Harbingers 

(From Normandy)

Frail, old men with weathered hands stand, 
Alone, lost on the wide sandy beaches,
Each turning back his rusty mind clock 
Piercing the veil of memories
When they were young, anxious and terrified,
Boy-soldiers in battle fighting for their lives, 
Experiencing the gamut of fear and death
Watching friends died horribly,
Scarring their young minds.forever.

Blue beaches murmur waves
Splashing old, rusted war remnants.
A sea bird flaps wet beaches
Where the sea swells and crashes gently on wet sand,
Retreating back erasing all footprints.
The men stare the distance,
At blurred memories through  tears.
Trickling down their cheeks dripping softly,
To merge with the sea like before.

They came to say good-bye to their friends,
To a confused past which has no answers.
The graveyard crosses watch in stony silence, 
Stoically from tree shadows on soft meadows,
In eternal military formation fronted by small, flags,
Wind-shivering in the hush of silence. 
Marching the stillness in quiet precision
Protecting the young soldiers buried there,
Frozen in time and death
The old veterans stand awkward, unsure with the dead.
Experiencing those familiar, dreaded, sick feelings
Of remorse, regret, blame, and fault for what happened
To their generation who gave so much for their country.
They have gathered one final time 
To share history, blame and guilt for all eternity
Banding together as one, they embrace the moment,
Experiencing once more, this terrible place of
memories.

And the same salt sea air, still blows up from the beach 
Once inhaled in panic by all the young fighting men 
Mired in the beach mud conducting the senseless slaughter of children, 
Trapped forever in the obscenity and vulgarity of war,
The pain returns for a moment, overwhelming them,
It hangs suspended, as real as yesterday, then drifts away and mellows away.
Now time, history, and denial blessedly blur the horror and inhumanity
Of what they did; of what was done to them.

The War President from America
Mounts the podiums to prattle the virtues of war,
Attempting to rewrite history, to deny war's reality, 
He exploits the moment for selfish means, 
To justify his war as a noble cause, ignoring its brutality,
Thoughtlessly attempting to validate, substantiate, and authenticate,

War's vicious crimes against civilization
Turning the senseless slaughter of innocents
Into a righteous cause, to be proud of and condone..
Turning war into a sound-bite of empty words
Of praise, blessing, glory, and accomplishment.
Something to be proud of, to revel in,
To relish with sacred, biblical rhetoric
From a shallow, self-centered political opportunist. 
Whose meanings and oratory become quickly lost,
His words floating away with the wind, out of relevance, out of touch
Out of context, drifting, beyond the restive crowds.
To fall useless and disappear, in the cold, impassionate mud.
Falling deaf on the ears of the dead warriors
The ultimate, wasted sacrifice, from another generation

It is at this moment, the old veterans 
Eyes mist up, overflow, and tears flow shamelessly

As they at last comprehend all their sacrifice, all their pain,
All their sorrow, all their suffering, all the death,
Did not change or alter a thing, was not a lesson learned
Nor an experience not to be repeated.. 
Realizing their friend's painful, brutal, ultimate sacrifice
Was only a necessary evil of Mankind's political process
Which has never changed, and never will, 
For each generation brings anew to the world
Its own self-styled madness of universal death, tragedy and suffering,
In wars to be fought by the young, bright-eyed children of the world 
Unknowingly raised as sacrificial lambs of slaughter,
To be killed and gone forever, for nothing. 
That is why, all Veterans cry.

In this hallowed place of the dead
The lonely graves of war's youthful victims
Who died for a thought, 
an idea, for a cause
Promulgated by selfish, insane men in power
These war graves and cemeteries are Harbingers 
Of the eternal, mindless death cycle of war. 
Young men killed by politicians' words and mindless acts,
Their promise and existence forever ended too soon.
Now, forever sleep beneath the green muffled grass
Sharing the earth with the youth and victims of past wars,
Too numerous to count, to numbing to contemplate,
The dead, as powerless and impotent as the now living 
To change or alter, or detour the inexorable course of madmen,
They patiently wait for the next generation to join them.

Curtis D. Bennett 

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The following poem was written in 1999 in connection with the conflict in Kosovo. In 2005 I decided that it was not a good idea to have written the poem in such a negative form, so I re-wrote it as There will be peace. Readers can choose which version they prefer. The new version follows the old.

There Will Be No Peace

There will be no peace:

till attitudes change;
till self-interest is seen as part of common interest;
till old wrongs, old scores, old mistakes
     are deleted from the account;
till the aim becomes co-operation and mutual benefit
     rather than revenge or seizing maximum personal or group gain;
till justice and equality before the law
     become the basis of government;
till basic freedoms exist;
till leaders - political, religious, educational - and the police and media
     wholeheartedly embrace the concepts of justice, equality, freedom, tolerance, and reconciliation as a basis for renewal;
till parents teach their children new ways to think about people.

There will be no peace:
           till enemies become fellow human beings. 

David Roberts

22 July 1999

 

Alternative version of the previous poem:

There Will Be Peace

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New Year's Eve was approaching and I thought of the dawning of a new century, as Thomas Hardy had done one hundred years earlier. This poem was in part inspired by the first pictures of the earth taken from space. In the simplest possible terms the poem Making or Breaking sets out the choice before each of us.

 

MAKING OR BREAKING

We inherit the world,
the whole of history,
our place on earth,
our place in time,
our fortune, good or bad,
pure chance.

Now,
in one picture,
we see our entire planet:
one world,
one race,
one future,
bound together
for the first time. 

Ours
for the breaking

or making.
 

David Roberts

12 December 1999

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Copyright © 1999 David Roberts

The next  two were written this year by Kenny Martin following a visit he made last year with his son to Commonwealth War Graves in the Arnhem/Oosterbeek/Nijmegen area of Holland  -  his first ever poems.

I DO NOT KNOW YOUR NAME

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died
 

Your uniform, branch of service, it matters not to me
Whether Volunteer or Conscript, or how it came to be
That politicians failures, or some power-mad ambition
Brought you too soon to your death, in the name of any nation
 

You saw, you felt, you knew full well, as friend and foe were taken
By bloody death, that your life too, was forfeit and forsaken
Yet on you went and fought and died, in your close and private hell
For Mate or Pal or Regiment and memories never to tell
 

It was for each other, through shot and shell, the madness you endured
Side by side, through wound and pain, and comradeship assured
No family ties, or bloodline link, could match that bond of friend
Who shared the horror and kept on going, at last until the end
 

We cannot know, we were not there, it's beyond our comprehension
To know the toll that battle brings, of resolute intention
To carry on, day by day, for all you loved and hoped for
To live in peace a happy life, away from bloody war
 

For far too many, no long life ahead, free of struggle and pain and the gun
And we must remember the price that was paid, by each and every one
Regardless of views, opinions aside, no matter how each of us sees it
They were there and I cannot forget, even though I did not live it
 

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died.

Kenny Martin
© 2003 

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I WENT TO SEE THE SOLDIERS

I went to see the soldiers, row on row on row,
And wondered about each so still, their badges all on show.
What brought them here, what life before
Was like for each of them?
What made them angry, laugh, or cry,
These soldiers, boys and men.

Some so young, some older still, a bond more close than brothers
These men have earned and shared a love, that's not like any others
They trained as one, they fought as one
They shared their last together
That bond endures, that love is true
And will be, now and ever.

I could not know, how could I guess, what choices each had made,
Of how they came to soldiering, what part each one had played?
But here they are and here they'll stay,
Each one silent and in place,
Their headstones line up row on row
They guard this hallowed place.

Kenny Martin
© 2003 

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Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day.
More British soldiers dead
In another British war.

Yesterday some of their parents
In anguish and anger went to Downing Street
To lay a wreath
To lay the blame
At the door
Of the man most responsible
For our latest war.

But their sons are gone.

And Iraq's cities are in ruins.
In many thousands Iraq, too, has lost its sons.
Their sons are gone, their children maimed.
Chaos and trauma are everywhere.
For the shattering of this nation
We share the blame.

No fine words can give these crimes
The slightest gloss.

Parents grieve. Such a quantity of grief.
Such needless destruction. Such needless pain.
Parents grieve. Their sons are gone.

All loss is one.
Parents grieve.
Let us reflect on
Their needless loss.

Let us reflect on their needless loss.

David Roberts
11 11 2004

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Shall we remember what war is?

Shall we remember what war is?

What is war?
In the human psyche
it is the fatal flaw,
a perversion of the human mind,
using our greatest brains to create
outrageous threats to all mankind.

War is
the profoundest disrespect
for the sanctity 
of human life,
the ultimate in racism,
the collapse of morality.

War is 
the ultimate in criminality,
the ultimate obscenity,
the ultimate crime against humanity.

So shall we honour war?
and shall we now praise troubled men?
Or shall we remember what war is
and give true meaning
to "Never again" ?

David Roberts

28 September 2004

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---

Prayer for Remembrance Day

For those who were killed in battle,

For those who gave up their lives to save others

For those who fought because they were forced to,

For those who died standing up for a just cause

For those who said war was wrong,

For those who tried to make the peace

For those who prayed when others had no time to pray
 
 

For those creatures who needlessly die

For those trees that needlessly are slaughtered

For all of mankind 
 
 

let us quietly pray:
 
 

May your God hold them in peace

May Love flow over the Earth and cleanse us all

This day and for always. 
 
 

Marianne Griffin

11am 11 November 2004

Unhappy about Remembrance Days I wrote a poem for Remembrance Days

I always feel uncomfortable about Remembrance Day services that are held in the centre of London. Partly it is because I believe that the politicians do not really care about the lives they have so needlessly thrown away, and partly it seems that they are using remembrance ceremonies to justify war, to say that the deaths were all in a good cause. Another thought that struck me was that those who send terrorists to die in suicide attacks may be not that different from the generals of the First World War who sent young men to die in what were often called suicidal attacks. People will point out that it is the innocent civilians who are targeted by terrorists. But is there really any difference between the innocent civilians and the innocent soldiers of the enemy's side. They are all human victims who die or are mutilated horribly for no good cause.

