NationStates Jolt Archive

Simple question.What is your favourite poem inspired by war.For me its

'Dreamers' by Siegfried Sassoon.

SOLDIERS are citizens of death’s gray land,
Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST by Wilfred Owen(1893 -1918)

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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,
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 sweet and meet (fitting) to die for one's country."

If you expand the topic to all war literature, I would have to nominate Strange Meeting by Susan Hill. It's a wonderful story about love between two soldiers in the horror of war - it's made all the more powerful because it is a simple, touching love, and the author leaves it open as to whether it is love between friends or something more.

The wham, bham, thank you ma'am attitude of authors like Sebastian Faulks, clearly writing in an attempt to have a film made out of the book, leaves a story with all the basic requirements (violence, sex, passion, tactics etc) but is ultimately empty. Susan Hill, however, skips over the sensationalist stuff and concentrates on a small scale plot, creating an intimate storyline.

If you want a factual account, Ernst Junger's Storm of Steel is well worth a read. And, for poetry, I would recommend Dulce Et Decorum Est.

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 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.

I find his poems all the more poignant for the fact that he died near the end of the war whose horrors he had done so much to immortalize.

I find his poems all the more poignant for the fact that he died near the end of the war whose horrors he had done so much to immortalize.
Have you ever read Regeneration by Pat Barker? It's mainly about Sassoon, but if I remember correctly Owen pops up in it from time to time. It's a fictional account of a real life encounter at a psychiatric hospital, and quite an interesting read.

Yes i have. There is a very good film version of it too.

Yes i have. There is a very good film version of it too.
Yeah, I think I saw that back when I was at school. Because of the horrors that came in the Second World War it's so easy to forget the horrors of the First, and I find it impossible to imagine what those men went through. I don't think I could do it, and I have an infinite amount of respect for those who were far braver than I and went on in such horrendous conditions.

Yeah, I think I saw that back when I was at school. Because of the horrors that came in the Second World War it's so easy to forget the horrors of the First, and I find it impossible to imagine what those men went through. I don't think I could do it, and I have an infinite amount of respect for those who were far braver than I and went on in such horrendous conditions.

I quite agree. the idea of walking across the hell of no-man's land makes me shiver. I have never visited the battlefields of WWI but I have been to Normandy and seen the war graves there, which is a sobering experience.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST by Wilfred Owen(1893 -1918)


*agrees* http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11074059&postcount=31

I quite agree. the idea of walking across the hell of no-man's land makes me shiver. I have never visited the battlefields of WWI but I have been to Normandy and seen the war graves there, which is a sobering experience.
The war graves are one of the biggest testaments to wasted youth you can see in a life time. The way the graves just go on forever - every stone a wasted life, every grave a crying family and a lost future.

I've been to the battlefields several times, and to be honest I don't find them so powerful - they tend to be artificially maintained these days. That means you can see the technical side of how the trench system worked, but the horror - the endless rain, the knee deep mud, the dead bodies, the rats and the attacks and shelling are obviously missing, making it a much more detached experience.

Anyone who can read about the soldiers experiences and come away thinking war is a good thing, not a very last resort, is perhaps missing a little part of what makes us human.

Have you ever read Regeneration by Pat Barker? It's mainly about Sassoon, but if I remember correctly Owen pops up in it from time to time. It's a fictional account of a real life encounter at a psychiatric hospital, and quite an interesting read.

I did a comparison of Strange Meeting and Regeneration for my A-Level English Class. Brilliant novels. Although I found the other two books in the trilogy to be far less interesting for some reason.


Although it's not poetry, Journey's End by R C Sherriff is one of the best plays I have ever seen.

An Irish Airman foresees his Death by Yeats.


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 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 man, 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

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.



Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,



visual impact...and a sense of old values.

I quite agree. the idea of walking across the hell of no-man's land makes me shiver. I have never visited the battlefields of WWI but I have been to Normandy and seen the war graves there, which is a sobering experience.
Ive been to Verdun .Its pretty sobering to actually stand in the remains of the trenches which still pot mark alot of the farmland around the area.Its a great shame that its nearly all but forgotton in a lot of quarters.Its quite amazing to see the last of these guys salute their country on rememberance day be it in france or england ect after all these years.You get the feeling that if they were asked to do it all over again they would still answer the call.

visual impact...and a sense of old values.
Old values, like glorying in war? You must be American...

