The brass bands play, the banners fly
for young men marching off to die.
Wives and mothers wipe a tear
and lovers hearts break over cheers
that ring out as the ship pulls out
until that last faint shout
is borne away across green water
where stands many a wistful daughter
wringing her hands in anguished pain
`will I ever see my love again?`
In trenches slime and clinging wire
or desert suns that burn like fire
or jungles impenetrable and green
where death lurks silent and unseen.
The young men fought and left their blood
often buried in deep mud.
For God and country the padres said
as they buried their massed dead.
At home behind dark curtains drawn
the wives and mothers group to mourn.
Today the transport planes touch down
close to that little Wiltshire town
that has seen its soldiers and war dead
over innumerable battles bled,
from Agincourt and Waterloo
and Arnhem just to name a few.
Flag draped coffins under its span
were loaded in Afghanistan.
A contest entry
- It is well that war is so terrible... by Peripatetic.
3000 points, ended October 12, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Well written, from that opening verse, the 'goodbyes', then the 'fight' and finally the 'return'. The 'return'? I wonder who deals these cards of fate. Good poetry here.
Regards.
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This is simply amazing, but I wouldn't expect anything less from you. Your meter is very good and had my head bobbing along with the rhythem of the poem. I really love your writing style. You seem to be keeping the traditional idea of poetry alive. Thanks for keeping me entertained and hungry for more.
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The references to Agincourt and Waterloo and even the overreach at Arnhem give power to this poem. The stories of these battles stir the blood as we read the tales of grand mistakes, lucky coincidence and history turned above the heroic lives and tragic deaths of soldiers thrown or running "once more into the breach." History doesn't feel a thing however. The young who die and those who mourn feel the pain. Only they know if the honor is worth the cost. The rest of us can only live and act as well as we can in their memory and with resolution to seek those paths to glory which do not require the end of lives.
The second verse, like most words, can only speak of that which is endured. Unless a person has been there, it is difficult to imagine the hardship and terror that is a part of life in forward units. Those who die and those who lose their loved ones must wonder in that last instant in life and in the aftermath of the first notice of their loss if it was worth it even "for God and country."
We are drawn to war as nations and as individuals in the hope that we will gain in strength and honor. There are among us, though, many who want more than anything else the safe return of loved ones. Pride in duty met has no smiling laughter of greeting, no warmth to share through lonely nights and lives, and no means of adding memories or bringing new life into the world. We need them back alive for all of these.
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I love this
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a true battle between good and evil. the moral of war, no one ever wins. i really like this i'm not big on war or sending anyone to death. wether they come back or not is inconciquential. its the idea of coming back from the dead that i can't grasp or even phatham how people deal with that stress. great poem.
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Terrible Love And Beautiful War
Personal passionate incidents stare
into the eyes of love; as dead as I,
and another bullet rips fast-forward
moments into slow-motion agony,
there is only a second left to breathe,
eternity which splinters sanity
into fashion's beautiful ruffled war,
I herd hostility into pens; drops
of poetry, it's an aggressive sigh,
transparent ink that bleeds calligraphy.
Frictionless screams slap minimal units,
grammatical soldiers in adjective
uniform, as pressed as goodbye, my dear.
Warrior mentality leaves curtain
calls in disarray, there is no escape,
only open mouthed horror in daydreams,
muddy existence shall salute this death,
I'm sure a flag will cover an empty
coffin, for in enemy lands I fall,
wide predilection butters lips, a smile.
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