Poems about war.

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
41

More Kipling – here are some “Epitaphs of the War 1914-1918.” There are about two dozen in all.

A Son
My son was killed while laughing at some jest. I would I knew
What it was, and it might serve me in a time when jests are few.

Equality of Sacrifice
A. “I was a Have.” B. “I was a Have-Not.”
(Together.) “What hast thou given which I gave not?”

An Only Son
I have slain none except my mother. She
(Blessing her slayer) died of grief for me.

The Refined Man
I was of delicate mind. I stepped aside for my needs,
Disdaining the common office. I was seen from afar and killed…
How is this matter for mirth? Let each man be judged by his deed.
I have paid my price to live with myself on the terms that I willed.
(Author’s italics)

Hindu Sepoy In France
This man in his own country prayed we know not to what Powers
We pray Them to reward him for his bravery in ours.

The Favour
Death favoured me from the first, well knowing I could not endure
To wait on him day by day. He quitted my betters and came
Whistling over the fields, and when he had made all sure,
“Thy line is at an end,” he said, “but at least I have saved its name.”

And a Naval epitaph:

Convoy Escort
I was a shepherd to fools
Causelessly bold or afraid.
They would not abide by my rules.
Yet they escaped. For I stayed.

Catrandom

42

ndorward wrote:

War is evil. Some wars are just plain evil. Some wars are necessary evils.

I’m not trying to turn this into a great debate. I’m just saying that there is room to admire both those poems decrying war’s depravities and those poems which honor the dead, or the sacrifices of the living.

xenophon41-

I’m glad you brought up i sing of olaf. That has always been a favorite of mine, as well.

43

I have a small collection of war poetry, including some of those posted here, on my page at:
http://www.geocities.com/~jbenz/warart.html

“Dulce et Decorum Est” is probably the all time best but, for those of us who had the privilege of undergoing the Draft Board Physical in 1967 there just ain’t no substitute for “Alice’s Restaurant”

JB
Yer Our Boy!

44

If any popular songwriter qualifies as a poet, it’s John Prine. And here’s one of his best:

“Sam Stone”

Sam Stone, came home
To his wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.

And the time that he served
Had shattered all his nerves
And left a little shrapnel in his knee.

But the morphine eased the pain
And the grass grew 'round his brain
And gave him all the confidence he lacked
With a purple heart and a monkey on his back.

(chorus)
There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm
Where all the money goes
And Jesus Christ died for nothing I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears
Don’t stop to count the years
Sweet songs never last too long
On broken radios.

Sam Stone’s welcome home
Didn’t last too long
He went to work when he’d spent his last dime
And Sammy took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime

And the gold rolled through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose
While the kids ran around wearing other people’s clothes.

(chorus)
There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm
Where all the money goes
And Jesus Christ died for nothing I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears
Don’t stop to count the years
Sweet songs never last too long
On broken radios.

Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair
Well he played his last request
And the room smelled just like death
With an overdose hov’ring in the air

But life had lost its fun
And there was nothing to be done
But trade his house that he bought on the G.I. Bill
For a flag draped casket on a local hero’s hill

There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm
Where all the money goes
And Jesus Christ died for nothing I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears
Don’t stop to count the years
Sweet songs never last too long
On broken radios.

45

What a fantastic song! It’s been soooo long since I saw the film that I forgot about this song. Right now I am calling trying to find a video place that has THE WALL on film. No luck so far.

46

Well, here’s two classics that somehow haven’t been posted yet:

The Spires of Oxford (As seen from the train)
Winifred M. Letts

I saw the spires of Oxford
As I was passing by,
They grey spires of Oxford
Against a pearl-grey sky;
My heart was with the Oxford men
Who went abroad to die.

The years go fast in Oxford,
The golden years and gay;
The hoary colleges look down
On careless boys at play,
But when the bugles sounded - War!
They put their games away.

They left the peaceful river,
The cricket field, the quad,
The shaven lawns of Oxford,
To seek a bloody sod,
They gave their merry youth away
For country and for God.

God rest you, happy gentlemen,
Who laid your good lives down,
Who took the khaki and the gun
Instead of cap and gown.
God bring you to a fairer place
Than even Oxford town.

Grass
Carl Sandberg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work –
I am the grass, I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.

47

Here’s a favorite I want to sing the next time the rebel reenactors march in a local parade. I know I’m a sore winner, but what the hell are they doing marching in Illinois?

Marching Through Georgia
by Henry C. Work

Bring the good old bugle, boys, we’ll sing another song;
Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along,
Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong,
While we were marching through Georgia.

(Chorus)
Hurrah! Hurrah! We bring the jubilee!
Hurrah! Hurrah! The flag that makes you free!
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
While we were marching through Georgia.

Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears,
When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years;
Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers,
While we were marching through Georgia.
(Chorus)

“Sherman’s dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!”
So the saucy Rebels said, and 'twas a handsome boast;
Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon with the host,
While we were marching through Georgia.
(Chorus)

So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train,
Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main;
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,
While we were marching through Georgia.
(Chorus)

48

Damn, dropzone! Are you trying to annoy me? :wink:

49

Dropzone, you may now receive your award for being the fastest human in history to earn my respect. Although your choice of poems from Kilmer (my great-grandfather) was perhaps remiss (Rouge Bouquet and Citizen of the World . . . ) you did us all justice by not quoting Trees. What version did your mother sing? I know of a few tunes to which that poem has been set.

I don’t remember the poem from which these lines come, but it doesn’t really matter: “Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori.” I am also not sure of the spelling, as I am two years removed from my Latin training.

In 8th grade a friend of mine (British) wrote a poem about some tiny piece of land. I forget the rest of the poem, but the last two lines . . . “Now you can walk through that field in a minute,/Yet seven hundred men died to defend that field.” Heavy stuff.

I don’t remember any of “Rouge Bouquet,” but “Citizen of the World” . . . well, here’s the first line. Apologies to anyone who has heard it ad nauseam, but I honestly don’t care.

No longer of him be it said, he hath no place to rest his head.

My history teachertold our class once that a DJ tried to play “Marching Through Georgia” on the air. In Georgia. I don’t know the year. He had been fired before the song was over.

And I will close with “Memorial Day,” published the year of the start of the Great War:

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings today.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.

The rose blossoms white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.

Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.

May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed,
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace. . . who brought a sword.

50

You know, it occurs to me that I don’t even know the tune to “Marching Through Georgia”. Though I have seen the song in print, no one down here has ever been bold enough (or foolish enough) to play it. :wink: