for them the talk of War means nothing,

'tis a far better sound than wars infernal din and no harm can come from such an innocent thing,

for too long Verdun's thirsty soil, ran red and drank from war's harsh and crazy toil.

Too many died, lives wasted and to what avail?

for who and what righteous cause did they prevail?

3.

In Death's eternal grasp, buried in grave, casement and trench, soldiers German, American and French.

In less than twenty years, Death came again in answer to Wars ring,

more men this time called to bloody slaughter, fathers and sons, both local and from across the water,

bringing more tears and anguish at home to mothers, wives and daughters.

Connaught Stranger.

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  • 3 weeks later...

I wrote this about 10 years ago. I entered it in a poetry contest, but I didn't win :(

1914

The tolling of the iron bell

sends England's boys into Hell.

After the call for volunteers

come second thoughts and rising fears.

Pals go to the trenches ready to fight,

they kill and die day and night.

Why they fight they do not know,

Sir Douglas Haig bids them go.

Over the top to defeat the Hun,

"Kill them all, to the last one!"

Through No Man's Land they forge ahead,

while all around comrades fall dead.

The casualties mount, they know they have lost,

while the Generals shout: "Win at all cost!"

The Pals they beat a hasty retreat,

and by surviving they have found victory in defeat.

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