I saw a wonderfully quirky French film about WWi called "A Very long Engagement". That has some powerful depictions of the French expereince in the trenches.

Why, the Iliad, the Odyssey and the Aeneid, of course!
Apart from Homer's masterpieces, In Westminster Abbey. I'll post it later if I get a chance.

Not poetry, but an awesome autobiography about WW I is "Goodbye to all that" written by Robert Graves who, incidently, served alongside Wilford Owen (two of whose poems have been included in this thread already).
Unsurprisingly, both of them being poets and sharing similar beliefs about the War, they became very close friends.
So if you want a excellent book written by a great writer about not only his experiences in WWI, but also includes quite a bit about Wilford's experiences and thoughts you need to hunt down a copy of this book asap.
You won't regret it.

Graves' poems are pretty damn awesome as well, incidently.

I like this one, not that it's particularly well-written, but because it's so vivid and really conveys Graves disgust at the war. It's mentioned in a bit more detail in his book (have I mentioned his book yet?)

Dead Boche

To you who’d read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)
”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

The Last Post

The bugler sent a call of high romance—
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,
“God, if it’s this for me next time in France…
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with the other broken ones
Lying so stiff and still under the sky,
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”

The rest of this following poem goes off on a strange tangent which has little to do with war, but I just really like this line:
Back from the Somme two Fusiliers
Limped painfully home; the elder said,
“Robert, I’ve lived three thousand years
This Summer, and I’m nine parts dead.”


Oh, and have I mentioned you should really read his book?

I saw a wonderfully quirky French film about WWi called "A Very long Engagement". That has some powerful depictions of the French expereince in the trenches.
It also had Audrey's Tatou naked butt in it (attached as it were to the lovely Audrey herself), which is more than enough reason to get hold of a copy.

Great chick flick too, btw. It's about a girl (Audrey) who refuses to believe her love was killed in the war and spends her time trying to find him. Made by Jeunet, who did other great movies as 'Amelie', 'Delicatessan' and 'City of Lost Children'.

Also did 'Aliens IV', of which I seem to be the only person in the world who actually liked it.


Bit of trivia about 'A very long engagement' - the scene where the woman is guillotined was filmed shot for shot on footage of the last woman to be beheaded in France.
Great scene before that when she kills the general - just how it's filmed.

"Dulce Et Decorum Est" having already been mentioned, here're a few more good ones.

Randall Jarrell's "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 the 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.

Alan Seeger's "I Have a Rendezvous with Death"

I HAVE a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.


Eric Bogle's "And the Band Played 'Waltzing Matilda'"

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

And just for Ultraextreme Sanity:
Kipling's "The Last of the Light Brigade"

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made-"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

That says much about how society shamefully mistreats it's "heros"...

Robert William Service's "The March Of The Dead"

The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.

And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead."

They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!

"They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop
On this, our England's crowning festal day;
We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay.
We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before."

The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream.

There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.

I love just about anything by Rudyard Kipling or Robert Service in general, but they both wrote some great poetry on the subject of the military and warfare... (And yes, that's Rober Service of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" fame...)

I love just about anything by Rudyard Kipling or Robert Service in general, but they both wrote some great poetry on the subject of the military and warfare... (And yes, that's Rober Service of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" fame...)


Thanks for reminding me of Sam McGee:)


As far as war poetry goes, for me it's a toss up between ball turret gunner and the charge of the light brigade

This is a great poem, from 1920:

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Naturally, In Flanders Field is also a favourite.

I'm not very fond of the concept of war, but it does produce some of the most emotional and passionate poetry.

One of my personal favorites, since some people already did "Dulce et Decorum Est" and "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner", is the only poem I have every memorized: "In Flander's Fields" by John McCrae

In Flander's 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 Flander's 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 Flander's fields.

The interesting thing about this poem is that it starts out like an anti-war poem, talking about how the dead enjoyed life and the carnage of war, but turns it around in the last stanza to reflect the soldiers' wish for those left behind to carry on after them.

It was pretty easy to memorize as well as being so beautiful. I think it took me two days.

OMG der is like TIS one poem yeh wich is liek T3h Pwnage:

W3 Cam3, w3 saw, w3 c0nqu0red.
Th0se nazis r t0taly b0nqueres!

