Poems about war.

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
21

Here’s a poem by a Canadian POW in Japanese hands, written after seeing USAAF aircraft bomb Hong Kong:

The Yanks Came Over Hong Kong by Sid Varcoe, Winnipeg Grenadiers (POW 1941-45)

The Yanks came over Hong Kong,
And pulled a nuisance raid;
They made no hits, said Nippon,
But what a hit they made!

Ten months of slow starvation,
And no-one knew how we fared;
We had no indication
That anybody cared!

One blue October morning,
The Ack-ack sounded off;
The strident air-raid warning
Evoked our skeptic scoff.

In a droning, mad crescendo,
We heard a bomber dive–
A string of detonations,
And then we came alive!

The Yanks were over Hong Kong,
The compound shook with cheers;
And smiles lit up the faces
Of dying Grenadiers!

The Yanks came over Hong Kong,
And gave the Japs a fright,
And we, the weak and helpless,
Are victims of their spite.

They’ve gone from bad to rotten;
But we take it with a grin–
We know we’re not forgotten,
We know which side will win.

The Yanks came over Hong Kong,
The damage done was slight,
But still it seems a symbol
Of growing Yankee might.

Old Kipling knew a thing or two about soldiering, in peace and in war:

from: “Tommy”

We aren’t no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barracks, most remarkable like you;

And if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barracks don’t grow into plaster saints;

While it’s “Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ Tommy, fall behind,”

But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind,

There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,

O it’s “Please to walk in front sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

For it’s “Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ Chuck him out, the brute!”

But it’s “Saviour of his country” when the guns begin to shoot;

An’ it’s “Tommy this an’ Tommy that,” an’ anything you please;

An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool–you bet that Tommy sees!

From: The Young British Soldier:

When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your God like a soldier.

22

To our Aussie friends, a quick thanks for your help in Nam. It was like you were our only ally.

I just barely missed that bit of entertainment, draftwise, but could have gone if I tried. But I didn’t, and no regrets. The mobile Wall is in town. For some reason my oldest wants to see it. For me there are some names that I think are there but I’d just as soon not get confirmation. I prefer to remember them as kids.

23

Killed in the trenches.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

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

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstast of fumblin,
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 watche 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.

That last line reads “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country”. When I think of war poetry this and Flanders are one and two on my list.

24

Dammit Sandyr, I just went to find my copy of that poem to post and you beat me to it!

25

Yeah Owen’s Dulce Et Decorum Est was the first poem that popped into my mind when I saw this thread, but I knew someone would have posted it already.

26

I AM THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. MY NAME IS OLD GLORY.I FLY ATOP THE WORLD’S TALLEST BUILDINGS. I STAND WATCH IN AMERICA’S HALLS OF JUSTICE. I FLY MAJESTICALLY OVER GREAT INSTITUTIONS OF LEARNING. I STAND GUARD WITH THE GREATEST MILITARY POWER IN THE WORLD. LOOK AT ME!

I STAND FOR PEACE-HONOR-TRUTH AND JUSTICE. I STAND FOR FREEDOM. I AM CONFIDENT-I AM ARROGANT-I AM PROUD.

WHEN I AM FLOWN WITH MY FELLOW BANNERS, MY HEAD IS A LITTLE HIGHER-MY COLORS ARE A LITTLE TRUER-I BOW TO NO ONE!

I HAVE FOUGHT IN EVERY BATTLE OF EVERY WAR FOR MORE THAN 200 YEARS: GETTYSBURG, SHILO, APPOMATTOX, SAN JUAN HILL, THE TRENCHES OF FRANCE, THE ARGONNIE FOREST, ANZIO, ROME, THE BEACHES OF NORMANDY, GUAM, OKINAWA, JAPAN, KOREA, VIETNAM, IN THE PERSIAN GULF, AND A SCORE OF PLACES LONG FORGOTTEN BY ALL, BUT THOSE WHO WERE THERE WITH ME… I WAS THERE.

I LED MY SOLDIERS, SAILORS, AIRMEN AND MARINES. I FOLLOWED THEM AND WATCHED OVER THEM. THEY LOVED ME.

I WAS ON A SMALL HILL IN IWO JIMA, I WAS DIRTY, BATTLE-WORN AND TIRED. BUT MY MARINES CHEERED ME! AND I WAS PROUD!

I HAVE BEEN SOILED, BURNED, TORN AND TRAMPLED ON THE STREETS OF COUNTRIES I HAVE HELPED SET FREE. IT DOES NOT HURT- FOR I AM INVINCIBLE.

I HAVE BEEN SOILED, BURNED, TORN AND TRAMPLED ON THE STREETS OF MY OWN COUNTRY- AND WHEN IT IS BY THOSE WHOM I HAVE SERVED IN BATTLE WITH- IT HURTS.

BUT I SHALL OVERCOME- FOR I AM STRONG! I HAVE SLIPPED THE BONDS OF EARTH AND FROM MY VANTAGE POINT ON THE MOON, I STAND WATCH OVER THE UNCHARTED NEW FRONTIERS OF SPACE.

I HAVE BEEN A SILENT WITNESS TO ALL OF AMERICA’S FINEST HOURS. BUT MY FINEST HOUR COMES WHEN I AM TORN IN STRIPS TO BE USED AS BANDAGES FOR MY WOUNDED COMRADES ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE-- WHEN I FLY AT HALF MAST TO HONOR MY SOLDIERS, MY SAILORS, MY AIRMAN, MY MARINES, AND-- WHEN I LIE IN THE TREMBLING ARMS OF A GRIEVING MOTHER, AT THE GRAVESIDE OF HER FALLEN SON OR DAUGHTER–

I AM PROUD. MY NAME IS “OLD GLORY” LONG MAY I WAVE DEAR GOD. LONG MAY I WAVE.

27

WOW! What a fantastic response to my OP! Thank you all. Since songs have come into the thread, ( And that’s great, what are songs but sung poetry, after all) I’ll share a few favorites. First, Goodnight Saigon, by Billy Joel. I still can’t listen to it without crying:
We met as soul mates
On Parris Island
We left as inmates
From an asylum
And we were sharp
As sharp as knives
And we were so gung ho
To lay down our lives
We came in spastic
Like tameless horses
We left in plastic
As numbered corpses
And we learned fast
To travel light
Our arms were heavy
But our bellies were tight
We had no home front
We had no soft soap
They sent us Playboy
They gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep
And shot on sight
And prayed to Jesus Christ
With all our might
We had no cameras
To shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe
And played our Doors tapes
And it was dark
So dark at night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we’d write

And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together

Remember Charlie
Remember Baker
They left their childhood
On every acre
And who was wrong?
And who was right?
It didn’t matter in the thick of the fight
We held the day
In the palm
Of our hand
They ruled the night
And the night
Seemed to last as long as six weeks
On Parris Island
We held the coastline
They held the highlands
And they were sharp
As sharp as knives
They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors
And waited for us to arrive

And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together
Yes we would all go down together
I’d also like to throw in “God bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood, another song rthat slays me and leaves me bleeding in gratitude by the side of the road.

If tomorrow all the things were gone I worked for all my life
And I had to start again with just my children and my wife
I thank my lucky stars to be living here today
Cause the flag still stands for freedom and they can’t take that away

      And I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free
      And I won't forget the men who died who gave that right to me
      And I gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today
      Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land, God Bless the USA

      From the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee
      Cross the plains of Texas, from sea to shining sea
      From Detroit down to Houston and New York to LA
      Well there's pride in every American heart
      And it's time that we stand and say that

      I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free
      And I won't forget the men how died who gave that right to me
      And I gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today
      Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land, God Bless the USA

      And I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free
      And I won't forget the men who died who gave that right to me
      And I gladly stand up... next to you... and defend her still today
      Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land, God Bless the USA
28

I like Sting’s “Children’s Crusade”, (On Dream of the Blue Turtles) also about WWI

I do not remember it all, but it has the line:

The flower of England, Face down in the mud…

29

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
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,
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–
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.

30

This is a phenomenal thread. Thanks to everyone who has contributed, even taking away the ones I thought to post. And “Naming of Parts” – truly a remarkable work; I’d never heard of it, and now I’ve got to go look up the writer. Henry Reed, is it? Thanks.

To KeithB: You can find “Children’s Crusade” here:

http://users.skynet.be/dany/music/sting-crusade.html

Regarding Billy Joel’s “Goodnight Saigon” – Whenever he’s asked about it, he says his friends begged him to write a song about Vietnam, and he always dodged, saying he felt it would be irresponsible of him, not having gone himself. But they insisted, so he talked to his friends and many of their friends who had direct experience, writing down what they said, and then basically arranged their words and set them to music. He’s always said he isn’t really the writer of the song; he’s more of a musical conduit. Great work, and it’s worth noting that it appeared on his album “Nylon Curtain” in 1982, a few years before the national re-examination of Vietnam that really started getting rolling with Platoon and A Bright Shining Lie and such.

I’d also like to mention Roger Waters’s “When the Tigers Broke Free,” written for The Wall and included in the film but excluded from the album. It’s about his father, who was at Anzio during World War II. The lyrics are as follows:

It was just before dawn
One miserable morning
In black 'Forty Four
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn.
And the Generals gave thanks
As the other ranks
Held back the enemy tanks for a while.
And the Anzio bridgehead
Was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary lives.
And kind old King George sent Mother a note
When he heard that Father was gone.
It was, I recall,
In the form of a scroll,
With gold leaf and all.
And I found it one day
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away.
And my eyes still grow damp to remember
His Majesty signed with his own
Rubber stamp.
It was dark all around, there was frost in the ground
When the Tigers broke free.
And no one survived
From the Royal Fusiliers, Company C.
They were all left behind,
Most of them dead, the rest of them dying.
And that’s how the High Command
Took my daddy from me.

