Heathcliff Posted November 11, 2018 Share Posted November 11, 2018 It's 100 years since the First World War ended. My poetic hero of that time is Siegfried Sassoon. I know you can't just remember the war through poetry but I wanted to post this. The General By Siegfried Sassoon “Good-morning, good-morning!” the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. “He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. Link to comment
snuffle-bunny Posted November 11, 2018 Share Posted November 11, 2018 I've never seen this one before, but it reconfirms for me how great Siegfried Sassoon was. This just says it all. Here's one that has special meaning for me. I learnt it years ago because it struck me so much. In Flanders Fields By John McCrae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow Loved and were loved and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. Link to comment
KSC Posted November 11, 2018 Share Posted November 11, 2018 Here's my favourite WWI poem by my favourite poet; it's poignant, if a little gruesome: Dulce et Decorum Est By Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. Link to comment
Heathcliff Posted November 12, 2018 Author Share Posted November 12, 2018 Good poems all. We must never have another war like that in Europe. Link to comment
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