Liek d0s3 Naz1s r t0tal n00bs! l0l w3 pwned them!:sniper: :sniper: :mp5:

Now that I think about it there was a poem I did an essay on, but I can't remember what it was or who it was by, except that it was written in 1914 by a man who went off to fight in World War I who was killed in 1915. When I find it I'll post it.

I have a question for everyone to ponder: Why is most of the great war poetry written during or about the first world war?

My theory is that it was the USA's first major international war (involving more than one or two other countries) and afterwards there was a loss of innocence.

It's a Rocket-raising: a festival new to this country. Soon it will come to the folk-attention how close Wernher von Braun's birthday is to the Spring Equinox, and the same German impulse that once rolled flower-boats through the towns and staged mock battles between young Spring and deathwhite old Winter will be erecting strange floral towers out in the clearings and meadows, and the young scientist-surrogate will be going round and round with Gravity or some such buffoon, and the children will be tickled, and laugh. . . .
--Gravity's Rainbow, V361

Well, Guns'n'Roses' "Civil War" always struck me as an anti-war song in general, and I find it one of their best songs, esp. off the Use Your Illusion-albums. I guess lyrics could function as poems, right?

And one non-poem anti-war thingy: All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque, was a strong one for me when I read it.

Then there is the fourth of the Black Adder series (Black Adder Goes Forth), which (of course) pokes fun at the silliness of the whole thing - non-reality connected generals and all.

By Kipling


Tommy


I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy how's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,"
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 'is country," when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

was the first I thought of...but let me suggest some other good ones, if I may...

e.e. cummings "I sing of Olaf (glad and big)" --especially good for the war resisters
Hayden Carruth wrote an interesting one called "On Being Asked to Write a Poem Against the War in Viet Nam"

Well I have and in fact
more than one and I'll
tell you this too

I wrote one against
Algeria that nightmare
and another against

Korea and another
against the one
I was in

And I dont remember
how many against
the three

when I was a boy
Abyssinia Spain and
Harlan County

and not one
breath was restored
to one
shattered throat
mans womans or childs
not one not

one
but death went on and on
never looking aside

except now and then like a child
with a furtive half-smile
to make sure I was noticing

Kipling also wrote some interesting short poetry about WW1

I know it's not about the battlefields or anything like that, but it is about the day war was declared. It's one of my favorite poems ever.

September 1, 1939

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
and darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism¹s face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow,
"I will be true to the wife.
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages;
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

-- W. H. Auden

I also like this song by Garth Brooks, it's called "Ireland."

They say mother earth is breathing
With each wave that finds the shore
Her soul rises in the evening
For to open twilights door
Her eyes are the stars in heaven
Watching o'er us all the while
And her heart it is in Ireland
Deep within the Emerald Isle

We are forty against hundreds
In someone else's bloody war
We know not why were fighting
Or what we're dying for
They will storm us in the morning
When the sunlight turns to sky
Death is waiting for its dance now
Fate has sentenced us to die

Ireland I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
I am reaching out won't you take my hand
I'm coming home Ireland

Oh the captain he lay bleeding
I can hear him calling me
These men are yours now for the leading
Show them to their destiny
As I look up all around me
I see the ragged tired and torn
I tell them to make ready
'Cause we're not waiting for the morn

Ireland I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
I am reaching out won't you take my hand
I'm coming home Ireland

Now the fog is deep and heavy
As we forge the dark and fear
We can hear their horses breathing
As in silence we draw near
There are no words to be spoken
Just a look to say good-bye I draw a breath and night is broken
As I scream our battle cry

Ireland I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
I am reaching out won't you take my hand
I'm coming home Ireland
Yes I am home Ireland

We were forty against hundreds

An Irish Airman foresees his Death by Yeats.


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 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 man, 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

Strongly, STRONGLY seconded. IMHO not just the best war poem, but the best poem full stop.

High Flight

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 untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

A war related piece of literature I highly recommend is The Wars by Timothy Findley. It may be a novel instead of a poem, but the way it takes a look at the war inside the mind of a soldier is quite poetic indeed.

It also had Audrey's Tatou naked butt in it (attached as it were to the lovely Audrey herself), which is more than enough reason to get hold of a copy.