 

We are encouraged to hate the terrorist and praise the soldier, but they are all victims of violence, violence that others encouraged them or others to commit.

 

Why should we remember or celebrate only those who were sent to fight and kill? I think we should remember all those who give their entire lives to the service and betterment of others.

 

A poem for Remembrance Days

For cause or country

Young men are sent to die.

Young men are sent to kill.

In these nauseous and twisted times

what eloquent twisted truths

gave young men this love of death

and on the greatest negative

heap the greatest honour?

 

Young men,

equally reviled and honoured

for the death they brought

or the lives they lost,

bring only grief

and deserve only pity.

 

David Roberts

17 November 2005

 

 

Ann-Marie Spittle

THREE REMEMBRANCE POEMS
 

MEMORIES OF PAST TIMES

See me march past with the others who remember,

But not with my legs do I pound the parade pathway

Wheeled am I for I am old

But the memories do not die as my comrades did

 

Little Tommy Tomkins the London Cockney Sparrow

Died when his head got blown off

And I saw it roll towards me

And I froze, and then I ran

 

Nobbie Clark always up with the lark

Died in a mortar attack

There was nothing left to send home

So they sent back anyone’s to keep the widow’s memories

 

The list goes on and here am I alive

When I should be with them

A forgotten body in a Flanders field

Yet here I am

 

I am the record keeper of the Great War

A war to end all wars they told us

But on they rage like an unchained animal that has tasted human blood

But not mine

 

I ask myself why not me

And then one day an answer

"Keep these memories and pass them on

That the young may learn and remember"

 

So here I am being wheeled again

Past the memories of a nation

And I remember Tommy and Nobby

Because nobody else alive does

Ann-Marie Spittle
2006

 

TO THE FEW

Heads bent solemnly in remembrance

As the prayers of thanks are read

Those here have walked the byways of the dead

And have brought tales for the young

That death may not visit them so easily

Seas of faces that should be so much more

Line the walkway of the monarch

Who has stood with them since youth

And still stands now

As they do

Hymns lace the air

And many fly with the notes

Scenes pass before their eyes for a moment

Then are gone

As they pull themselves forward to the now

As the last post echoes through the hills

Of lands that have been torn, or part of war

And the tears roll out of the buglers mouth

And join the tracks on the faces of the few

And then silence
 

Silent contemplation


Then reveille

And the remembrance that life follows death

And will for all time

 

But not all is black this day

For happy times are shared

Of battles fought

And friends met once again

Who many thought had gone long ago

 

Songs of their time are re-enacted

And Churchill lives again through the actors art

And many return to those speeches

And remember their resolve in those dark days

 

Fluttering butterfly wings of banners

Carried by those once arthritic

Have made the final push to stand and be counted

Marching to the songs of their lands

Men stand to see them pass

Though regiments that held their names

Have gone into histories archives

 

Then the march to end all marches

As the warriors of old give it their all

As if their youth had revisited them

And the streets are lined with the grateful

And those who came for their own reasons

And the waves follow them

Lapping gently at their heels

Until every space is filled outside the place of Royalty

And then the beast of war awakens

And flies over as it did in the days of need

Red petals cascade upon the watchers

And a nations heart opens

Filling the air

And says thank you

Ann-Marie Spittle
2006

 

DO YOU KNOW?

When darkness comes

And with it the shadows of the dead

Do you know?

When battles fought fly around my head

Do you know?

When you speak with an acid tongue

And tell me I was wrong

Do you know the price we paid

In the jungles of Vietnam?

 

No sit there in your easy chair

And dream your dreams of comfort

Do not break your narrow view

Or try to see from my side

For you break into fears sweat

If your welfare check’s to late

Or someone knocks upon your door

When its getting to way past eight

 

You judge me without knowing

And that is no judge at all

For experience tells the adult

What the young do not yet know

Just give me one small ounce of feeling

As a parent to a child

And hug me as my heart is breaking

Right here deep inside

 

I suffered more than you can know

In that dark leafed place

Where death walked side by side with me

And often showed his face

Some days I did not know if I

Was ever coming home

And then I’m faced with acid rain

From you when I come home

 

I fought because I’m a soldier

And a warriors hearts beats within me

You comfort lover would not understand this

So I retreat

But know this when you finally see

Before your last breath leaves you cold

That all I wanted was your love

And not a heart of stone

Ann-Marie Spittle
2006

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Poetry of the First World War

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A war cemetery of the Western Front near Arras in France  See Housman's Here Dead We Lie in Minds at War, the largest anthology of First World War Poetry. Details in our  First World War Poetry section.

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