“Dulce Et Decorum Est
Pro Patria Mori”
I believed once,
These lines of apparent wisdom,
But now the pale light of hope
That once glimmered in my eye
Has vanished –
Evaporated with the tears and blood of warriors
Fallen in fields stained red with defeat.
Impossible realities of war consume me,
The way her face once did
In the deafening silence of the trenches.
But the pain is different.
The persistent dull ache of needing
To reach out and touch her cheek,
Feel her breath upon my neck,
Feel her claw at my back,
As we moved between virgin sheets,
Has been replaced by the shocking sting
Of adrenaline-filled dreams,
The nightmare of their faces,
Cold and emotionless in the mud.
I remember one face in particular -
A boy fighting for breath,
A small hole in the pocket of his shirt
Surrounded by dark blood.
He had blue eyes with
A greenish ring around his pupils.
He was a Turkish Soldier.
There was nothing I could do to save him,
So I sat with him, his hand in mine,
Speaking words I knew he would not understand,
For two hours in the bitter morning air
So that he would not die alone,
Hoping, that if it came to it,
Someone would do that for me.
Another face, this one pale,
A blue tinge and froth about his mouth…
Asphyxiated with poison gas.
He lay, mouth open in a silent scream,
His hand clenched around his gas mask,
Tangled in the sling of his rifle.
That was the first time I was physically sick
With …with what?
Shock, disgust, the upfront reality of war?
There are other things,
Other violent images of war,
That flood my thoughts,
Like the piles of bodies left behind to rot
In the battle field and
The horrid stench of decomposition that
Brought thousands of disease ridden flies.
Perhaps the worst part of it all
Is the way one can determine
How a fellow soldier died,
Whether it be the bloody froth about his mouth,
The distant gaze on his face or
The look of agony in his eyes,
We always knew.
It’s memories like these
That prevent me from fitting back in.
I do not recognise myself.
I am not who or what I used to be.
I am no longer living,
Hour by hour, I simply just exist,
Willing myself further
Into the numbing reality inside my head.
No one seems to understand us now.
We are veterans
Returned from a war
That was edited to fit
The public perception.
No one seems to understand
How it really was.
This is what causes us the most pain.
“Dulce Et Decorum Est
Pro Patria Mori”
But what honour for those who have returned?
Our problem is that
We have not forgotten.
Author notes
Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori - It is sweet and honourable to die for ones county.
References:
"Dulce Et Decorum Est" - Wilfred Owen
"Gallipoli" - Film, Peter Weir
Propaganda poetry - particularly Jessie Pope's.
Comments
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this is a truly incredible piece pf poetry, with an unparallelled strength. The language in it reeks of reality, and talkes the reader on a journey to nightmares beyond hope. I could imagine this piece being read at commemorative servicesin years to come. A masterpiece of courage, I raise my hat to you
Thankyou
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what a powerful piece! you are right... it would be impossible for anyone who has not been through it how terrible it would be (including myself) but your poem is very hard hitting and i think can make us understand a little more. i have post traumatic stress disorder from being at the receiving end of an armed holdup but thats nothing compared to what you have been through... and i would imagine what you can put into words is only the tip of the iceberg,
hugs and respect... and you deserve to be honoured,
hugs,
georgie,
xxx -
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Hi there,
Sorry to hear about your PTSD, This poem, although written in first person isn't actually about my own experiences. Some of it is derived from my fathers encounters in the Vietnam war (he also had PTSD) and other parts are fictional or derived from tales from the first world war. I'm glad you enjoy to piece and that it was real enough for you to have mistaken it to have been my own experiences, that is an honour in itself.
Thankyou for you comment,
Take care.
Zealous.
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Wow. Very nicely written. It is usually difficult to keep such a good meter in a free form poem, but you pull it off quite nicely.
The whole time, I felt like I was delving into the mind of a veteran who has been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder...(it is interesting that I say it like that because I am an Empath and a Witch and I have a certain talent of delving into peoples emotions, thoughts and Ideas and connecting with them on a level that is unimaginabe.) It makes you sit back and think: "Are these veterans really crazy?" Of course Not! They are just pounded with so many memories of the harsh reality of war. And with that, I will leave you with this:
"The Government will break your leg, hand you a crutch and say "See, without the Government, you wouldn't be able to walk."
Featured from "A Clever One Liner" series by Raymond J. Cloud.
With Love...
ASM
AKA Raymond
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