Great chick flick too, btw. It's about a girl (Audrey) who refuses to believe her love was killed in the war and spends her time trying to find him. Made by Jeunet, who did other great movies as 'Amelie', 'Delicatessan' and 'City of Lost Children'.

Also did 'Aliens IV', of which I seem to be the only person in the world who actually liked it.


Bit of trivia about 'A very long engagement' - the scene where the woman is guillotined was filmed shot for shot on footage of the last woman to be beheaded in France.
Great scene before that when she kills the general - just how it's filmed.

Actually rented it on DVD so thoroughly enjoyed all the "making of" bits. It's a very pretty butt too!

Old values, like glorying in war? You must be American...


You must be a steriotyping a**hole....

I don't know who wrote this:

Next year we are to bring the soldiers home,
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly,
Must guard themselves, and keep themselves orderly.
We want the money for ourselves at home
Instead of working. And this is all right.

It's hard to say who wanted it to happen
But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here,
Which is all good, and from what we hear,
The soldiers only made trouble happen.
Next year they shall be easier on our minds.

Next year we will be living in a country
That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues still stand in the tree-covered square,
Which is all right, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can leave them now is money.

I'm not very fond of the concept of war, but it does produce some of the most emotional and passionate poetry.

One of my personal favorites, since some people already did "Dulce et Decorum Est" and "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner", is the only poem I have every memorized: "In Flander's Fields" by John McCrae



The interesting thing about this poem is that it starts out like an anti-war poem, talking about how the dead enjoyed life and the carnage of war, but turns it around in the last stanza to reflect the soldiers' wish for those left behind to carry on after them.

It was pretty easy to memorize as well as being so beautiful. I think it took me two days.

I went to Ypres, in Belgium, last year. The dressing station, next to the small cemetary where McCrae wrote the poem, still exists. I stood in the cemetary, in the sun, amid the headstones & reflected on his poem. It was an incredibly moving experience.

Here's a short history & background of the poem. (http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/flanders.htm)

Steppenwolf---"Monster"

Once the religious, the hunted and weary
Chasing the promise of freedom and hope
Came to this country to build a new vision
Far from the reaches of kingdom and pope
Like good Christians, some would burn the witches
Later some got slaves to gather riches

But still from near and far to seek America
They came by thousands to court the wild
And she just patiently smiled and bore a child
To be their spirit and guiding light

And once the ties with the crown had been broken
Westward in saddle and wagon it went
And 'til the railroad linked ocean to ocean
Many the lives which had come to an end
While we bullied, stole and bought our a homeland
We began the slaughter of the red man

But still from near and far to seek America
They came by thousands to court the wild
And she just patiently smiled and bore a child
To be their spirit and guiding light

The blue and grey they stomped it
They kicked it just like a dog
And when the war over
They stuffed it just like a hog

And though the past has it's share of injustice
Kind was the spirit in many a way
But it's protectors and friends have been sleeping
Now it's a monster and will not obey

(Suicide)
The spirit was freedom and justice
And it's keepers seem generous and kind
It's leaders were supposed to serve the country
But now they won't pay it no mind
'Cause the people grew fat and got lazy
And now their vote is a meaningless joke
They babble about law and order
But it's all just an echo of what they've been told
Yeah, there's a monster on the loose
It's got our heads into a noose
And it just sits there watchin'

Our cities have turned into jungles
And corruption is stranglin' the land
The police force is watching the people
And the people just can't understand
We don't know how to mind our own business
'Cause the whole worlds got to be just like us
Now we are fighting a war over there
No matter who's the winner
We can't pay the cost
'Cause there's a monster on the loose
It's got our heads into a noose
And it just sits there watching

(America)
America where are you now?
Don't you care about your sons and daughters?
Don't you know we need you now
We can't fight alone against the monster

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made-"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!


thanks for the reminder .......;)

I don't know who wrote this:

Next year we are to bring the soldiers home,
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly,
Must guard themselves, and keep themselves orderly.
We want the money for ourselves at home
Instead of working. And this is all right.

Philip Larkin wrote it IIRC, and the title's "Homage to a Government".
And yes, it's very good.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made-"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!


thanks for the reminder .......
By Kipling


Tommy

As I said before, I love just about anything by Kipling or Robert Service, but especially enjoy thier poetry on the subject of the military and warfare. :)

And slightly off topic, but reasonably related:

Martin Niemöller
(This is one variant - there are several versions - "First They Came for the Jews" is another popular/common one.)

Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Kommunist.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten,
habe ich nicht protestiert;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

Als sie die Juden holten,
habe ich nicht protestiert;
ich war ja kein Jude.

Als sie mich holten,
gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I did not speak out;
I was not a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

Kudos to anyone who knows who the author is.

Burned Out

As I watch the tracers fly
around my friends nearby,
the burnt out shells stand
next to me on the hot sand.

The still-burning tanks
flowing amidst the ranks
of dying men wave soft
reds as RPG’s fire aloft.

Black gold burns out in
pools of blood tied within
the holy walls of the hard
sand that we must guard.

Cars in plazas are burned
out and all that we learned
about cold death and life lay
on scorched stone that day.

The bullets that burned out
holes in my body are about
to fall into the heavy sands
dropped by urgent hands.

Demons fill the burning air
and whip my blowing hair
as medics work to patch me
to stop life flowing from me.

Electric life comes through
the paddles in shades of blue
and burns out the blood in my
body as I am lifted up high.

The boys I left behind are
living burned out so very far
from the homes that they love
and I watch it all from above.

God willing they will not
burn out like I did on hot
sands far from home and
end up in the place I stand.

Its more Comtemporary, and its a song. A very sad song.
"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
Baptisms of fire
Ive 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

Theres so many different worlds
So many differents suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

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

By Mark Knopfler of Dire Staits.

Simple question.What is your favourite poem inspired by war.
I think it better that in times like these
A poet's mouth be silent, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of meddling who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter's night.
-On Being Asked for a War Poem, William Butler Yeats (1928)

I like this one too, it's "Remembrance Day" by Bryan Adams

For our King and our country and the promise of glory
We came from Kingston and Brighton to fight on the front line
Just lads from the farms and boys from the cities
Not meant to be soldiers we lay in the trenches

We'd face the fighting with a smile - or so we said
If only we had known what danger lay ahead

The sky turned to grey as we went into battle
On the fields of Europe young men were falling
I'll be back for you someday - it won't be long
If I can just hold on 'til this bloody war is over

The guns will be silent
On Remembrance Day
There'll be no more fighting
On Remembrance Day

By October of '18 Cambrai had fallen
Soon the war would be over and we'd be returnin'
Don't forget me while I'm gone far away
Well it won't be long 'til I'm back there in your arms again

The guns will be silent
On Remembrance Day
There'll be no more fighting
On Remembrance Day

One day soon - I don't know when
You know we'll all be free and the bells of peace will ring again
The time will come for you and me
We'll be goin' home when this bloody war is ended

The guns will be silent
On Remembrance Day
We'll all say a prayer
On Remembrance Day

On Remembrance Day - say a little prayer
On Remembrance Day

Well the guns will be silent
There'll be no more fighting
Oh we'll lay down our weapons
On Remembrance Day

The guns will be silent
On Remembrance Day
There'll be no more fighting
On Remembrance Day
It's sad that Remembrance Day isn't a more prominent day - I think it should be a Bank Holiday at the very least. One minute a year doesn't seem to be anywhere near enough to honour the millions who died in war.

Old values, like glorying in war? You must be American...

Honour, Glory and Nobility are not old values, but they have no place on the battlefield anymore. They did once, but not since 1914. It is still a very good poem, and written by an Englishman, not an American.

Well, we get the day off here and we have lots of ceremonies around the country honoring them. The moment of silence is only a minute, but the tributes last longer than that.

Here's a good one:

If We Must Die
by Claude Mckay

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Wilfren Owen +1

How about another perspective? I won't bore you with the whole poem, since it is a "chick" poem, but the last few lines tell the whole story in any case. The poem is Patterns by Amy Lowell.

The last two verses sum it up.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam?" sid my footman.
"No", I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
"No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright, too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown;
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He or me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

Australia has a very proud tradition of amazing and tragic war poetry. Below I have sampled a few that came to mind, but if you want to read some real tear-jerkers I would recommend you google Australian poetry and look some of the pearls up yourself.

