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 

 To top of page

---

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

  To top of page
 

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

To top of page

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 

To top of page

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 

To top of page

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

To top of page

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

To top of page

---

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

Ann-Marie has many poems on different pages in this website

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

From Maxine Kendall (who was born in the UK), Burlington, Ontario, Canada,

A Wish

Maybe it is pointless
To wish for lasting peace
For all mankind to lay down arms
For all fighting to cease

I could despair of seeing
Peace throughout the land
No longer hearing talk of war
Blood mixed with desert sand

We do not have the tolerance
For cultures not our own
Seeds fly on an ill wind
From beds where they are sown

Hope lies in a child's heart
Not yet turned to stone
A mind free of prejudice
A child not alone

If all children of the world
Held each others hand
They could do what we could not
Make a Brotherhood of Man.

Maxine Kendall

---

Some Corner of a Foreign Field

We read the books, we watch the movies; read newspapers... maybe write

a line or so, of poetry; or watch on TV, any night

something, somewhere, of some War... the Media Circus, we all know;

but, to see the cost; then to the North of England, you should go.

For you can pick up any map, choose any town or village there,

and should you travel to that place, then you are quickly made aware

of what War really is about... for each place has its own Stone Cross...

The War Memorial; all closely carved with the Communal loss

of a Generation... all the young men from close-cobbled lanes,

who volunteered to fight for King and Country... few came home again.

 

Grandfather said Recruiting Sergeants travelled round the local pubs,

patriotic fervour... whipping up, in Alehouses and Clubs.

Perhaps, in tow... some floozy from some Music Hall, who danced and sang,

drawing in the young men, with the... "Come on boys, prove you're a Man.

Come and take the King's Shilling... sign upon the dotted line.

All your pals are joining up. Don't be scared, you'll be just fine!"

And "Pals," then, was the fateful word... some fool in Whitehall hatched a plan

to keep the men from each place, all together in a close-knit band;

called "The Pals Battalions," who would fight together... side by side;

not for comradeship... more fear of shaming in each others eyes.

 

And the young men flooded in; perhaps, to escape drudgery

of Dark, Satanic Mills, Pin Factories or Blistering Iron Foundries.

"By Christmas, it will all be over"... but, so little, did they know,

and, in their hundreds, they signed up, a'soldiering in France, to go.

But, as they marched out of their villages and towns, to cheering crowds,

with flags and bunting gaily waving... old men turned, and said out loud

to each other, shaking heads... no good at all, would come of this;

for in a charge, the Boche could wipe the village out... they could not miss.

And, it was not for nothing, they decried this Military travesty,

for these old men had fought the Boers, and quelled the Indian Mutiny.

 

Knowing then, what modern weaponry could do to flesh and bone;

knowing that the General Staff were so remote, and quite alone

in their belief that Flanders could be fought, the same as Waterloo;

"Lions led by Donkeys" is the phrase Historians use... how true.

The truth is this... forget TV, and what is on the Silver Screen;

forget the faded photographs, for none of this is what it seems.

Forget the grainy film of "No Mans' Land," and "Going over the Top"...

all filmed at home, on Salisbury Plain... a truthless, propaganda sop

fed to the public in the Picture Palaces, to boost morale,

coercing them to buy War Bonds... concealing truth about "The Pals."

 

For, "Going over the Top" was very close to orderly suicide...

bayonets fixed, all waiting for the whistle, standing side by side.

Then, the scramble from the trench... and walking forwards, steadily

into "No Mans' Land"... the tangled barbed wire... and Eternity.

Shoulder then, to shoulder; trudging on towards the German wire,

and, shoulder then, to shoulder; swift, mown down, by vicious, withering fire
from machine guns, well dug in, all along the parapet

of the German Front line trench... how could they run that lead gauntlet?

July, the first,1916... the bloody first day of the Somme.

The Accrington Pals, strength seven hundred; close, six hundred dead and gone.

 

So, too; the Leeds Pals, strength nine hundred... above three quarters cut to shreds,

repeated all along the Front... The Big Push... in which, it is said

The Flower of English youth was sacrificed that day, for an ideal;

innocence had died that day... traditional tactics proved unreal.

The cost?... the whistles shrilled at half-past seven on that sunny morn;

by 10 o'clock... the British losses... fifty-two thousand men were gone.

Most of those within the first hour, whole platoons of Pals cut down;

killed or wounded, out in No Man's Land... for a few yards of ground.

And, at the closing of the day, the Pals Battalions, all, were gone;

sixty thousand men were lost, that bloody First day on the Somme.

 

And, through the Northern towns and villages, the church bells tolled forlorn,

for days...

in Accrington and Barnsley, Bradford, Leeds... they all were gone.

Brothers, cousins, workmates, friends, in the same factories, pits, or mills,

who often lived in the same street, had gone to the same school, and still

had courted the same sweethearts, or by marriage, were related too; 

the Pals, the Chums... so thickly then, their corpses, Flanders Fields, bestrew.

Scarce a household left untouched... scarce a house, no curtains drawn;

smoky, cobbled streets all shrouded, silent... grief, so bravely borne.

All together, tied by bonds of local pride, they marched away,

all together, bonded now, in Death... in Flanders Field, they lay.

 

The Great War, called "The War to end all Wars"... the facile arrogance

of Politicians, who saw nothing of the carnage there, in France

and Belgium...

and, there have been many conflicts since, more bloody war,

have we not learned a thing, these years?

Is it not time we cried, "No More?"

For if the Politicians had to fight... then, would there still be Wars?

Somehow, l don't think so... for them, the cure would be worse, than the cause.

lf you ever chance to visit Northern England, just seek out

the Local War Memorial; count the family names... if you should doubt.

See there, the Flower of a Generation squandered, out of hand...

sometimes, still... the echoes ripple through this green, and pleasant land.

 

Every family in the North was touched by that day, it is said,

in some way or another... someone missing, someone maimed... or dead.

For every nine sent out in No Man's Land, five casualties went down,

and of those five, a third were killed... or nothing of them, ever found.

A Husband, Son, or Brother; Cousin, Friend, or Lover, lost that day;

no-one imagined this, as they stood, cheering them upon their way,

back then, down the same cobbled streets; with curtains drawn now, silently;

all round the smoky, terraced houses, grief now hanging, heavily.

A loss that almost robbed a Nation of its future... such a debt

yet owed to those who still sleep, lost

in Flanders Field...

Lest We Forget.

 

David Mace, 2008.

 

Using the poems

The above poems may be used at Remembrance Day events. We would appreciate news of such events. Authors, in my experience, never refuse permission and never ask for payment. Please contact me if you wish to send a message or request to an author.

David Roberts, Editor, www.warpoetry.co.uk   Contact details at bottom of website first page.

To top of page

Poetry of the First World War

Kosovo War Poetry

Iraq War Poetry and verse 2003

warpoetry.co.uk Home Page

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.

Page copyright © Saxon Books 2008