It was Christmas Day in Whitehall,
Where they passed the cigars and port,
And just for a while the world outside
By good cheer was driven from thought!
They gathered in the cabinet room
Where a blazing fire roared.
They sang "God Rest Ye Merry...."
While they pushed flags round on a board.
It was Christmas Day at Field HQ
Where amongst the morning commands
Was an order for thousands of men to move,
While the generals washed their hands.
And in a stinking slit-trench
A soldier muttered "Why?",
And spat, and cursed, and shook his fist
At a sullen, empty sky.
And even the poet, pen in hand,
One hundred yards from the 'Huns',
Found no muse and could only write
Of dying cattle, and guns.
It was Christmas Day, still, on the barbed wire,
Where a corpse, like a crucified thief,
Hung, careless of King and of Country,
Careless of race or belief.
And somewhere back behind the lines,
The Padre droned on about God
While some poor bastard shat his pants
In front of a firing squad.
It was Christmas day on the crowded road
Where refugees stumbled and fell,
With nothing to run from but torment,
And nowhere to run to but Hell.
And in a stinking lock-up,
Where the prisoners lay on the floor,
The "conshies" were getting a kicking - again! -
Behind a bolted door.
It was Christmas Day in - God knows where!
No peace, just bloody despair.
We looked for birth, we looked for love,
And saw Calvary - everywhere!
How the Hell can I love my fellow man?
How can I learn to forgive?
When the Judas-kiss and the mark of Cain
Is the price to be paid just to live?
Comments
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I Love it.
I wish my dad had shared more of this experience with us but outside of telling about shooting into the side tracked wine kegs for wine and burning lice out of his underwear in Paris, he kept it to himself.
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I love ballad measure, it is so adaptable, used here for a good campaigning piece. I'm very glad I "returned the favour" from your kind comments on one of my sonnets. having stumbled upon your vision of 1917, I could be cheeky and point you at my sonnet for Wilfred Owen, expressing perhaps some of the feelings you have here in sonnet form.
I am always delighted to come across new rhyming poets on site, Jem may have pointed you at me, but for great sonnets I would send you to Mairi bheag or Amera to see poets who can do sonnets justice.
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I will go and take a look at your Wilfred Owen sonnet gladly. I wrote this a long, long time ago, and I would say I had Wilfred Owen in my mind, though this is not written in his style - I think a line in stanza 5 has a reference to his "Anthem for s Doomed Youth". ("Ballad Measure"? I had no idea, I just wrote a poem, forgive me for being an ignoramus).
Jem directed me to Mairi bheag too, and I was impressed. I shall go looking for Amera's work when I get a chance.
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