Below is not actually a poem per se, but actually a ballad of sorts. This song was written in the 70's, by a bloke called John Schuman and performed by him in a band called "Redgum". Royalties from sales were donated to the Vietnam Veterans Association of Australia.
Just a few things that may help you understand the lyrics better.
Puckapunyal was a recruit training center and Cunungra is a Jungle Warfare training center. Townsville is a town in North Queensland (and the town in which I was born!) which is home to a large military base. Townsville served as a take off point for Aussie troops in the Vietnam war.Shoalwater was a place that the Army used for Military excercises. The SLR was the personal weapon mostly used in Vietnam. Vung Tau & Nui Dat were Aussie bases in Vietnam. V.B. is Victorian Bitter a very popular Aussie beer. Anzac is the acronym for the Australian & New Zealand Army Corps
I WAS ONLY NINETEEN

Mum and Dad and Denny saw the passing out parade at Puckapunyal
(1t was long march from cadets).
The sixth battalion was the next to tour and It was me who drew the card.
We did Canungra and Shoalwater before we left.


Chorus I:
And Townsville lined the footpath as we marched down to the quay.
This clipping from the paper shows us young and strong and clean.
And there's me in my slouch hat with my SLR and greens.
God help me, I was only nineteen.


From Vung Tau riding Chinooks to the dust at Nui Dat,
I'd been in and out of choppers now for months.
But we made our tents a home. V.B. and pinups on the lockers,
And an Asian orange sunset through the scrub.


Chorus 2:
And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And night time's just a jungle dark and a barking M.16?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.


A four week operation, when each step can mean your last one
On two legs: it was a war within yourself.
But you wouldn't let your mates down 'til they had you dusted off,
So you closed your eyes and thought about something else.


Chorus 3:
Then someone yelled out "Contact"', and the bloke behind me swore.
We hooked in there for hours, then a God almighty roar.
Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon.
God help me, he was going home in June.


I can still see Frankie, drinking tinnies in the Grand Hotel
On a thirty-six hour rec. leave in Vung Tau.
And I can still hear Frankie, lying screaming in the jungle.
'Till the morphine came and killed the bloody row


Chorus 4:
And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears.
And stories that my father told me never seemed quite real
I caught some pieces In my back that I didn't even feel.
God help me, I was only nineteen.


Chorus 5:
And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to my feet?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.


Here's a top poem from the Kokoda track
The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels

Many a mother in Australia,
When the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty
For the keeping of her son,
Asking that an Angel guide him
And bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are answered
On the Owen Stanley track,
For they haven’t any halos,
Only holes slashed in the ears,
And with faces worked by tattoos,
With scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the wounded,
Just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off
And as gentle as a nurse.

Slow and careful in bad places,
On the awful mountain track,
And the look upon their faces,
Makes us think that Christ was black.
Not a move to hurt the carried,
As they treat him like a Saint,
It’s a picture worth recording,
That an Artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his Mother,
And the Husbands, Weans and Wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzy
Carried them to save their lives.

From mortar or machine gun fire,
Or a chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of Doctors,
At the bottom of the track.
May the Mothers in Australia,
When they offer up a prayer,
Mention those impromptu Angels,
With the Fuzzy Wuzzy hair.

Personally I love the line "And the look upon their faces,
Makes us think that Christ was black." The Aussie spirit never fails to raise a bit of dry humour even in the darkest of times.

How about another perspective? I won't bore you with the whole poem, since it is a "chick" poem, but the last few lines tell the whole story in any case. The poem is Patterns by Amy Lowell.

The last two verses sum it up.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam?" sid my footman.
"No", I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
"No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright, too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown;
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He or me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called war.
Christ! What are patterns for?
ZOMG, that is great!:eek:
Words do fail me.

Well, I always considered him more a poet than a musician, and this is one of my favourite pieces.

Masters Of War - Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

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

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

Well, I always considered him more a poet than a musician, and this is one of my favourite pieces.

Masters Of War - Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

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

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
I like that one, too. Lots of good stuff around.

because im not very fond of war :sniper:, i have no favorite war poetry
but if i had to pick something related to war, it would be the Charge of the Light Brigade by Lord Alfred Tennyson because of the awesome reenactment in my class with the use of Kleenex boxes as helmets

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

because im not very fond of war :sniper:, i have no favorite war poetry
but if i had to pick something related to war, it would be the Charge of the Light Brigade by Lord Alfred Tennyson because of the awesome reenactment in my class with the use of Kleenex boxes as helmets

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
I've been searching my books to post that! For some reason, I can't find the one that has it.:(