(Quite possibly the most moving song Roger Waters ever wrote…)

31

**Randall Jarrell

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.

“A ball turret was a Plexiglas sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50
caliber machine-guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine
guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in
his little sphere, he looked like the foetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed
with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose.” – Jarrell’s note.

32

Here’s Kipling’s tribute to the Sudanese:

(The “square” was a four-sided infantry formation used to great effect by the British Army.)

33

Gee, spoke-, I knew I liked you. Death of the BallTurret Gunner is one of my favorite poems period, regarding war or no.

34

And lastly, here’s a ballad sung by Johnny Cash about the indignities suffered by one particular soldier:

That line about “two inches of water in a lonely ditch” kills me. The song is based on a true story, by the way.

35

Yeah, Necros, that poem’s beauty is in its brevity.

What the heck, just one more. This is an old one from Richard Lovelace (circa1649), which touches on the choice between love and duty:

36

One of the most moving I’ve read, and the reason we see poppies as the flower of remembrance on Veterans Day.

*In Flanders Fields

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.*

  • John McCrae

McCrae was a Brigade surgeon in the Canadian Forces Artillery in WWI. The poem was written shortly after the 2nd Battle of Ypres.

Another favorite is from e. e. cummings, a US veteran of the same war.

*i sing of olaf
ee cummings

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbeloved colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but–though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments–
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
“I will not kiss your fucking flag”

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but–though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation’s blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion voices
and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat–
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
“there is some shit I will not eat”

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.*

37

There is a remarkable movie about the (true) story concerning the WWI poets Siegfrid Sassoon and Wilfred Owen called Regeneration. Those interested in this thread will surely find it worth viewing. You can learn more about it at http://us.imdb.com/Details?0120001

38

“Regeneration”, about Sassoon and Owen is also a book. It was assigned reading for english class this year. I enjoyed it, but wondered why it was required when the class completely skipped over Sassoon during the course.

Someone already posted my two original choices, “Charge of the Light Brigade,” and “The Man He Killed.”

Therefore, in keeping with the OP and honoring my Irish heritage, I choose William Butler Yeats’ “An Irish Airman Forsees His Death” (circa WWI)

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan’s Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

and also

Wilfred Owen’s “Anthem for a Doomed Youth”

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 goodbyes.
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.

For more poems about death and dying, consult your local library, or: http://phobos.astro.uwo.ca/~sshorlin/poets.html

bradysg

39

Excellent, thank you Cervaise. I was listening to The Final Cut just today and thought about that song. It is a great pity that it was left off the album of The Wall – it is my favourite part of the movie.

40

Hm: I’m a little puzzled here by the various admirations expressed–ranging from poems supporting war to poems against it. I note that Fussell’s book has been (justly) praised in this thread, & I’d direct admirers of John McCrae’s poem to that book for a dissection of its message–its call to arms in the last stanza, which reveals that the dignified elegy of the first stanza has a more narrowly propagandistic aim. Surely the patriotic message of the poem is directly contradicted by Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est”, so when a poster singles out those two poems for joint praise I’m left rather puzzled.

Without necessarily downgrading the achievement of Owen, Sassoon &c I’d like to suggest that the most important English poets of the Great War were Ivor Gurney & David Jones–also toss in a few poems of Isaac Rosenberg, like “Dead Man’s Dump”. And the most important poet of WW2 is surely Keith Douglas (1920-44): his prose account Alamein to Zem Zem is also highly worth reading. I’ll type in one poem by Douglas, “Dead Men”:
DEAD MEN

Tonight the moon inveigles them
to love: they infer from her gaze
her tacit encouragement.
Tonight the white dresses and the jasmin scent
in the streets. I in another place
see the white dresses glimmer like moths. Come

to the west, out of that trance, my heart–
here the same hours have illumined
sleepers who are condemned or reprieved
and those whom their ambitions have deceived;
the dead men, whom the wind
powders till they are like dolls: they tonight

rest in the sanitary earth perhaps
or where they died, no one has found them
or in their shallow graves the wild dog
discovered and exhumed a face or a leg
for food: the human virtue round them
is a vapour tasteless to a dog’s chops.

All that is good of them, the dog consumes.
You would not know, now the mind’s flame is gone,
more than the dog knows: you would forget
but that you see your own mind burning yet
and till you stifle in the ground will go on
burning the economical coal of your dreams.

Then leave the dead in the earth, an organism
not capable of resurrection, like mines,
less durable than the metal of a gun,
a casual meal for a dog, nothing but the bone
so soon. But tonight no lovers see the lines
of the moon’s face as the lines of cynicism.

And the wise man is the lover
who in his planetary love revolves
without the traction of reason or time’s control
and the wild dog finding meat in a hole
is a philosopher. The prudent mind resolves
on the lover’s or the dog’s attitude for ever.

all best --N